far more effective, being less inclined to exaggerate the truth and thus avoid awkward, probing questions. In any case, Jack could not abide the skull chamber. When he descended into the room he heard echoes of the running bull and his hackles rose and his concentration drifted. But the skull-room was the gem in the excavation tour, since it belonged to a culture that could not possibly have been present in the country unless brought in under exceptional circumstances.
Towards the end of the summer vacation following Jack’s final school exams, Garth arranged for a trip to the country, supplying a minibus and driver, hampers of food, cold-boxes of wine, beer and mineral water, and such an air of mystery that his invitation was hard to refuse. Jack and his parents, Angela and hers, and three of the students who had been regulars on the Glanum dig crowded into the small van and sang and laughed their way into the hills, into the high hills, and then down to a wooded river site where a tarpaulin was stretched on the ground, and a series of canvas sun breaks slung between branches to create patches of shade in the intensely hot height of the day.
Garth prowled the shallows of the river, black jeans rolled up, feet bare, his heavy arms bronzed, almost as dark as the leather vest he wore. What he was looking for he never said, but continued to hunt the water’s edge while the food and drink he’d provided was consumed with all the enthusiasm and inelegance of a typical picnic. Perhaps he stayed apart from the rest because he was smoking, one cigar after another, the pungency of the fumes hanging heavy over the glade.
Because it was hot, and because they were now very close, and because it was dangerous and they were game for anything, Jack and Angela slipped away from their families and made frantic if furtive love for half an hour, screened by rocks and dense bushes of wild, yellow rose. Hot and sticky, glowingwith achievement and an adolescent sense of triumph in the deception, they dressed and emerged from their hiding place, to find Garth leaning against a tree, smoking, his gaze on the ridge above them, the top of Mallon Hill.
‘We were just, er … we went for a walk,’ Jack said, aware that Angela’s gaze was furious, a clear statement: what the hell are you doing? We don’t have to explain ourselves.
Garth nodded. ‘There’s nothing like it. Nothing like it at all.’ His smile was enigmatic.
Still staring at the ridge, he ground his cigar between thumb and forefinger. ‘Feel like another? Walk, I mean … I’m sure you do. Come on.’ He was wearing patterned, brown leather boots with pointed toes, but covered the uneven ground with as much facility as if he’d been wearing proper hiking boots. Jack, in loose trainers, found the going easy but Angela, in sandals, lagged behind, swearing loudly, and struggling on the hill, whose slope was murderous.
At the top, Garth stripped to the waist. His lean body running with sweat, he stood with his hands on his hips, breathing slowly and deeply. When Angela arrived at the summit she tossed her useless sandals at Jack, sat down and picked at her feet, which were bleeding from several small cuts.
The air was very clear here, without the constricting humidity of the woods by the river. As quickly as she had become angry she became at peace, flopping back to stare at the clouds. Jack, sitting by the tall man, knees drawn up, watched her for a moment, stared at the sweat saturated T-shirt which was clinging to her body as she drew breath to relax, but he was finished with sex for the moment and waited for Garth.
This was not just a walk for walking’s sake.
After a while the man said, ‘Can you see movement out there? I don’t mean the cloud shadow …’
Jack scanned the hills, the woods, the expanse of flowing, open green, sun-saturated, shadow-flecked.
‘Just a flock of birds in the distance. Otherwise, no.’
‘What can you hear? Put your head to the
Towards the end of the summer vacation following Jack’s final school exams, Garth arranged for a trip to the country, supplying a minibus and driver, hampers of food, cold-boxes of wine, beer and mineral water, and such an air of mystery that his invitation was hard to refuse. Jack and his parents, Angela and hers, and three of the students who had been regulars on the Glanum dig crowded into the small van and sang and laughed their way into the hills, into the high hills, and then down to a wooded river site where a tarpaulin was stretched on the ground, and a series of canvas sun breaks slung between branches to create patches of shade in the intensely hot height of the day.
Garth prowled the shallows of the river, black jeans rolled up, feet bare, his heavy arms bronzed, almost as dark as the leather vest he wore. What he was looking for he never said, but continued to hunt the water’s edge while the food and drink he’d provided was consumed with all the enthusiasm and inelegance of a typical picnic. Perhaps he stayed apart from the rest because he was smoking, one cigar after another, the pungency of the fumes hanging heavy over the glade.
Because it was hot, and because they were now very close, and because it was dangerous and they were game for anything, Jack and Angela slipped away from their families and made frantic if furtive love for half an hour, screened by rocks and dense bushes of wild, yellow rose. Hot and sticky, glowingwith achievement and an adolescent sense of triumph in the deception, they dressed and emerged from their hiding place, to find Garth leaning against a tree, smoking, his gaze on the ridge above them, the top of Mallon Hill.
‘We were just, er … we went for a walk,’ Jack said, aware that Angela’s gaze was furious, a clear statement: what the hell are you doing? We don’t have to explain ourselves.
Garth nodded. ‘There’s nothing like it. Nothing like it at all.’ His smile was enigmatic.
Still staring at the ridge, he ground his cigar between thumb and forefinger. ‘Feel like another? Walk, I mean … I’m sure you do. Come on.’ He was wearing patterned, brown leather boots with pointed toes, but covered the uneven ground with as much facility as if he’d been wearing proper hiking boots. Jack, in loose trainers, found the going easy but Angela, in sandals, lagged behind, swearing loudly, and struggling on the hill, whose slope was murderous.
At the top, Garth stripped to the waist. His lean body running with sweat, he stood with his hands on his hips, breathing slowly and deeply. When Angela arrived at the summit she tossed her useless sandals at Jack, sat down and picked at her feet, which were bleeding from several small cuts.
The air was very clear here, without the constricting humidity of the woods by the river. As quickly as she had become angry she became at peace, flopping back to stare at the clouds. Jack, sitting by the tall man, knees drawn up, watched her for a moment, stared at the sweat saturated T-shirt which was clinging to her body as she drew breath to relax, but he was finished with sex for the moment and waited for Garth.
This was not just a walk for walking’s sake.
After a while the man said, ‘Can you see movement out there? I don’t mean the cloud shadow …’
Jack scanned the hills, the woods, the expanse of flowing, open green, sun-saturated, shadow-flecked.
‘Just a flock of birds in the distance. Otherwise, no.’
‘What can you hear? Put your head to the
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