Page 21 of The Start of the Story
‘I dunno.’ Chess fiddled her hair into an updo, checked her reflection in the glass of the window, pouted like a guppy, then pulled it back down again. ‘He’s cute.’
I thought of that night on the moor, the unexpected confidences. We’d gone back to the cottage and headed straight to our respective rooms, and I hadn’t seen him in the morning before I’d left. Perhaps he felt as embarrassed about opening up to me as I felt about telling him about Elliot, a kind of cringey weight in the back of my head whenever I remembered. Hopefully we’d never speak of it again.
‘Any sign of a place to let coming available for him?’ I asked. ‘A basement would do.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Catacomb?’
Chess suddenly realised that I was joking and snorted. ‘Anyway, I’ve finished typing up that diary thing that you had.’
‘Brilliant, thank you. Anything interesting in there?’
Chess frowned. ‘I don’treadthem; I type them up. A few interesting bits, maybe. Trees coming alive, that sort of thing.’ She said this as carelessly as though it were an everyday occurrence. ‘Up on the moors.’
‘I’ll check it through when you email it over. And can you find me some books on the buildings up near the stone – Evercey Manor and the village, please?’ I needed to find information about where and when the stone was sourced. If it turned out that the whole thing had been dragged in from somewhere else on the moor because it was the right size to fill in a hole, that would be the end of Connor’s theory about it having markings on the underside.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Chess slithered forward off the desk. ‘Have you got any copies of that last book you did? The one about ghost stories being folk memories of morality tales or something? The professor was looking for it – there isn’t one here.’
I stared blankly at the bookshelves. That had been the book I’d been working on when Elliot died, and it had gone outunedited. ‘I’m not sure. There’s one about somewhere. I might have it at home.’
Chess grinned broadly. ‘That’s good. You can give it to him tonight, then, when you get back.’
‘Just finish typing up the memoirs and get to the archives, Chess.’ I sighed. ‘There’s a dear.’
After she’d sauntered out, smug as someone who’d had the last word, I slumped down across my desk, arms outstretched and my face buried in my elbows. I hadn’t slept well for my final night in the hotel, there had been partying in the bar which had kept me awake and the drive back had been horrific. I was still getting over appearing in public where I seemed to be regarded as a self-deluded fairy believer, and all I really wanted to do was go home, put on a disreputable tracksuit and slob around with a packet of crisps. Thank goodness it was Friday was all I could think.
Except… except Friday meant the weekend. I usually spent the weekend doing a little cursory housework, walking on the moors and, at this time of year, lighting the fire and curling up on the loveseat to remember how things had been when Elliot had been here. Not, I knew, the healthiest way to behave, but anything else required an energy I didn’t have. The literary festival had offered me a change of routine and now I could go back to my ‘normal’. I was looking forward to it. But this weekend, unless I was lucky and he’d wandered off with his mates, Connor would be there and that would curtail my slobbing about. I wouldn’t feel comfortable lounging around in my holey hoodie if he was going to be bouncing around in his cashmere, all legs and enthusiasm. And, horror, he might even start telling me details from his thwarted love, and what I really didnotneed on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I wanted carbs and comfort, was a lanky Irishman following me about to give me chapter and verse on his gorgeous, cheating ex.
I might do some writing. Yes, I thought, sitting back up. I could write. That would keep Connor away – evenhewouldn’t be so self-absorbed as to interfere with someone who was writing, would he?
I looked around the room. I had small parcels of material dotted all over the tiny space – an old dairymaid’s apron, some butter presses, an ancient kettle, donated by those tellers of tales. I could photograph those ready for inclusion in the book, and my cottage would be a perfect backdrop. Then I could go through my typed-up notes and sort out the stories that were particularly local, maybe find a way to reference everything back to the stone and its locality. I could work on the ‘fairy’ element – if I broadened the category to include the hob and the boggart and elaborated on my theory of these being linked to ancient memories ofgenii locithen I’d practically got enough to fill a book already. I hadn’t written anything much of note since Elliot. I hadn’t really felt like it. But the thought of protecting the Fairy Stane was giving my imagination and my enthusiasm the kicking it needed.
That was a cheering thought, and it gave me enough energy to start working through some of the older notes.
I opened the first document. There was the date right at the top. Because dates and attribution were so important in this field, I made sure that they were the very first things I noted. The name of the person who was telling me their family story, their age, the place in question and… dates, dates, dates. When did this happen? How old were you? How old was the person telling you? That way we could trace tales back, sometimes a hundred years or more.
This document was dated six months after Elliot died, which would have been the first thing I did when I returned to the office. Because Elliot’s death had been sudden and unexpected, there had been all kinds of legal hurdles – he’d had no will,and the mortgage company had really not wanted to pay out on the insurance. There had even been a brief attempt to prove his death an uninsured suicide, although I’d had a storm of doctors who’d come to my rescue overthatone.
Death was never simple, I knew that. Maybe it shouldn’t be. Some of the stories coming down from the high moors told of people dying and included the habits, myths and traditions that were followed and meant that bodies weren’t buried for sometimes up to a week. There were bodies placed on the kitchen table for the neighbours to come and view, there was the construction of the coffin – which had to be the right material – the procession to the churchyard, which could often consist of a six- or seven-mile walk over treacherous land, and the burial itself, then the wake.
Perhaps, I thought, still staring at that date, things had been better in the ‘old days’, when friends and neighbours were as much a part of the bereavement as the family. I’d been left to grieve alone, once Elliot’s workmates, our few friends and our scattered and distant families had paid their respects. Not for me the collective gathering, storytelling over the coffin the night before burial and the quiet assistance of the entire community. There hadbeenno community. Only me, the silent cottage, the rushing water.
It had taken me some months to be ready to get back to more than the most superficial tasks. And here was the evidence, in these badly typed notes, where my mind had obviously not really been on them, although training and habit had made sure that the basics were covered.
I started skimming, highlighting anything that seemed relevant to what I intended to write. I’d select my material and then work on chapters and grouping by type or location once I’d got an outline sorted, I decided.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said, less than delighted as Connor’s head appeared around my door. ‘Don’t you have your own office?’
‘Yep.’ He cheerfully slithered the rest of him inside. ‘But I’m declaring it closed for the weekend.’
‘I thought I told Chess to not let anyone in?’ I was determined to show him that I wasn’t one whit softened towards him by our previous confessions. This was me, unemotional, detached, aloof. If he didn’t like it, well, someone somewhere would have a damp room in a noisy house that he could move in to.
‘Chess has gone home. It’s half past six.’ Unabashed, Connor leaned against the opposite wall and swirled his coat around him. ‘I was going to get a taxi back, but I decided to swing by to see if you were still here. You’re cheaper,’ he added. ‘The lights were on, so I popped in and here you are.’
Half past six? How could it be?But he was right, it was dark outside, which gave this subterranean room a measure of borrowed cosiness. I’d been so absorbed in my work that I hadn’t noticed the time pass, although the soggy remains of a cheese and lettuce sandwich sprawled across a plate showed that I’d at least eaten lunch. I couldn’t remember doing it. Chess must have brought it in whilst I was writing. She must have come through to tell me she was leaving too, but I hadn’t noticed that either. I only hoped the book was going to be as compelling as the writing clearly was.
