An Affair to Remember (24 page)

“You will, very soon. Just relax and stop worrying. Now, be a good girl and hold out your arm – I assure you it won’t hurt, just the tiniest prick…” Beatrice’s eyes close and her body, previously stiff and taut with tension, begins to relax. Dr Moss waits until her breathing becomes steady, then getting up from his chair, crosses the room and after quietly drawing the bedroom curtains, fits a tape into his machine and returns to his seat beside her.

“Your father, Petronius – was he concerned about the baby?” he asks casually.

Beatrice opens her eyes, although they hold no sign of recognition. Her face has hardened and there’s a jeering, almost contemptuous note in her voice. “Of course he did not know about the baby. Am I a fool – why should I tell him? Besides, I did not want the child.”

“And Brian, what of him? Had you not promised to marry?”

“A child’s promise, no more. If he believed it, he was a fool. My father would never have consented to our marriage. Brian’s family, for all his mother’s bragging, were only tenants: natives into the bargain. They knew nothing of good husbandry, were feckless and wasteful in their ways, my father said. Many is the time he lent them slaves when they were behind with their harvest; their farm was nothing but a hovel.”

“And Brian’s mother?”

“She hated me. She was jealous of my power over her son, said I took him away from his work on the farm. But it was not I who took him way, it was she, with all her talk of the Christian God. All day she would listen to Marcus the preacher, and call Brian from the fields to listen too. The man came once to our house: he spoke such nonsense I threw a cup at him and ordered him to leave. ‘Love thine enemy,’ he shouted as he ran away down the field, and the servants gave him a ducking in the river. I laughed until I cried.”

“And the baby, he was a boy?”

“He was a boy. I saw him only once. He was red and he cried and I ordered Perdita to take him away.” For a moment Beatrice’s face shows signs of agitation; only for a moment, to be quickly followed by a return to the previous hard, contemptuous expression she has worn throughout the interrogation.

“And what of the cup?” Izzy Moss asks softly.

“The cup?”

“Yes, did not Brian give the child a cup? Silver, I have heard, some say marked with the emblem of the Christian God?”

“I know of no cup.”

“Ah. The father, Brian, he asked if he might keep the child?”

“Yes. The fool. He and his mother came one day before Father returned. They asked if they might take the child, rear him as a son of their house.”

“You refused them – why?”

“I had no choice. If they had taken the boy, it would have been known he was mine; that I had lain with Brian. Someone would have told my father when he returned – if not them, one of the servants.”

“I see. What then?”

“A letter came one day from Father. He would be returning shortly bringing with him a young man of our class; Julius from Gaul, the owner of a large estate, Father wrote, whom he had met on his travels and who had agreed to take me as a wife. We were to be married and I would go with him across the sea to Gaul.”

“You were pleased at your father’s news?”

“Of course. Why would I not be? I was so happy I danced for joy. I longed to get away from this place, see the world. Father had told me such stories…”

“And when your father came with Julius, the young man you were to marry, you were pleased with him?”

For the first time there’s a smile on the face on the pillow and it’s not for Izzy Moss. “He was the handsomest man I ever saw. Indeed, that very first night we lay together, under the trees behind the slaves’ quarters, where the rooks have their home. He could not come to my chamber for fear the servants would talk.” At this point Beatrice giggles, a surprisingly jolly sound, somehow out of keeping with the rest of her story. “We did not know,” she continued, smiling reminiscently, “that this was the place where the slaves threw out their rubbish. There was dung on Julius’s cloak when he picked it up from the ground, and he was angry, but I laughed at him for being so cross at such a little thing, and soon he was laughing too.”

“And the baby? Where was the baby when your father and Julius were in the house?”

“The baby? Why must you always talk of him? He was of no importance, I have said. He was put to live in the slave quarters, there was a girl there whose child had died; she gave him suck.”

“And then?”

“And then – and then. You ask too many questions, old man. And then – nothing…”

“Perdita – you ordered her to kill the boy?”

“We were to be married far away, Julius said, in a great city by the sea. There would be feasting for many days. He said –”

“Octavia, you must tell me, then you may rest. Did you order Perdita to kill the boy?”

