my muffeties,’ she said in a squeak laden with good humour. ‘I like to see early risers. Caravan all right, is it?’
This seemed to short-circuit all the conventional possibilities for introducing themselves to someone they were both quite sure they’d never met. Mike shot Gally a startled look.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he said. ‘How did you know, I mean, have we, er . . .?’
She stabbed him in the ribs with a playfully violent finger. ‘Get on with you. You’re Mr and Mrs Martin. ’Course you are,’ as though they needed convincing of it.
‘I’m Mary Sparrow. Anything you want to know, don’t ask me, cos I always get it wrong.’
‘You didn’t get that wrong,’ said Gally. ‘We’re just having a look round to get our bearings.’
‘That’s right, my muffety,’ said Mary, beaming. ‘Looking’s free. You do all the looking you like and if anyone says otherwise, you say I said it was all
right.’ She pointed past the church. ‘Up there. That’s where the battle was.’
‘Battle?’ said Mike. ‘Peonnum, you mean?’
She cocked her head on one side and looked at him. ‘You do what you like on ’em,’ she said, and shrieked with laughter. ‘More like drop rocks on ’em, I expect.
Proper battle, my muffety,’ she went on when the quaking subsided. ‘Seven hundred dead there were. Vikings. That’s what I were always told, but then I expect I’ve got that
wrong too.’ She looked past him. ‘Here’s someone coming as might tell you better, though as often as not he don’t have the time of day for strangers.’
They looked round and Ferney, walking towards them with a touch of leftover stiffness, split the morning into Gally’s delight and Mike’s reserved mistrust.
‘Knows everything there is to know, roundabouts,’ said Mary Sparrow in a stage whisper. ‘And so he should at his age. Eighty something, he is.’
‘Surely not,’ said Gally and looked again at him, at ease moving through his landscape, outlined in bright morning light. His eyes were fixed on her and held her gaze.
‘Mr Miller,’ called Mary. ‘Come and meet these two. They’s new.’
‘I’ve met them already, Mrs Sparrow, thank you.’
He stopped in front of them, gave Mike an almost unnoticeable nod and addressed himself to Gally. ‘How are you this morning?’ he said and smiled.
‘Very well indeed,’ said Gally emphatically, unaccountably glad to see him.
‘Tell them about the battle,’ shrilled Mary Sparrow. ‘Don’t be wasting their time with chat. They’re busy.’
‘No we’re not,’ said Gally. ‘Really.’
‘Go on. Tell ’em about Kenny Wilkins and the seven hundred dead.’
Ferney turned on the old woman in mock rage. ‘Be off with you, Mary. You’ve got it all wrong. I’ll tell them what I like. Go and bother someone else.’
She broke into gales of high-pitched laughter and stumped off. Ferney looked at each of them in turn. The eager kindness with which he gazed at Gally faded to a guarded, closed expression when
he turned to Mike.
‘We were just looking round the village,’ said Gally. ‘Trying to get to know it a bit.’ A flicker of expression seemed to pass over Ferney’s face and she stopped.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, ’course I am,’ he said, rather abruptly. ‘What did that silly old woman tell you?’
‘Just that there was a battle with the Vikings behind the church. Seven hundred dead, she said.’ Gally paused and looked round at Mike, inviting him into the conversation, but he
kept his mouth shut so she went on. ‘Mike wanted to know if that was the famous battle. Peonnum or something.’
‘Well, it was a famous battle all right,’ said Ferney, ‘but not that one. Edmund Ironside and Canute’s Danes, I suppose that was the one she meant. You want to know about
Peonnum – that’s a different business. You have to go up there aways,’ he indicated the lane leading north.
Not on your life, she thought – then immediately, how
This seemed to short-circuit all the conventional possibilities for introducing themselves to someone they were both quite sure they’d never met. Mike shot Gally a startled look.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he said. ‘How did you know, I mean, have we, er . . .?’
She stabbed him in the ribs with a playfully violent finger. ‘Get on with you. You’re Mr and Mrs Martin. ’Course you are,’ as though they needed convincing of it.
‘I’m Mary Sparrow. Anything you want to know, don’t ask me, cos I always get it wrong.’
‘You didn’t get that wrong,’ said Gally. ‘We’re just having a look round to get our bearings.’
‘That’s right, my muffety,’ said Mary, beaming. ‘Looking’s free. You do all the looking you like and if anyone says otherwise, you say I said it was all
right.’ She pointed past the church. ‘Up there. That’s where the battle was.’
‘Battle?’ said Mike. ‘Peonnum, you mean?’
She cocked her head on one side and looked at him. ‘You do what you like on ’em,’ she said, and shrieked with laughter. ‘More like drop rocks on ’em, I expect.
Proper battle, my muffety,’ she went on when the quaking subsided. ‘Seven hundred dead there were. Vikings. That’s what I were always told, but then I expect I’ve got that
wrong too.’ She looked past him. ‘Here’s someone coming as might tell you better, though as often as not he don’t have the time of day for strangers.’
They looked round and Ferney, walking towards them with a touch of leftover stiffness, split the morning into Gally’s delight and Mike’s reserved mistrust.
‘Knows everything there is to know, roundabouts,’ said Mary Sparrow in a stage whisper. ‘And so he should at his age. Eighty something, he is.’
‘Surely not,’ said Gally and looked again at him, at ease moving through his landscape, outlined in bright morning light. His eyes were fixed on her and held her gaze.
‘Mr Miller,’ called Mary. ‘Come and meet these two. They’s new.’
‘I’ve met them already, Mrs Sparrow, thank you.’
He stopped in front of them, gave Mike an almost unnoticeable nod and addressed himself to Gally. ‘How are you this morning?’ he said and smiled.
‘Very well indeed,’ said Gally emphatically, unaccountably glad to see him.
‘Tell them about the battle,’ shrilled Mary Sparrow. ‘Don’t be wasting their time with chat. They’re busy.’
‘No we’re not,’ said Gally. ‘Really.’
‘Go on. Tell ’em about Kenny Wilkins and the seven hundred dead.’
Ferney turned on the old woman in mock rage. ‘Be off with you, Mary. You’ve got it all wrong. I’ll tell them what I like. Go and bother someone else.’
She broke into gales of high-pitched laughter and stumped off. Ferney looked at each of them in turn. The eager kindness with which he gazed at Gally faded to a guarded, closed expression when
he turned to Mike.
‘We were just looking round the village,’ said Gally. ‘Trying to get to know it a bit.’ A flicker of expression seemed to pass over Ferney’s face and she stopped.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, ’course I am,’ he said, rather abruptly. ‘What did that silly old woman tell you?’
‘Just that there was a battle with the Vikings behind the church. Seven hundred dead, she said.’ Gally paused and looked round at Mike, inviting him into the conversation, but he
kept his mouth shut so she went on. ‘Mike wanted to know if that was the famous battle. Peonnum or something.’
‘Well, it was a famous battle all right,’ said Ferney, ‘but not that one. Edmund Ironside and Canute’s Danes, I suppose that was the one she meant. You want to know about
Peonnum – that’s a different business. You have to go up there aways,’ he indicated the lane leading north.
Not on your life, she thought – then immediately, how
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