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‘Take your time,’ Mitch said, helping with the tripod.
He turned out to be a reasonable photographer, and happy to take directions, and we progressed like an actor and director in partnership. A satisfying hour later, Mitch packed the camera back in the bag.
‘Ah, the lad must be awake.’ Mitch waved across the open space at a woman; the small figure gestured frantically.
‘Thank you, so much,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘For helping.’
‘My pleasure.’
There was that moment, the uneasy hesitation of strangers who knew too much about each other and probably would never meet again.
‘Can you manage from here?’ he asked.
Something of a guilty expression swept across his face. He had a wife and kid, and wasn’t supposed to be spending his time with me. I, too, felt a little ashamed I had stolen him.
‘Sure. Ankle hardly hurts at all now. I can walk to the car park.’
‘Good.’ His hands were back in the pockets. ‘All the best with everything. And keep off that foot tonight, tomorrow too if you can.’ He headed off to the car park at a brisk pace, one that I couldn’t possibly keep up.
Rather than walk, I elected to sit in the middle of the castle’s inner ward, and waited.
I thought no amount of patience was going to trigger an awakening. There were other distractions. More people posed in front of the lion or climbed the little spired tower and waved from on high. In my solitude, I was never quite alone to think.
The grass glinted in the sunlight. At first I thought what I saw were dewdrops, the leftovers of an early dawn. As I stared, things took shape, and I found myself imagining I was an archaeologist discovering an artefact buried in the soil, less in the past, more in the now. Hands digging, a trowel poking in the dirt, and the revealing of something metallic, silvery. An arrowhead, a dagger’s point, the edge of an axe?
I knew little about archaeology, but I did know objects buried for centuries didn’t emerge bright and shiny from the ground. I pursed my lips, undisturbed and intrigued by the illusion created by my mind. The dream seamlessly shifted. I could no longer see any grass. The hands, now gloved in faded coarse leather, scrambled in the dirt, frantic in their search. A souvenir hunter? What was I imagining? I was slipping back in time, tumbling from here to then. I saw something else down there in the shadows. A dark crimson stain on the edge of the metal. Drawn up and out of the ground, the weapon was bloodied. The sturdy, faceless figure rose with it, arm outstretched, blade raised, and with a purpose it began to move toward me.
I leapt to my feet and let out a cry of pain. ‘Dammit.’
The figure evaporated. The ground around me returned to lush greenery. The weapons of the past no longer visible. Subliminally, I was probably warning myself not to be tempted into joining archaeological digs. God knows where that would lead me.
I was ready to leave. I took one last look at the Percy Lion, and for a second, I perceived a wink from under his saucepan helmet. He must have seen history unfold from up there. Probably many mock tournaments, too.
?
I predicted my next landlady, Mrs Dyllis Bartholomew, to be a stooped pensioner, knitting scarves and readingWomen’s Own.
‘I’m Dyllis. Welcome.’ The curvaceous carrot-topped woman stepped to one side.
I dragged in the suitcase. Within five minutes Dyllis had informed me that she was thirty-six and a widow.
She nudged the bedroom door open with her elbow. ‘My husband died two years ago, during the night, in bed.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ I said, alert to a strong whiff of lavender.
‘Testicular cancer.’ Dyllis’ eyelashes thickened with tears. ‘Yep.’ A lock of red hair tumbled over her face, and she left it there.
Too much information was heading my way. ‘How sad.’
The room was perfectly acceptable, if a little on the small side. Plain walls and carpet, matching curtains and duvet. The king-size bed with its purple cushions propped against the faux leather headboard dominated the space.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ she asked, her attention focused on the bed.
‘No.’ I heaved the suitcase onto a stand. Did clothes become heavier with use?
‘Well, my advice, pet, is when you do have one, grope his balls from time to time. I wish I had.’ There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment in her manner.
I clawed back a witty remark. The woman was deathly serious. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’
