Читать книгу Magpie - Sophie Draper - Страница 19

I have often seen them in the fields, further along the valley, slowly pacing the ground. Sometimes one of them drags a spade behind him whilst another holds a spade over one shoulder. Always there are at least two or three of them at a time, leaning forwards over the turf. They hold out their detectors, silhouetted against the trees or frost-blue sky or the morning fog, stalking the field together like a pack of black crows.

Joe discovered metal detecting online. Whilst most boys were either obsessed with football or hunched over their computers playing games, at fifteen, Joe was bashing away at his keyboard discussing early Roman coin types on the metal detecting chat sites.

When he was fourteen, I took him for a long weekend to Northumbria. It was a treat, just for him and me, to make up for the trouble he’d been having in class. I had this idea that if I could tap into his historical curiosity, he’d want to study instead of always feeling forced to comply with school.

Joe hated secondary school, at least in the last few years; the whole uniform and rules thing, the stink of the boys’ toilets, the getting up too early in the morning and forcing himself either to go in with me or catch the bus – he was always half asleep. The studying, exams and books and teachers on his back, day in, day out, essays¸ extracts, questions, long feet stuck out from under his desk, long enough to trip up a teacher. And the girls gossiping in the corridors with skirts that skimmed their thighs and sugar-pink lipstick, tapping on their phones to slag Joe off on Facebook. At least if you believe Joe, that’s what it was like.

They always laughed at him, he’d been convinced of that. Too tall like a stick man, they’d said. Stick Man. Stick Boy. Anything to get a reaction. When he wasn’t sleeping, all he wanted to do was go outside metal detecting, the fresh air banishing his thoughts, the absorbed concentration drowning out his emotions. I’d hated school too, for different reasons, so what could I say?

He’d loved Roman mythology as a small boy, gods and monsters battling for the heavens, or Roman armies marching into war. I thought, what if I took him to Vindolanda, one of the best-preserved Roman forts in the country? It was right on Hadrian’s Wall near the border with Scotland.

It was a huge success. It filled his head with stories of the Roman infantry, military tactics and soldiers guarding against the Picts on the northern reaches of the empire. He pored over the cabinet displays and dragged me from one object to another, fascinated by the layout of the buildings, the sculptures and tablets, the scraps of preserved leather, pottery and metal brooches. Clues to another time, another life.

But it was the coins that had him transfixed. There was a whole wall dedicated to the various coins found on the site. Gold and silver glittering on a white background, lit up by a row of narrow spotlights. He was full of it on the way home, the patterns and designs, the different metal components, the names of the emperors whose heads were engraved on the back.

‘There’s this one coin type, Mum, an aureus. It’s a gold coin from the time of Emperor Nero. He went mad – did you know that? He became emperor when he was only sixteen.’

I laughed at that. ‘Fancy yourself as an emperor, do you, Joe?’

‘Course not,’ he said. He always took me seriously. Then he looked at me. ‘I’m not mad, you know, Mum.’

‘I know that, Joe,’ I said, my gaze turning briefly from my focus on the road.

I flashed a smile at him. He seemed satisfied.

‘He was a treasure hunter. He sent his men into Africa looking for gold. He killed people, though. Murdered Britannicus, his stepbrother, and then his own mother, Agrippina.’ Joe frowned. ‘And his wife. She was called P-p … Pop … Poppaea Sabina.’ He’d hardly paused to catch his breath.

All those names tumbling from his lips. The museum had really captured his interest. I was euphoric. Finally, he was motivated. Finally, you could see how bright he was. I could never remember all that stuff. Back home, even his teachers commented on his sudden interest in ancient history. Trouble was, not much of it actually featured on the school curriculum.

That’s when he started researching online, devouring data and statistics about coins. He must have stumbled on the metal detecting websites and begun asking and answering questions. Before long he was pretty knowledgeable, with a host of new internet friends. Ironically, he used StickMan as his online name.

By fifteen he’d bought his first metal detector. There was a local group near Matlock and he joined up, spending his weekends tagging along, learning from them. I was glad. I’d decided it was good for him. He thrived on their acceptance, being part of a group. That was important to him. He’d never found acceptance at school. Or home.

