Barbara Erskine - Midnight is a Lonely Place

‘And once upon a time it was miles from the sea, my darling.’ Roger stood up. Painfully thin, his face was haggard with tiredness, a symptom of the illness which had forced him to take early retirement. ‘Come on. Why don’t I open a bottle of wine. That stew of yours smells so good I could eat it.’ He smiled and his wife, on her way back to the Aga with her wooden spoon, paused to give him a quick hug.

‘Show Dad the piece of china you found in the dune, Allie,’ Greg called from the next room. His sister, still wearing her anorak, had seated herself at the table, her elbows planted amongst the knives and forks which Patrick had aligned with geometric neatness. She fished in her pocket and produced it.

Roger took it from her and turned it over with interest. ‘Its unusual. Old I should say. Look at the colour of that glaze, Greg.’ He held it out towards his eldest son. Reluctantly, Greg left the fire. Taking the fragment he turned it over in his hands. ‘You could take it into the museum some time, kiddo,’ he said to Alison. ‘See what they say.’

‘I might.’ Alison stood up and they were all surprised to see her eyes alight with excitement. Her usual carefully-studied air of ennui had for a moment slipped. ‘Do you know what I think? I think it’s Roman. There’s stuff just like it in the castle museum.’

‘Oh, Allie love, it couldn’t be. Not out here.’ Diana had produced four glasses from the cupboard. She handed her husband the corkscrew. ‘The Romans never came this far out of Colchester.’

‘They did, actually. They’ve found a lot of Roman stuff at Kindling’s farm,’ Roger put in. He tore the foil from the top of the wine bottle. ‘Do you remember? They found the remains of a villa there. Some rich Roman chap from Colchester retired here. They found an inscription.’

Alison nodded. ‘Marcus Severus Secundus,’ she said, intoning the words softly.

‘That’s right.’ Roger nodded. ‘There was an article about him in the local paper. And they found even older stuff too. Iron Age, I think it was, or Bronze Age or something. Are you still thinking of doing something archaeological for your project, Allie?’ He smiled at his daughter.

‘Might.’ Her sudden burst of enthusiasm had apparently run its course. She sat down again and spread her elbows, scattering knives and forks. Patrick frowned, but he said nothing. He had learned a long time ago that a comment from him would produce a tirade of abuse from his sister which would upset everyone and end up with the whole meal being spoiled. It had happened before too often.

‘I’m going to excavate the dune.’ Alison’s sudden announcement stopped Roger’s hand in mid air as he poured the wine.

‘That sounds a bit ambitious, old girl,’ he said cautiously. ‘There would be a lot of hard digging and you might not find anything.’

‘I found something before.’

‘In the same place?’ Greg looked across at her, disbelieving. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘None of your business.’ Alison reached for a glass of wine which left Patrick without one.

‘Hey, that’s mine – ’

‘Pour yourself one.’ When neither parent said anything she raised the glass defiantly to her lips and took a sip.

‘What did you find, Allie?’ Roger’s voice took on the conciliatory tone he often used with his daughter – soft, persuasive, almost pleading.

‘I’ll show you.’ She rose to her feet, and, her glass still in her hand, trailed towards the staircase which led from the living room behind the door in the corner by the inglenook.

‘There’s loads of books on archaeology in her room,’ Patrick put in in an undertone when she was out of earshot.

‘You haven’t been in there again.’ Diana was exasperated. ‘You know she doesn’t like it – ’

‘She nicked my Aran sweater. I needed it.’ Patrick’s mouth settled in a hard line, exactly like his sister’s as Alison reappeared with a shoe box in her hand.

‘Look. I found all these on the beach there, or in the cliff or in the saltings, and these two I dug up from the dune.’ She tipped the contents of the box onto the table amongst the knives and forks. For once there was no comment about the shower of dirty sand which descended over the cutlery on Diana’s scrubbed table top: several shards, a few pieces of carved bone and one or two unrecognisable fragments of twisted, corroded metal. ‘I think it’s a grave. A Roman grave,’ she said solemnly.

There was a moment’s silence.

Slowly Greg shook his head. ‘No chance. If it’s anything at all, it’s one of those red hill things – to do with ancient salt workings. Not that that isn’t extremely interesting,’ he went on hastily after a glance at the rebellious set of his sister’s face. ‘Perhaps we should get someone over here who knows about these things.’

‘No!’ Alison rounded on him furiously. ‘I don’t want anyone knowing about it. No one at all. It’s mine. My grave. I found it. You’re not to tell anyone it’s there, do you understand. Not anyone at all. I am going to dig there. Anything I find is mine. If you tell anyone it will ruin everything. Everything!’

Sweeping her treasures back into the box, she clamped the lid on it and flung out of the room.

‘Let her be.’ Diana turned comfortably to the stove. ‘She’ll grow bored with it when she realises how much hard work is involved. And I’m sure there is nothing there. Nothing at all that would interest anyone sane, anyway.’ She smiled tolerantly. ‘Clear up that mess would you, Patrick darling and then let’s eat, otherwise our guests will be here before we’ve finished.’

His nails had cut deep welts into the palms of his hand; the veins stood out, corded, pulsating on his forehead and neck, but his silence was the silence of a stalking cat. Not a leaf crisped beneath his soft-soled sandals, not a twig cracked. Soundlessly, he parted the leaves and peered into the clearing. His wife’s long tunic and cloak lay amongst the bluebells, a splash of blue upon the blue. The man’s weapons, and his clothing, lay beside them. He could see the sword unsheathed, the blade gleaming palely in the leaf-dappled sunlight. He could hear her moans of pleasure, see the reddened marks of her nails on his shoulders. She had never writhed like that beneath him, never uttered a sound, never raked his skin in her ecstasy. Beneath him the woman he adored and worshipped would lie still; compliant, dutiful, her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, on her lips the smallest hint of a sneer .

He swallowed his bile, schooling himself to silence, watching, waiting for the climax of their passion. His sword was at his waist, but he did not reach for it. Death at the moment of fulfilment would send them to the gods together. It would be too easy, too quick. Even as he watched them he felt the last remnants of his love curdle and settle into thick hatred. The punishment he would inflict upon his wife would last for the rest of her days; for her lover he would plan a death which would satisfy even his fury. But until the right moment came, he would wait. He would welcome her back to his hearth and to his bed with a smile. His hatred would remain, like his anger, hidden .

Watery sunlight filled Roger’s study, reflecting in from the bleak garden, throwing pale shifting lights across the low ceiling with its heavy oak beams. Greg flung himself down in his father’s chair and stared round morosely. He would never be able to paint here. Somehow he had to get Lady Muck out of the cottage – his cottage – so he could go back. She must not be allowed to stay.

The small room was stacked with canvasses and sketch pads. His easel filled the space between the desk and the window; the table was laden with boxes of paints and pencils and the general debris he had fetched down from the cottage; a new smell of linseed oil and white spirit overlaid the room’s natural aroma of old books, Diana’s rich crumbling pot pourri and lavender furniture polish. Thoughtfully he stood up. He leafed through a stack of canvasses and lifted one onto the easel, then he sat down again, staring at it.