Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t know.’
She raised her eyes. His face looked almost haunted with concern.
Were you on Larkhill range that night? She’d never dared to ask him, and couldn’t now. Because the answer yes would beg the question: Did you see them too? And he couldn’t have, of course – because it had all been in her mind.
‘Another cup of coffee?’ Lyn asked gently. There was a hint of relief in her calming smile. Fran guessed she’d worked it out from her reserve of common sense: the obsession with Cruise had somehow caused a post-traumatic backlash. Craig had doubtless reached the same conclusion. They were probably right, as well; and yet …
Fran realized she was frowning very slightly.
‘So what happens now?’ Craig wondered, as Lyn got the kettle going.
‘Now I have to go back,’ Fran said. ‘You see why, don’t you?’
He didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘And what, retrace your steps?’
She nodded. ‘Right through Greenlands camp.’ A pause. ‘And I think I’ll take in Imber village, too – for old times’ sake.’
He acknowledged that with a wry smile of his own. ‘So when d’you want to go?’
‘Spring Bank Holiday’s coming up. The roads are open then.’ She hesitated. ‘But I want to go alone this time. You’ve had to carry me for long enough.’
‘It’s no problem—’ Craig began, and Lyn was turning round to say the same. Fran cut back in, eyes wide and earnest. ‘I mean it, Craig. It’s got to be that way. I was on my own the first time, after all.’
He shook his head, unhappy. ‘And what if you have a problem?’
‘I don’t think I will. Not in broad daylight. Just a stretch of open country, that’s all it’ll be …’
The kettle boiled in the background, and switched itself off. Craig looked at Lyn. She shrugged.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Fran murmured. ‘Really.’ A pause; and then she glanced at Lyn, and smiled a little wanly. ‘Would you mind if I have another cigarette?’
‘He’s quite a catch,’ Lyn said, when Craig had gone.
‘I know,’ Fran said. ‘I’m glad you like him too.’
She’d started going with Craig just as Lyn was breaking up with her new boyfriend. She remembered the heart-to-heart they’d had, one afternoon together: Lyn very delicate and weepy, while she herself was glowing with excitement. And marvelling at the irony, as well. A Yank from Greenham Common – of all people. Even Lyn had giggled tearfully at that.
And Lyn, despite her tiredness, was smiling, teasing now. ‘You won’t let him get away this time?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Not on your life. Not this time.’ Once she’d put her past in order, she could think about the future; but the horizon was already looking bright.
But now it was well past bedtime. She gave the washed-up mugs a wipe, while Lyn went round locking up. Finished, she switched the light off and headed for the bathroom. Lyn passed her in the doorway, touched her arm. Her soft brown eyes were serious now. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’
Fran hugged her: held her close. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure.’
Climbing into bed, she realized just how tired she was. The drain on her emotions had sapped her strength. But talking out her memories had purged her; she felt lighter than she had for many weeks.
Or months, perhaps. Or years.
The long dark was nearly over now. Just one more place to go. The night outside felt safe – its demons caged. She laid down her head, and realized she was smiling very faintly. Then closed her eyes, and slept.
‘This is Woodbine at Greenham … all vehicles now inside the gate.’
‘Thank you, Woodbine … Thanks to all Watchers along on this one … Goodnight …’
1
She lingered for a long while in Edington church.
Weeks had passed. She’d nursed her sickly courage: felt it grow. But here, in the shadow of the Plain’s northern edge, she knew her nerve might fail her even now.
She’d got off the train at Westbury and walked – heading east out of town towards Bratton and White Horse Hill. The country road meandered round the foot of the scarp, with flat fields spread and drowsing to her left. The day had started sunnily enough; but now the wind had freshened, bringing clouds. Stray sheep across the field of blue at first; then slower, grazing groups with dirty fleeces. The warm air felt diluted as each shadow passed across. She had her sleeveless top and flowing skirt on. When the coolness started lingering, she slung her jacket loosely round her shoulders.
Not Lyn’s big comfy jacket, sad to say. This was an old denim one from home. She’d been back to see her parents; they were so pleased with her progress. Some doubts about the wisdom of what she’d wanted to do next – but her rising confidence had won them over. She’d bloomed in sunny Oxford; Lyn had fed her up a bit, and made her get her hair done. She liked the cut: it framed her pale complexion like a cowl. Her eyes seemed greener: fresh as spring. She’d left her shades behind.
It felt as if she’d been away from home for years, not two short weeks. She’d had to rediscover her own bedroom. Her books had still been there where she had left them. Old favourites like Rebecca and Jane Eyre, alongside Einstein’s Monsters and The Fate of the Earth. Stuff she’d read at school, as well. She’d fingered her way along the row: from Shakespeare to Milton and Paradise Lost.
Long is the road, and hard (she thought)
That out of Hell leads up to light …
Her mum had found her mulling that one over. Unable to contain herself, she’d hugged and kissed her daughter. ‘You’re looking so well, Fran. Pretty as a pixie – like I always used to say.’
‘Mum!’ she’d said, embarrassed and delighted. That was when she’d realized she was going to be all right.
Her confidence had faltered as she came to Bratton village, and reached the turning off that led to Imber. At this point it was nothing but a quiet country lane, curving off around the hill and out of sight. Yet it ended at that junction in the middle of the range. The fields in which the faceless man was searching.
Despite her resolve, she’d wavered at the prospect; stood staring up the lane – then walked on by. Oh, she was going back to Imber, right enough – and on to Larkhill range and Greenlands camp. This very afternoon. But not quite yet.
Edington was tiny; picture-pretty. She let its stillness soothe her. A glance at her watch gave her plenty of time. Lyn wasn’t expecting her back in Oxford until mid-evening. Exploring, in an aimless sort of way (distraction from the uplands right behind her), she found the church at the bottom of a lane. St Mary, St Katharine & All Saints. The place was surprisingly big – a priory church, built with medieval grandeur. Intrigued, she wandered down to take a look.
The interior was cool and dim; she kept her jacket slung around her shoulders. A woman was busy cleaning near the back. She looked up with a smile. Fran smiled shyly back, and hoped she wouldn’t want to talk.
The flagstones clicked beneath her boots as she slowly paced around. Down the high, vaulted nave, and back along the aisles. Stone figures lay on recessed slabs, disfigured by the years.