The morning doesn’t come. At least that’s how it feels. I look out of the big window and there’s fog right up against the glass. I can’t see a thing.

I stand on my tiptoes, as if that would help. It’s like the Barn is suspended in the air, travelling at more than thirty thousand feet. I feel disorientated, Dorothy in her tiny shack, spinning through the sky towards the Land of Oz. The glass is cold beneath my fingers, and the swirls of fog float and curl like blooms of white ink in water. I’m not sure that white ink is even a thing.

I’m tired from the night before. I’ve hardly slept a wink. Duncan hasn’t come back, not that it surprises me. Joe hasn’t come home either. Must be the fog – he’d easily get spooked in that. I hate to think of him out there, in the cold. If he’s got any sense, he’ll have taken refuge somewhere, waiting it out. The fog moves again, drifting apart and back again, heaving like a giant’s breath. Duncan will have gone to work by now, rolling out of whatever or whoever’s bed he’s slept in.

I fantasise about Duncan never coming back. How much easier that would be, if he suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth. Walked out and never came back. No messy divorce, no emotional meltdown, no arguments over money. He won’t like being forced to sell the Barn. I smile at that, sweet revenge for all those years of neglect.

What if he died? The thought comes to me from nowhere. I’d inherit everything. I could sell up and do whatever I liked.

The very idea, however, fills me with horror. I think of his body mangled in the mud, his legs bent the wrong way, his head twisted to one side, eyes wide and staring. Her too, whilst we’re at it. Whoever she is, her long hair splayed on a dashboard – it’s got to be long hair, it’s far more visual, crimson blood trickling down her head. Oh, God, what am I thinking?

I don’t want that. How could I want that? This was never what I wanted. For a moment I ask myself if I can really do it, leave Duncan, leave everything we’ve built up between us. The comforts of our life, the home we have, even if I don’t particularly like it. I know I’m damned lucky compared to most people – ungrateful, that’s what my mother would have said. Just as well she’s no longer here to see me. She died five years ago, my father two years before that. Mum always approved of Duncan – she thought he could do no wrong. A handsome man with his sleeves rolled up, saving doggy lives … what’s not to like?

Duncan and I have been together for ever, since we were both eighteen – the same age that Joe is now. I’ve hardly known anything else. Have I really stopped loving him? I think of Duncan when we were newly married. His warm body pressing down on mine, his breath teasing at my ear. His energy and wit. I adored him then. If I didn’t love him still, then it wouldn’t hurt like this, would it?

I sigh and the fog sighs with me, rolling back to reveal a glimpse of the outside. There must be a breeze, there always is, up here on the hill. But the trees are unmoving. I see the horizontal lines of the five-bar gate, the darker shapes of the hedgerow in the fields, the uneven turf. Under all that grass, there are dips and hollows and holes dug out by rabbits and moles and foxes … I feel the touch of cool air on the back of my neck, almost as if I’m out there not inside. Then the fog lifts, uncertainly, like a grey sheet flapping in the wind. I can see through to the far slopes of the valley on the other side of the water. There are figures. Dark, black figures. People.

I lean in. There are four of them, I think.

Moments later, the fog sinks down again and I can’t see them anymore. Then the fog rolls back and now there are only two. I’m not sure if what I’m seeing are real people, wearing coats and hats and earphones, holding those stupid sticks. Or if they’re animals, cows or even sheep in the distance. It plays tricks on you, the fog, especially here in the valley, something about the light being distorted by the shadow of the hills. Or maybe I need a pair of glasses. I watch as the fog closes in again, thick and solid against the window, like the safety curtain on a stage. I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see a thing. I wait and watch and moments later, when the fog shifts and the view opens up, the men, or whatever I saw, are gone.

A short while later, there’s the scrabble of a hand on the back door and the sound of Arthur’s wet paws clattering on the tiles. A cold draught gusts across the kitchen.

‘Mum?’

It’s Joe. He’s back.

‘Mum – are you there? You won’t believe what I’ve found!’