Ghost Wall(25)

I found a hazelnut tree in the end, but then I couldn’t find the students, and then there came a strange half-hour when I couldn’t find my way out of the wood although I knew it was small and on a hill and that going either up or down the slope in an approximately straight line would bring me to the edge. Shards of sunlight came through the trees. I tried to keep them on my left and head up hill, towards where I’d last heard Molly, but I couldn’t hear her any more and the sun had got round to my right and I was getting so thirsty it was hard to think about anything but water, which I didn’t have but the others did and anyway I couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes from the hut and the stream and Mum who would have something I could eat. A bird sang insistently behind me, a shrill phrase repetitive as a telephone’s bell. The tunic rasped my damp skin, clung to the still tender places on my back, and there were crumbs of earth and bark in the folds of my toes. Water. I needed water. The bird called again and I felt the sound shrill through my skull, reverberate in the gathering headache. I came to a thicket and turned to go down hill instead, switched the bag of nuts from one sore shoulder to the other. Of course I came out into the field, probably really quite fast; it was an acre of English woodland, not the Black Forest. After two fields I came to the stream and stopped to scoop water into my mouth and over my face. Never drink from the stream in sheep country, but the water was running fast enough and I was past caring.

Mum was sitting down again. Your dad came back, she said, he said to tell you you’ll be needed tonight. I need a drink of water, I said. Is there anything I can eat? Not much, she said, I’ve not cooked. He said to tell you. What about the plums, I said, could I have some of those, you cooked them, right? They’re very sour, she said, I don’t know what folk did with them before they had sugar, you’d need a gill of honey and then some. I don’t think I mind, I said, I’ll eat them sour, but she was right, even for a hungry teenager a couple were enough. Acid yellow shrivelled plums and tepid water washed in my stomach. I thought about making bannocks, since Mum didn’t seem to be about to do anything, since other people would be back and wanting to eat too, but I couldn’t face being near the fire – Mum, I said, you’ve let the fire out. Well, she said, it’s that hot, who’s wanting one any road? Dad, I said, what do you think he’ll say, what were you thinking, you know how he goes on about the fire and the hearth and all that, let’s get it lit again quick, did he say when he’d be back. She sat down again. The fire were out when he came, she said, he’s already seen it. You’re too late, love, might as well sit down a minute.

I didn’t ask her. I didn’t want to know. If he had any sense, the bruises would come up in places where the rest of us didn’t have to see them.



I thought I’d rest a while, keep her company, but there was no respite from the sun. Heat seemed to be reflecting off the land itself. I took a piece of cloth from the hut, left Mum folded where she was and went to dip my hair, my whole head, in the stream, kneeling fully clothed on the bank. As the water ran down my face, trickled warm between my breasts and down my back, I squatted on the bank to soak the linen cloth in fresh water for Mum. The bog myrtle grew there still cool and dark-leaved, so I picked a sprig for Mum and then had another idea and stripped a handful of new shoots, no more than two from each bush so the plants could recover quickly. I rubbed a leaf between my fingers and sniffed the balm, like lime and warm spices. When I was little I used to go to the bathroom and smell Mum’s talc after I’d been smacked; I suppose I thought the scent might comfort her now. My wet hair was already warm on my neck as I walked back to the hut, the tunic damp and scratchy. Here, Mum, help you cool down a bit, I said. She didn’t move. You’ll maybe want to go into the hut and try a bit of a sponge bath, I said, feel a bit fresher, and look, I’ve bog myrtle for you, and when I helped her up she took it and went in. I squatted at the fireside, put down the bunch of myrtle for Molly, picked up a handful of warm ashes and watched it sift through my fingers. I remembered the ashes on the moor tops, the indecipherable fragments of bone. They did things with ashes, the Iron-Age Britons, made lime or potash or something. Or maybe that was later. The round stones ringing the fire were still warm. I sat down and used my new basket-weaving skills to make a crown of myrtle for Molly. I imagined its grey-green in her hair, the scent of it on her face.

Mum came out and sat down again. There were four fingermarks on her upper arm. It were my fault, she said, I knew how much he cares about the fire an’ all. It’s too hot, anyroad, I said, no-one’s wanting fire.

We heard laughter and loud voices coming through the trees. I looked at my silly plaited crown and put it behind me. What had I been thinking, Molly wasn’t six. Oh, Mum said, they’ve only gone and been to the bloody pub, that was all we needed, can you imagine. Maybe they’re just happy, I said, high-spirited, but she shook her head and when they arrived I could see that she was right. We’ve not even got much they can eat to soak it up, she said, them plums aren’t going to be any good, but Pete was carrying a bag of sliced white bread in each hand and Molly cradled a plastic bottle of lemonade. Here you go, Mrs Hampton, Pete said, it’s no day to be slaving over a hot stove. Or campfire. Well, she said, what’ll the Professor say to that, put it away, do. He’d probably want some himself, said Dan, anyway, I do. Look, we got some ham too. He pulled a transparent packet of flaccid pink slices out of his pocket.