Jenni Mills - The Buried Circle

Six hundred and sixty-six. The number of the Beast. Did he always keep just six hundred and sixty-six, and have to sell one every time he bought one? No wonder some in the village said he was the devil incarnate.

My mam used to say I had the devil in me. She didn’t know the half of it.

My feet were dragging when I crossed the road after getting off the bus. I was about done in. Mam was in the kitchen. The wireless was on, but you could hardly hear it because the Frigidaire was making a terrible racket, somewhere between a wheeze and a beehive-sized hum. It couldn’t cope with the heat when Mam was baking.

‘Any luck?’ she said, without looking up from rolling pastry.

‘No. They all said I was too young.’

I wanted a secretarial job. I couldn’t go on working with Mam and Dad in the guesthouse. Not that it was going to be a guesthouse much longer. Heap of rubble was next on the agenda. Mr Keiller was our landlord, and Mr Keiller wanted us out, so he could knock the place down and put up more of his old stones.

Wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for the day he came to call to try to persuade Mam to part with her cow-creamer that he’d heard about from one of his friends who’d stayed with us. Mam said ever so polite she wouldn’t sell, but she was happy to show it to him. She took him into the front parlour where it stood on the dresser, and Mr Keiller spotted the big stone that made the lintel over our fireplace.

‘Sarsen, Mrs Robinson,’ he said. ‘Mind if I take a closer look?’

Well, he’s the landlord, she couldn’t very well say no. Next thing, he’s out of the door saying he’ll be back in a tick. Came back trailed by the dark-haired young archaeologist with the pointed nose and prominent teeth, the one I’d watched surveying the stones, and introduced him as Mr Stuart Piggott. Close up, I didn’t like the look of him. He had sly eyes, which peered into our inglenook and up our chimney while Mr K looked on approvingly. Then they put their heads together and eventually declared that the house was built around one of the stones used to be in the circle, broke up into bits.

‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ said our mam, uneasily.

Mr Keiller looks at her like she’s some insignificant species of small brown bird, interesting maybe to some but not to him; he’s a man for hawks. ‘I’d like to get a closer look at it,’ he says. Standing in our parlour, he was even more handsome than he’d seemed that night in the Manor garden. ‘See those grooves on your lintel? It looks like it may have been a polissoir! Powerful clever, too, knowing all them foreign words.

‘A polly-what?’ says Dad, who’s come in from the garden where he’s been digging up a load of taters for the guests’ dinners.

‘A polishing stone. Where Neolithic people smoothed stone axes. There are several up on the Downs.’ Mostly he sounded like any posh toff, but occasionally his voice took on a soft Scottish lilt; the rs sounding more like ws , but not in a pansyish way. ‘They were probably considered sacred.’

But he’s lost our dad. He has a polite, bemused look on his face, muddy boots dangling from his hand.

‘Don’t see how you’ll get a closer look without climbing the chimney like Santa Claus,’ said Mam, trying for a laugh. And getting your lovely suit all sooty.’

Mr Keiller was looking thoughtful. ‘How much did you say you wanted for that cow-creamer, Mrs Robinson?’

‘Not for sale, Mr Keiller.’

A week after, we had our notice.

Mr K was generous, though. He said if we could be out by the autumn, he’d give Mam and Dad the money for the first year’s lease on their new place. Dad thought that was a good deal. Mam said she didn’t see why they should be bought. Dad said they didn’t have much choice, really, so better take what they could, and we didn’t have hardly any bookings past August anyway. So they cancelled what there was, and found a tobacconist’s shop in Devizes. Dad said he’d be glad to see the back of guesthouse-keeping, and Mam said she was sick to death of changing sheets for Mr Keiller’s snooty friends who were no better than they ought to be, and some of them a lot worse.

That left me. There was a second bedroom in the flat over the tobacconist’s. Bedroom? Boxroom, more like. It was where the old tobacconist stored surplus stock, and it stank–be like sleeping rolled up in a cigar box. You didn’t need three to run a tiny shop like that. I had to find a job. Seemed an opportunity, at first. But now it looked like I was aiming too high.

‘Never mind,’ said Mam. ‘Something’ll come up. You’re a clever girl, Frances. I was ever so proud when you came top in bookkeeping last year in school. Somebody’ll appreciate your talents.’

The Frigidaire gave a cough and fell silent.

‘See?’ said Mam. ‘It thinks you’re something.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It says I’m useless. Too bloomin’ young, like they all keep saying.’

Then Ambrose came on again playing ‘Small Hotel’ and Mam started to cry.

What came up was Mrs Sorel-Taylour, who was Mr Keiller’s secretary.

Mind you, like the parson used to say, God helps them who helps themselves. I’d heard they was short-handed at the Manor, with the digging season to plan for and a museum being built in the stable block. I made sure I bumped into her in the high street, by accident as it’d seem, when I went for bread from the baker’s–oh, what a coincidence–at the exact time I reckoned she’d be on her way down the churchyard path to fetch some of Jack’s lardy cakes to go with Mr Keiller’s morning coffee. The sky was pale blue over the church tower, and a cloud of early midges danced over the drying puddles as I came up to her by the lich-gate, with the loaves under my arm.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Sorel-Taylour.’

‘Good morning, Frances. Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘Left last year. Working for Mam and Dad, now, though I in’t sure what I’ll do when they move to Devizes.’

For a moment I didn’t think my plan would work. She looked at me as if she had no notion what I was blathering on about. She was a short lady, but very straight in the back, who sang in the Choral Society and gave lectures all over the county on etiquette. Her cream silk blouse with its Peter Pan collar was done right up to the neck, a carnelian brooch hiding the top button. I was a bit scared of her.

Then cogs began to whirr.

‘Rumour has it you’re good with numbers,’ she said, her large dark eyes fixed on mine.

‘Did well in arithmetic in school,’ I said. Won a prize, I did, and Mr Keiller presented it at speech day, which was how Mrs S-T remembered.

‘And you have a neat hand?’

I looked at my fingers. The nail varnish I’d put on last night for seeing Davey was already chipped.

I need someone who can write clearly,’ she said. ‘And shorthand would help.’

‘I’m enrolled on a Pitman’s course.’

‘You type, of course.’ I should have enrolled for that too, but there wasn’t the time as I was still helping most evenings at the guesthouse. ‘What speed?’

‘A hundred and ten,’ I lied. Her eyebrows shot up. Perhaps I’d overdone it. ‘On a good day,’ I added. She must have swallowed one of the midges, because she started to cough and turned away to find a hanky in her bag. ‘Is there a job for me at the Manor?’ I hardly dared hope.

‘Mr Keiller is bringing his collection down from London,’ she said. ‘We need help with cataloguing and typing up his notes on the finds. And there are his letters. He dictates several each day.’ She looked hard at me, not quite a glare but there was disapproval on her long, delicate oval face. ‘You’ll find typing easier with shorter nails. And hair off your face, please, not falling over your eyes. You could try Kirby-grips. Mr Keiller prefers his staff to have a modest appearance.’