Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [71]
‘There they are.’
He spoke in his usual low voice, quite dispassionately. A long way off, where two hedges met at a right angle, what might be the shape of a yellow caravan stood in the corner of a field. The sight of it seemed to cheer Gwinnett a little, convince him that he had not dreamt the whole experience. Now he was able to turn his attention to the land below, from which he had first approached The Fingers. While rain continued to fall he established his bearings.
‘That was the path.’
He pointed down to a sharp decline in the ground, not far from where we stood. Away below to the left, in a hollow overgrown with yet more elder, thick in thistles and ragwort, two or three abandoned cars were slowly falling to pieces. They must have been driven in there, and dumped, from a nearby grass lane. Gwinnett’s vehicle, not visible from where we stood, was somewhere beyond these. He raised his hand in farewell. I did the same.
‘See you in London perhaps?’
‘I’ll be having to work hard through the summer and fall.’
The answer seemed to indicate a wish to be left alone. That was understandable after all the things he had by now tolerated from the presence of other people. He edged unsteadily down the incline towards the brook. Rain was pouring so hard that I did not wait to see him negotiate its breadth, shallow and muddy, but too wide to jump with convenience. Probably he waded through. That would not have added much to the general disarray of his clothing. There was a flicker of forked lightning, a clatter of thunder. The whole atmosphere quivered with fluxes of electricity, discernible running through one’s limbs. At the same time the rain itself greatly abated, diminishing to a few drops that continued to fall. The lightning flickered again, this time across the whole sky. I hurried to rejoin the rest of the party, hastening away like an army in full retreat. In the big field I noticed the ruts, where Ernie Dunch had so violently reversed the Land Rover. They were now filled with water. Mr Goldney, of the archaeological society, collar turned up, hands in pockets, appeared. He was half running, but slowed up, supposing I was looking for something.
‘No weather to search for flints. I once picked up a piece of Samian ware not far from here. It’s an interesting little site. Not up to The Whispering Knights, where I was last month. That’s an altogether grander affair. Still, we have to be grateful for what we have in our own neighbourhood.’
‘Why is it called The Whispering Knights? I’ve heard the name, but never been there.’
‘During a battle some knights were standing apart, plotting against their king. A witch passed, and turned them into stone for their treachery.’
‘Perhaps a witch will be waiting at the stile, and do the same to the quarry directors. Then we’ll have a second monument up here.’
Mr Goldney did not reply. He looked rather prim, shocked at so malign a concept, or unwilling to countenance light words on the subject of folklore. Rain had possibly soaked him past the threshold of small-talk. Mr Tudor, in company with Mrs Salter, both very wet, joined us. Mr Tudor showed signs of a tempered optimism so far as to the outcome of the meeting.
‘The Advisory Committee will have to get together again, Mr Goldney. Will Thursday at the same hour suit you? There’s the correspondence with the Alkali Inspector we ought to go through again in relation to new points raised in consequence of today’s meeting.’
‘That’s all right for me, Mr Tudor, and I’d like to bring up haulage problems.’
Mrs Salter sliced at a bramble with her pruning-hook.
‘Even Mr Gollop admits haulage problems. At first he was evasive. I wouldn’t have that’
Isobel, after a final word with Mr Todman, caught us up.
‘Who was the man you were talking to on the ridge?’
‘I’ll tell you about it on the way home.’
‘You looked a very strange couple silhouetted against the skyline.’
‘We were.’
‘A bit sinister.’
‘Your instincts are correct.’
The company scattered to their cars. Mr Gauntlett, an elderly woodland sprite untroubled by rain – if anything, finding refreshment in a downpour