Read Online Treasures of Time by Penelope Lively - Free Book Online
Authors: Penelope Lively
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reflectively. ‘I daresay you’re right,’ he said after a moment or two.
Was it possessiveness, or natural good taste, that made the idea of a televised Stukeley so repellent? Either way, Tom felt a surge of relief at having, apparently, scotched the project. It occurred to him that there was an interesting parallel in Tony’s instinctive need to ‘use’ Stukeley and the utilitarianism of the early antiquaries – the determination to make intellectual, or other capital out of our ancestors. He would have liked to share this perception with Tony, but decided it might be unwise: that, too, might spark something off. In any case, Tony had now turned to other matters and was talking enthusiastically about possible locations for filming.
Kate was at her stiffest. She sat beside Tony in the passenger seat of the car and gave wooden explanations of interesting landscape features. They drove south to Stonehenge and joined several hundred other people busily eroding the Wiltshire topsoil. ‘Those are the Aubrey holes,’ said Kate. ‘And that is the Mycenean dagger, only of course it isn’t really, and that’s the Heel Stone.’ Tony looked despondent and said he doubted if one would ever get anything very effective here. They went back to the car park where Tony suggested ice creams all round. Kate asked for a Neapolitan Nut Bonanza. ‘It’s twenty-five pence,’ she said. ‘Is that all right? I’ll pay.’ ‘Look,’ said Tony, ‘you can have half a dozen if you like. It’s all on the BBC.’ Kate suddenly grinned, and Tom remembered why he loved her.
Back in the car, headed for Avebury, Tony said, ‘I gather he was a bit of a colourful figure, your father? I’ve been talking to a few people and that’s the impression one gets.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Kate, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I don’t know really.’
‘People speak very warmly of him.’
Kate, her neck mottled, appeared much taken with some distant aspect of the scenery.
‘I wondered,’ Tony went on, ‘if you’d like to come on the programme for a few minutes – just talk about him quite informally. You know – how you remember him, that kind of thing.’
‘I’d be hopeless,’ said Kate, in a choked voice. ‘No, really, I’d rather not.’ To one who did not know her, she might have been suffering from reborn grief rather than outrage.
‘I quite understand,’ said Tony respectfully. They drove on in silence.
It was late afternoon when they got back to Avebury, and dusk by the time they had finished there. Kate said, ‘We really ought to be going soon – I don’t want to be too late back in London. Perhaps we should leave Charlie’s Tump for another time.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Tom. ‘He’s got to see it, it was your father’s big dig after all.’ Kate allowed herself to be led back to the car.
By the time they reached the end of the track and left the car in a gateway, to walk the last quarter mile, the light had almost drained away. The landscape was a uniform grey-blue, spiced here and there in the valleys with the lights of a village; the hills lay in long dark curves against a sky that was barely lighter; to the west, an orange ball of a sun hung just above the black copse. The wind poured over the hilltop, making the trees creak; otherwise there was nothing to be heard except the crying of lambs. Tony Greenway said, ‘It’s a barrow, I take it?’ He stood, staring round, hunched into his anorak. Kate explained the dig and its significance. Tony nodded and listened and asked several quite perceptive questions. Tom climbed to the top of the hillock and stood there, looking out over the fields, the valley, the grey soft hills. The place seemed very old, almost uninhabited, and inexpressibly sad. Under his feet was the tumbled stone chamber in which people of impenetrable beliefs had buried their dead; down there in the valley lorries twinkled their way along the A4. This landscape had been
Was it possessiveness, or natural good taste, that made the idea of a televised Stukeley so repellent? Either way, Tom felt a surge of relief at having, apparently, scotched the project. It occurred to him that there was an interesting parallel in Tony’s instinctive need to ‘use’ Stukeley and the utilitarianism of the early antiquaries – the determination to make intellectual, or other capital out of our ancestors. He would have liked to share this perception with Tony, but decided it might be unwise: that, too, might spark something off. In any case, Tony had now turned to other matters and was talking enthusiastically about possible locations for filming.
Kate was at her stiffest. She sat beside Tony in the passenger seat of the car and gave wooden explanations of interesting landscape features. They drove south to Stonehenge and joined several hundred other people busily eroding the Wiltshire topsoil. ‘Those are the Aubrey holes,’ said Kate. ‘And that is the Mycenean dagger, only of course it isn’t really, and that’s the Heel Stone.’ Tony looked despondent and said he doubted if one would ever get anything very effective here. They went back to the car park where Tony suggested ice creams all round. Kate asked for a Neapolitan Nut Bonanza. ‘It’s twenty-five pence,’ she said. ‘Is that all right? I’ll pay.’ ‘Look,’ said Tony, ‘you can have half a dozen if you like. It’s all on the BBC.’ Kate suddenly grinned, and Tom remembered why he loved her.
Back in the car, headed for Avebury, Tony said, ‘I gather he was a bit of a colourful figure, your father? I’ve been talking to a few people and that’s the impression one gets.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Kate, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I don’t know really.’
‘People speak very warmly of him.’
Kate, her neck mottled, appeared much taken with some distant aspect of the scenery.
‘I wondered,’ Tony went on, ‘if you’d like to come on the programme for a few minutes – just talk about him quite informally. You know – how you remember him, that kind of thing.’
‘I’d be hopeless,’ said Kate, in a choked voice. ‘No, really, I’d rather not.’ To one who did not know her, she might have been suffering from reborn grief rather than outrage.
‘I quite understand,’ said Tony respectfully. They drove on in silence.
It was late afternoon when they got back to Avebury, and dusk by the time they had finished there. Kate said, ‘We really ought to be going soon – I don’t want to be too late back in London. Perhaps we should leave Charlie’s Tump for another time.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Tom. ‘He’s got to see it, it was your father’s big dig after all.’ Kate allowed herself to be led back to the car.
By the time they reached the end of the track and left the car in a gateway, to walk the last quarter mile, the light had almost drained away. The landscape was a uniform grey-blue, spiced here and there in the valleys with the lights of a village; the hills lay in long dark curves against a sky that was barely lighter; to the west, an orange ball of a sun hung just above the black copse. The wind poured over the hilltop, making the trees creak; otherwise there was nothing to be heard except the crying of lambs. Tony Greenway said, ‘It’s a barrow, I take it?’ He stood, staring round, hunched into his anorak. Kate explained the dig and its significance. Tony nodded and listened and asked several quite perceptive questions. Tom climbed to the top of the hillock and stood there, looking out over the fields, the valley, the grey soft hills. The place seemed very old, almost uninhabited, and inexpressibly sad. Under his feet was the tumbled stone chamber in which people of impenetrable beliefs had buried their dead; down there in the valley lorries twinkled their way along the A4. This landscape had been
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