Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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down like a coffin-lid upon her; the voices were the hammer and the nails. Fragments of phrases, faint with distance; sometimes they’d fall silent for a week. The silences were worst of all. She’d sit and cringe for hours: just waiting for the words to come again.
But she’d kept them secret – and they’d gone away. The malignant lump had simply disappeared. A miracle cure must feel like this. She hardly dared believe it, even now.
‘Shall we do the washing up?’ she said, to change the subject.
‘Oh, shh, don’t worry about that …’
‘Don’t flatmates share their chores?’ Fran asked her drily. ‘I’d much prefer it that way. So come on, let’s get to it. And then I think I’ll have an early night. It’s been a tiring day …’
6
Fran
So much has changed. The whole world’s turned around. But I’ve not forgotten you. Can we meet someplace – and sometime soon? Lyn’s got my number. I really hope you’ll want to get in touch.
Still thinking of youCraig
Fran read the letter through again. Much more slowly: savouring each word. Her heart beat like a slow drum in her chest.
His face was very clear now; the years between had faded like a fog. She remembered every line of his rugged good looks. The short brown hair, brushed back; the deep-set eyes. The wry mouth, sometimes smiling; sometimes grim.
Still thinking of you – even four years down the road. She felt a pang of pleasure, a twinge of helpless pride. Like someone with a treasure, hidden secretly away. He’s mine, she thought: he still belongs to me.
She folded the letter carefully, and slid it back into the envelope. Laying it aside on the bookcase, she started to unpack. Nightie, towel, toilet bag … but then she let an impulse overcome her, and delved into a side-pocket instead. For a moment her fingers searched in vain; but then they found the badge, and drew it out.
She’d been wearing it the day they met. A rectangle of metal, with a sheen like bluish gold. The stern and haloed image of a saint. She ran her thumb across the rough, raised lettering. Cyrillic script: an alien language. Only the dates made sense.
988–1988. One thousand years. Stretching like a bridge from the Dark Age past to the year she’d come to Oxford.
She laid her head down cautiously. First night away from home for many months; her first night back in Oxford since her breakdown. For an hour or more she lingered on the very edge of sleep: afraid of what unconsciousness might bring. But the stresses of the day had worn her out. Oblivion pounced, and caught her unawares.
She didn’t dream.
1
‘Is this seat taken?’
Fran studied her drink for a moment longer; then slowly, almost archly raised her head. After all the keyed-up waiting, she was suddenly so cool. She’d known it was him as he’d crossed the room towards her. She’d known it when he walked through the door.
Craig stood there, looking just a little awkward. She’d sensed him hesitating on the threshold; how long had he been standing just outside? But to judge by his face, his doubts had been won over. For all that he was ten years older than her, his smile was as engaging as an eager little boy’s.
She gestured. ‘Be my guest.’
He pulled out the stool, and sat. Still smiling; but his pale blue eyes were watchful. Their clearness – with his slightly scrappy haircut – helped preserve his boyish aspect; but that handsome face had harshness in its lines. Fran felt herself excited by the contrast – just like she’d been before.
He’d brought his bottle with him from the bar. A Budweiser, of course. He raised it to her – ‘Hi,’ – and took a pull.
She raised her glass in turn; then sat back, looking smug.
Craig cocked his head, enquiring. ‘What?’
‘I just love a man out of uniform.’
He gave a snort at that, amused. His coat was brown brushed leather, well worn-in. Fran, by contrast, was wearing Lyn’s best bomber jacket, complete with sheepskin lining. Which was quite ironic, really.
‘How have you been?’ Craig asked after a pause. His tone was quiet and calm, as always; the concern was in his eyes.
‘All right,’ Fran told him softly. ‘Coming on.’
‘You’re looking well.’
She shrugged.
The lunchtime buzz and bustle of The Grapes drew in around them.
Her hand was on the table; so was his. She felt his need to reach across and touch her – and knew he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He moistened his lips, his pale gaze still intent. ‘I’m glad you called me, Fran.’
‘I’m glad you waited, Craig. I mean that.’
He took her hand, and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
‘You’re sure about this afternoon?’ he asked, his voice a murmur.
‘Yes,’ she said, still holding on. ‘I’m sure.’
2
The first time she’d seen him, he was doing some repair work on a truck. Thinking back to that first moment, she knew she hadn’t dreamed where it would lead. All she’d done was stand there, feeling curious: wanting contact. Above all else, she’d wanted to get through.
He’d realized she was watching; turned and grinned. Encouraged, she’d smiled back. He’d wavered for a moment, then wiped his hands and slowly walked across. Right up to the high mesh fence that blocked his way.
‘Hello,’ Fran said politely.
He nodded amiably, tweaking the brim of his cap between finger and thumb. His camouflage fatigues – green, brown and black – bore a master sergeant’s stripes: she was getting good at recognizing ranks. FLAHERTY was the name stencilled over his breast pocket.
Fran hooked her fingers through the mesh, and leaned against the wire. She wondered if her shades made her look flirty. ‘How are you liking England, then?’ she asked.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he murmured. ‘Nice little place you’ve got here. Some of the natives aren’t too friendly … but there you go.’
She took that coyly; cocked her head. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to us.’ He’d caught sight of her Cruisewatch badge, of course.
His smile grew broader. ‘I’m a great believer in freedom of speech.’
‘Which is what you’re here defending?’
‘Surely. Yours and mine.’
‘When we put all our resources into preparing for war, humanity hangs from a cross of iron. You know who said that?’
He shook his head, still smiling.
‘Dwight D. Eisenhower.’
‘Yeah? I never heard that.’ He leaned forward for a better look at the other badge she wore. Fran eased herself away along the fence; he followed. She felt a sense of mischief, like playing hard to get. The barrier was frustrating. She clung to it, and kept him close.
‘Aha,’ he murmured drily, having seen the thing at last. ‘I knew you were a commie.’
‘No, I’m