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Authors: Elly Griffiths
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except that he had a temporary post at the University of East Anglia, teaching creative writing. Or, as he put it, ‘I’ve got a gig at the uni.’ He has rented the house next door for a year.
‘Are you a writer then?’ asked Ruth.
‘Poet mostly, but I’ve written a few novels.’
Ruth was impressed. Like many academics, her ultimate goal is to turn her thesis into a book but so far she hasn’t progressed far beyond the title, ‘Bones, Decomposition and Death in Prehistoric Britain’. To think that someone can be so blasé about their success that they can shrug it away like that. ‘I’ve written a few novels.’ And he must be a successful writer if he’s teaching on the UEA course, even if she hasn’t heard of him.
‘What made you choose this place?’ she had asked. ‘It’s quite a way from Norwich.’
‘A friend recommended it,’ said Bob, stroking Flint, who seemed to have become surgically attached to his new neighbour. ‘And I like the place. It has good magic.’
Good magic. Ruth, negotiating the turn into the University of North Norfolk (definitely the poor relation to the prestigious University of East Anglia), wonders why she hadn’t recoiled as she usually does at any mentionof religion or the supernatural. Was it partly because she agreed with Bob Woonunga? Cathbad would say that the Saltmarsh is sacred to the Gods. Erik used to call it a symbolic landscape. Nelson usually refers to it as a dump. For Ruth it is home, but she sometimes wonders why someone born and brought up in South London should be so drawn to such a desolate place. Does
she
feel that there is magic in the shifting sands and secret pools? No. But, although she has experienced both fear and danger on the Saltmarsh, she knows that she wouldn’t live anywhere else. It’s not entirely rational, she’s willing to admit that.
Ruth’s office is in the Natural Sciences Block which is separated from the main campus by a covered walkway. It’s fairly pleasant in summer, with views over the ornamental lake, but on this grey November morning everything looks forlorn and unloved. The paint is peeling in the lobby and someone has scrawled ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here’ above the main doors. Ruth climbs the two flights of stairs to her office, noticing that the fluorescent lights are flickering again. She’ll have a headache by lunchtime. She opens her door with a key card and sits down at her desk.
Ruth’s office is tiny, only just big enough for a desk and a chair. One wall is full of books, the other has a window overlooking the grounds. It’s too hot in summer and too cold in winter but Ruth loves it. It’s a place where she can be Doctor Ruth Galloway, expert in forensic archaeology, not Kate’s mum, running late as usual, or Ms Galloway, single mother. ‘You’re very brave,’ someone saidrecently, ‘to bring her up on your own.’ What choice did I have? Ruth wanted to say. Expose her on the hillside? Leave her to be adopted by a friendly wolf pack? But she did have a choice, she recognises, right at the beginning. A choice she supports. It was just that when it came to it she realised she wanted a baby very badly indeed. And, if she never sees him again, she will always be grateful to Nelson for this at least.
Nelson’s birthday present was a large stuffed monkey. Ruth had looked at it for a long time, trying to find some hidden meaning in the blond acrylic fur and beady eyes. Why a monkey? Why a present at all? Hadn’t Michelle forbidden all contact? And when did Nelson deliver it? When the children were singing ‘Happy Birthday Dear Katie’? When Cathbad was rampaging round the garden? She doesn’t like the idea that someone can just drive up to her house, leave an offering on her doorstep, and disappear. Though it has happened before.
Ruth sighs and starts opening her post. November is a busy time, there are assessments to be made, essays to mark. They are more than halfway through the autumn
‘Are you a writer then?’ asked Ruth.
‘Poet mostly, but I’ve written a few novels.’
Ruth was impressed. Like many academics, her ultimate goal is to turn her thesis into a book but so far she hasn’t progressed far beyond the title, ‘Bones, Decomposition and Death in Prehistoric Britain’. To think that someone can be so blasé about their success that they can shrug it away like that. ‘I’ve written a few novels.’ And he must be a successful writer if he’s teaching on the UEA course, even if she hasn’t heard of him.
‘What made you choose this place?’ she had asked. ‘It’s quite a way from Norwich.’
‘A friend recommended it,’ said Bob, stroking Flint, who seemed to have become surgically attached to his new neighbour. ‘And I like the place. It has good magic.’
Good magic. Ruth, negotiating the turn into the University of North Norfolk (definitely the poor relation to the prestigious University of East Anglia), wonders why she hadn’t recoiled as she usually does at any mentionof religion or the supernatural. Was it partly because she agreed with Bob Woonunga? Cathbad would say that the Saltmarsh is sacred to the Gods. Erik used to call it a symbolic landscape. Nelson usually refers to it as a dump. For Ruth it is home, but she sometimes wonders why someone born and brought up in South London should be so drawn to such a desolate place. Does
she
feel that there is magic in the shifting sands and secret pools? No. But, although she has experienced both fear and danger on the Saltmarsh, she knows that she wouldn’t live anywhere else. It’s not entirely rational, she’s willing to admit that.
Ruth’s office is in the Natural Sciences Block which is separated from the main campus by a covered walkway. It’s fairly pleasant in summer, with views over the ornamental lake, but on this grey November morning everything looks forlorn and unloved. The paint is peeling in the lobby and someone has scrawled ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here’ above the main doors. Ruth climbs the two flights of stairs to her office, noticing that the fluorescent lights are flickering again. She’ll have a headache by lunchtime. She opens her door with a key card and sits down at her desk.
Ruth’s office is tiny, only just big enough for a desk and a chair. One wall is full of books, the other has a window overlooking the grounds. It’s too hot in summer and too cold in winter but Ruth loves it. It’s a place where she can be Doctor Ruth Galloway, expert in forensic archaeology, not Kate’s mum, running late as usual, or Ms Galloway, single mother. ‘You’re very brave,’ someone saidrecently, ‘to bring her up on your own.’ What choice did I have? Ruth wanted to say. Expose her on the hillside? Leave her to be adopted by a friendly wolf pack? But she did have a choice, she recognises, right at the beginning. A choice she supports. It was just that when it came to it she realised she wanted a baby very badly indeed. And, if she never sees him again, she will always be grateful to Nelson for this at least.
Nelson’s birthday present was a large stuffed monkey. Ruth had looked at it for a long time, trying to find some hidden meaning in the blond acrylic fur and beady eyes. Why a monkey? Why a present at all? Hadn’t Michelle forbidden all contact? And when did Nelson deliver it? When the children were singing ‘Happy Birthday Dear Katie’? When Cathbad was rampaging round the garden? She doesn’t like the idea that someone can just drive up to her house, leave an offering on her doorstep, and disappear. Though it has happened before.
Ruth sighs and starts opening her post. November is a busy time, there are assessments to be made, essays to mark. They are more than halfway through the autumn
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