“Perhaps – no – I cannot remember. I was too busy preparing for the journey to think of such things.”

“If the boy had been kept in the slave quarters, how did you know he was dead?”

“The woman, Perdita, came to me one morning. ‘The boy is dead, Madam,’ she said; the foolish girl who had care of him let him slip from her arms on to the stones. He cried once and was dead.”

“I see.” Izzy paused for a moment, to adjust the tape, which had started making clicking sounds, then continued his interrogation, not wanting to break the spell. “And when Brian heard the child was dead, he came once more, this time to ask for the body?”

“Yes. He wished the boy to be blessed by his Christian God before they buried him. But I had had enough of his meddling and told him to go away.”

“So you refused him once again?”

“I was angry, tired of it all, wished to forget. I told him to leave. I could not bear to see him looking as he did. He obeyed me, as he always did, and went away. I did not see him again. But I called after him as he crossed the river, that the baby’s body was already disposed of, there was nothing more to do for him.”

“He heard your words?”

“Yes. He turned and looked at me, the river rushing over the stones behind him, his brown cloak blowing about him, and made the Chi-Rho sign; the sign, he once told me, that those who believe in the Christian God make between themselves.”

“Then?”

“Then, as I have said, he went away. I did not see him again.”

“The baby’s body – was it burned as is the custom?”

“I do not wish to talk of the baby. What I have said, I have said, and that is enough. I –”

“Or was it buried under the trees where you and your paramour made love, the silver cup with it? I think that at the last, Octavia, you did not dare to have your son’s body burned; you feared the Christian God, what he might do.”

“He was thrown in the rubbish where he belonged. If Perdita buried the cup with him, it was her stupid superstition, not mine. Such nonsense means nothing to me, have I not told you?”

“And the old woman’s curse, what of that?”

“She was mad, I have said.” Beatrice was becoming agitated again, the drug perhaps wearing off. “We paid no heed to her, my father, Julian and myself. Only the slaves and servants showed fear; they were natives and simple people.”

“But Brian’s mother,” the questions continue; relentless; inexorable, “she was not simple. Did she not know as much of the world as you, had not her forbears been princes, lords of your father’s land; was there not gold round her neck as she stood that day in the great yard and cursed you?”

“She knew nothing of anything! When we conquered Britain her people were barbarians; they could neither read nor write, my father said. We taught them everything they know, but still they would carry on as if they owned the land; giving themselves airs, maundering on of princes, battles fought. My father’s father’s father built our home, tamed the land and stocked it. He worked as hard as any slave, my father’s mother told me, while the native farmers looked on with amazement. That is when they weren’t too drunk. Don’t talk to me of such things. We taught those people everything, but still we cannot trust them.”

“I see.” Izzy, momentarily taken aback by this impassioned plea for colonialism, pauses for a moment, then: “The old woman’s words, tell me, you proved them to be nonsense?”

“There was no time to prove them. You must know how it was.”

“How was it? Tell me, for I have forgotten.”

Beatrice is silent for so long Izzy’s about to give up; then very softly, in a different, gentler voice she begins again. “The sun was hot that day when we began our journey. I lay in my litter, my veil across my face, Father and Julian riding beside me. We crossed the river, the hill above us steep and stony. We had only gone a little way when Father ordered the servants to stop; his horse was lame; a stone in its hoof and had to be seen to. The animal was examined, and the stone removed. While we waited for this to be done Julian drew back the curtain to my litter and placed his hand, warm from the sun, upon my breast…” Silence again.

The drug’s definitely wearing off, and for a few seconds Beatrice subsides into unintelligible mutterings. Knowing he can’t give her a further dose, Izzy holds his breath and waits. However, after a moment, to his considerable relief, lucidity returns. They’re off again.

“Julius’s hand was warm upon my breasts, when there was a rumbling noise. ‘Take care,’ someone shouted, terror in their voice, ‘they’ve pushed a boulder down the hill – run, run quickly for your lives.’ Julius’s horse reared up and pulled him from me, I heard screaming; then… then a terrible, crushing, burning pain, then darkness.”

“And then?”

“Nothing.”

