Page 14 of The Start of the Story
Connor looked into my face. ‘It’s not any old map now, is it?’ he asked, but it wasn’t really a question, more an observation. ‘What is it, sentimental value?’
‘Something like that.’ I ground the words out. ‘I’ll sweep up the mess.’
He lifted the map, thrusting its way clear of the broken bits of frame like a geographical tongue, and spread it carefully on my dining table. ‘Ah, it’s fine. No damage at all.’ I watched him from the kitchen as he carefully picked away the split frame and the razor edging of glass splinters until they sat in a flat pile so he could pore over the old map. ‘I see it now. There’s your stone.’ A finger jabbed down almost on the dead centre of the map. ‘And over here, that’s where we think the Roman settlement traces are.’ He squinted close to the paper. ‘Looks like there was something above ground when the map was drawn up – those could be the lines of walls.’
I came in with the dustpan and brush and a tea towel around my cut hand. ‘They could be field boundaries,’ I said.
‘Mmm. Could be, I suppose. And what’s this over here?’
‘Oh, that’s Evercey Manor.’ I began to collect the pieces together with the brush. Although my heart was still hammering, the worst of the shock and despair had worn off now and I didn’t feel as though I might burst into tears at any second. ‘A mid-fifteenth century place that got added to and built on right up until the Second World War, when there was nobody to inherit it and the place was demolished.’
He pulled a thoughtful face. ‘That’s good. Shows the land has been lived on, which bodes well for the Romans, who might have been the ones that cleared the land in the first place. We could have a villa and associated buildings – not quite as exciting as a full settlement, but it could be worth bringing the archaeologists in on.’
‘Leave the stone alone,’ I said almost automatically, trying to make sure I got every last twinkle of glass from the carpet. ‘I’ll get the hoover over this.’
Connor straightened up. ‘Why do you care so much?’ he asked. ‘On the one hand you’re this aloof personality who doesn’t want interference and on the other – no, wait a minute, actually I think I’ve answered my own question there.’
I stood for a moment looking down on the map, my hands full of dusty sharpness and cracked wood. The urge to cry was still pushing vigorously at the backs of my eyes. ‘It’s not the stoneper se,’ I said, carefully managing the words so that no emotion came with them. ‘It’s what it stands for.’
He sat down suddenly on my chair, at my dining table work desk. I bridled at the liberty. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Convince me.’
Stiffly I took up station on the other side of the desk, carefully placing the dustpan full of glass in the middle, on the top of the map. Did I deliberately want to block him from looking at mymap? Or did I want to make sure I didn’t knock the sweepings back onto the floor? I wasn’t sure.
‘I could say the same to you,’ I said. ‘Convincemethat looking for Romans takes precedence over my work.’
Connor rolled my chair back so that he could lean back at an angle so acute that he was almost a straight line. I could have laid him on the map and measured distances. ‘You’re good at this,’ he said admiringly. ‘You’ve argued with a lot of historians, then?’
His lack of confrontation, his happy acknowledgement of my proficiency in this particular struggle and his expression of surprised enjoyment took the wind completely from my sails.
‘I’ve had to fight my corner a lot, yes,’ I said, and the desire to beat him into submission with the dustpan faded. ‘Quite a lot of people don’t take folklore studies seriously. It’s all fairy stories and rubbish as far as they are concerned.’
Connor was looking down at the part of the map still visible now. He traced his finger over the dark shading that was the moors. ‘Try me,’ he said, in a slightly softer voice. ‘I’m Irish. The fairy stories now, they’re practically part of my genetic make-up.’
The light glowed off his hair and he looked relaxed and comfortable, as though he belonged there in my wheelie chair, at my worktable, and I managed to grip onto the rapidly vanishing edges of my annoyance and distrust. ‘My work is not your business,’ I clipped out rapidly. ‘I’m going to bed now. I need an early start in the morning, so if you’re going into York, you’ll need to get a taxi.’
That had done it. The open interest vanished from his expression and he frowned it into a closed look, eyes narrowed and his mouth a lip-chewing twist. ‘Hmm, okay,’ he said thoughtfully, then, ‘I’ll not be needing one. Tomorrow I’m walking up onto the moor and having a bit of a poke around.I’m meeting a guy to put up a drone and take an overview of the proposed site.’
‘Oh.’ My heart dropped a little. Was thatdisappointment? Or annoyance at his assumption that he didn’t need to tell me his plans? Had I, perhaps, been looking forward a bit too much to continuing my acerbic confrontations in the car on our morning drive? ‘I’ll be back around six.’
‘Could you leave me a key?’ He was tracing those lines again, a slow finger hovering too close to the site of the stone for my liking.
‘What for?’
He smiled at me now, but there were still traces of that tightness in his eyes and the smile wasn’t quite as easy and open as usual. ‘I’m sorry. I know you don’t know me from Adam and I might have my mates hanging around the corner with a lorry to strip out your valuables, but, truly? I want to be able to sit down and drink coffee and not have to spend all day in the company of the drone men who can, let me tell you, be a touch too single-minded for the likes of me.’ Another, slightly wider, grin. ‘Besides, it’s dark by the time you get back and I don’t want to have to hide in the bushes so the ducks don’t get me.’
I couldn’t help it. I smiled at the image of Connor crouching in the undergrowth with his coat over his head. It was only sensible for him to have a key, after all. I was sometimes away at folklore-related events or couldn’t get home. Never for exciting, fun reasons; more for lecturing or grinning-halfheartedly-whilst-standing-at-the-back-of-a-crowd-holding-a-glass-of-cheap-warm-wine reasons, but even so. Giving Connor a key was reasonable. ‘Sorry. Of course. I’ll dig out the spare key.’
His face seemed to relax a little. ‘Thank you. And goodnight now.’
I had forgotten that I was taking my high dudgeon and retiring. I’d got caught in the net of his interest, and having someone here occupying space in my home. ‘Yes. Right. I’ll hoover the bits up tomorrow.’
‘I can do it, while I’m drinking my coffee and hiding from the dual threats of drone-men and ducks.’
I flicked him a short smile of farewell and took myself off up the stairs, not sure whether to feel affronted at his casual assumption of duties in the house or happy that I wasn’t going to have to wield the hoover.
Connor was making himself far too much at home for my liking, that was it. I resolved to get Chess to spend tomorrow finding him somewhere else to stay, even if it was in Sheffield.
8