Izzy places his hand on Beatrice’s damp forehead, “Sleep now,” he says softly, “and when I waken you all that has been said between us will be forgotten.” Very slowly the tension in the room subsides. Beatrice, still now, eyes closed, seems to be sleeping peacefully. He clicks the off switch to his machine, gets to his feet, stretches, he sees his face in the mirror; it looks tired and rather drawn. He walks over to the window, pulls back the curtains, the grisly scene just described still vivid in his mind. The sky above the Grove is darkening, heavy rain clouds on their way. A herd of cows move slowly along the lane towards the bridge, Josh Bogg on his bicycle, his Collie, Pete, behind them.

He stands there for a moment or two looking at the scene, so peaceful; unchanged. What a mess, what a pointless, stupid mess. And all because of a slip of a selfish, spoiled girl. He shivers suddenly, he doesn’t know why; the day’s still warm despite the lowering sky. He’ll take a shower, he decides, before settling down to listen to the tape and make his report. The girl will sleep for another hour or two yet…

Chapter 13

“If you can just manage to keep your lads under control, Vicar, we might begin to make a little more headway.” Ron, whose reputation amongst his peers of unflappability come what may, today seems to be taking a bit of a battering. He is not only hot and bothered, but jumpy as well. Too personally involved, he supposes, as he surveys the chaotic, threatening to turn into a full-blown shambles, scene taking place under Tavey’s tree.

The students, only six of them, have turned out to be somewhat slow on the uptake. A bit of a job lot, had to be at such notice, and too much beer at lunch – he’d told Sel to go steady with the drink – but controllable. The vicar’s lot, however, rounded up to help with the heavy work, appeared to be under the impression they were hunting for buried treasure, and if something wasn’t done soon there’d be mayhem. Carl Price, the boy allegedly in control of the mechanical digger, a handy machine, about the size of a ride-on mower, is patently not in control; there’ve already been several small incidents; his brother, Johnjo, is too busy baring his youthful torso in front of an admiring Philippa to be much good to anyone; and the rest of the group, ignoring his carefully laid markers, appear to be digging holes at random.

“I’m sorry, Professor Head, I assure you I’m doing my best.” The vicar, in shirtsleeves, looks harassed and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. “As I said on the phone, they are rather a scratch lot; such short notice and so many people on their holidays.”

“I do realise the problem, Vicar,” Ron takes a deep breath, tries unsuccessfully to relax. “It’s just if you could keep the Warren boys from throwing earth at each other and get them to concentrate on the area I’ve marked out, then Kevin here can make a start…”

The dig has been going for an hour now and is already proving more difficult than anticipated. Too many roots, too much rubbish, the noise from the rooks deafening, the weather hot and sultry. And everywhere flies; in your hair, up your nose, crawling up the back of your neck, even into your mouth. What with the inadequacy of his helpers – one of the students had just come to him with what proved to be an empty can of baked beans circa 1920 – Ron seriously doubts whether they’ll have got anywhere by the time the weather breaks. So far nothing much had come up, what has; mainly nineteenth and twentieth century rubbish. The vicar, an ardent bottle collector, unearthed, to cries of ‘let’s have the marble, Rev’, a vintage Cod bottle, and there have been one or two nice pieces of glass, but that was all. Tavey’s tree was hanging on to its own, no doubt of that. A rook flying low over his head squirts a message, he’s pretty sure he’s been stung by a horse fly. Who would be an archaeologist? Doggedly, Ron continues to dig.

“Mister, Mister it’s a skull, I’ve found a skull!” Daren Warren, mud on his face, eyes starting from their sockets, appears at his side, a tiny object clutched to his chest, rather in the manner of someone holding a puppy. The assembled diggers down tools, Pippa in her deck chair leans forward, precipitating her ‘finds’ notebook on to the patch of nettles at her feet, and there’s a ragged cheer from the rapidly growing group of bystanders.

“Give it to me, Daren,” Ron says quietly, “and please handle it carefully, we don’t want it damaged.”

“It is a skull, isn’t it, Mister? A baby’s skull. I thought it were a rabbit’s first, then I saw it weren’t…”

Discarding spades, trowels and scrapers, the rest of the diggers gather round excitedly.