silly.
A mile or more off, rising above the tops of the trees in the direction he indicated was the summit of a tall tower.
‘Is that it? Where that building is?’ asked Gally, knowing only after she’d said it that it wasn’t.
‘That’s Alfred’s Tower.’ Ferney’s tone was derisive. ‘It’s just a modern bit of nonsense. Got nothing to do with Alfred at all. You don’t go that
far. Where you want is Kenny Wilkins’ Camp.’ He was watching her closely and she felt uncomfortable again.
Mike wasn’t interested in the tower or the old man’s directions. ‘Peonnum probably didn’t happen here,’ he said loftily. ‘It was much further west. No one
believes it was here any more.’
Gally’s heart sank at the didactic superiority of his tone. It wasn’t at all what he’d said before. Ferney’s claim had clearly had a perverse effect, moving him to an
opposing view on the matter.
Ferney looked at him mildly. ‘So I’m no one, am I?’ he said. ‘And all the other people round here, they’re no one?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mike cautiously.
‘Everyone born here knows about the battles. Handed down from father to son. Old Kenny Wilkins and all that.’
Until then Mike had been thinking that Kenny Wilkins’ Camp was perhaps some caravan site. He was suddenly struck by a preposterous thought. ‘Kenny Wilkins? You don’t mean
Cenwalch?’
‘Last few hundred years, they’ve called him Kenny Wilkins round here. Easier to remember.’
‘Look.’ Mike was almost lost for words. ‘Cenwalch fought the battle of Peonnum in 658. That’s more than thirteen hundred years ago. Are you saying we should believe
people here
remember
that?’
‘You believe what you like,’ said the old man. ‘All I’m telling you is that’s what people round here have told their children going back generations. They’ve
called him Kenny Wilkins for donkey’s years and they call that place his camp or sometimes his castle, depending on how the mood takes them.’
‘For, let’s see now, sixty generations?’ said Mike incredulously. ‘Cenwalch becomes Kenny Wilkins and that’s supposed to be evidence?’
‘So what’s
your
evidence then?’ asked Ferney, and he smiled at Gally. Gally immediately felt guilty, caught in a cross-fire, her loyalty challenged. She turned away
and began to study the parish noticeboard with seeming interest.
Mike adopted a lofty tone. ‘There’s evidence of West Saxon settlement around Exeter far too soon after 658 for the battle to have been here.’
‘What sort of evidence?’ Ferney insisted.
Mike faltered. ‘Conclusive archaeological evidence,’ he said, and it sounded lame even to him.
Ferney just smiled. ‘You go down Exeter way then and you ask around there. See if they remember Kenny Wilkins.’ He waved dismissively at Mike, turned to go off in a direction which
took him past Gally a few paces away, muttered something to her and walked off without a backward glance.
They headed back towards the house in silence for quite a while then Mike turned to Gally and said, ‘All right then. What have I done?’
‘Well,’ she said judiciously. ‘You
were
a bit snotty.’
‘Snotty?’ he said indignantly. ‘He comes up with all that nonsense and you call
me
snotty?’
‘Who says it’s nonsense? You should listen to people like that.’
‘Folk memories? If historians took folk memories seriously there wouldn’t be any history books and we’d all be making offerings to tree spirits.’
‘Double whammy,’ she said. ‘Both ways there’d be more trees left.’
It was too good a morning to argue and she suddenly felt protective towards Mike, knowing intuitively but without being able to explain it that what he felt towards Ferney was partly
jealousy.
‘Come on, professor,’ she said, ‘I’ll make you some bacon and eggs and you can look through the history books and tell me how long ago they were laid.’
They walked down the road with
A mile or more off, rising above the tops of the trees in the direction he indicated was the summit of a tall tower.
‘Is that it? Where that building is?’ asked Gally, knowing only after she’d said it that it wasn’t.
‘That’s Alfred’s Tower.’ Ferney’s tone was derisive. ‘It’s just a modern bit of nonsense. Got nothing to do with Alfred at all. You don’t go that
far. Where you want is Kenny Wilkins’ Camp.’ He was watching her closely and she felt uncomfortable again.
Mike wasn’t interested in the tower or the old man’s directions. ‘Peonnum probably didn’t happen here,’ he said loftily. ‘It was much further west. No one
believes it was here any more.’
Gally’s heart sank at the didactic superiority of his tone. It wasn’t at all what he’d said before. Ferney’s claim had clearly had a perverse effect, moving him to an
opposing view on the matter.
Ferney looked at him mildly. ‘So I’m no one, am I?’ he said. ‘And all the other people round here, they’re no one?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mike cautiously.
‘Everyone born here knows about the battles. Handed down from father to son. Old Kenny Wilkins and all that.’
Until then Mike had been thinking that Kenny Wilkins’ Camp was perhaps some caravan site. He was suddenly struck by a preposterous thought. ‘Kenny Wilkins? You don’t mean
Cenwalch?’
‘Last few hundred years, they’ve called him Kenny Wilkins round here. Easier to remember.’
‘Look.’ Mike was almost lost for words. ‘Cenwalch fought the battle of Peonnum in 658. That’s more than thirteen hundred years ago. Are you saying we should believe
people here
remember
that?’
‘You believe what you like,’ said the old man. ‘All I’m telling you is that’s what people round here have told their children going back generations. They’ve
called him Kenny Wilkins for donkey’s years and they call that place his camp or sometimes his castle, depending on how the mood takes them.’
‘For, let’s see now, sixty generations?’ said Mike incredulously. ‘Cenwalch becomes Kenny Wilkins and that’s supposed to be evidence?’
‘So what’s
your
evidence then?’ asked Ferney, and he smiled at Gally. Gally immediately felt guilty, caught in a cross-fire, her loyalty challenged. She turned away
and began to study the parish noticeboard with seeming interest.
Mike adopted a lofty tone. ‘There’s evidence of West Saxon settlement around Exeter far too soon after 658 for the battle to have been here.’
‘What sort of evidence?’ Ferney insisted.
Mike faltered. ‘Conclusive archaeological evidence,’ he said, and it sounded lame even to him.
Ferney just smiled. ‘You go down Exeter way then and you ask around there. See if they remember Kenny Wilkins.’ He waved dismissively at Mike, turned to go off in a direction which
took him past Gally a few paces away, muttered something to her and walked off without a backward glance.
They headed back towards the house in silence for quite a while then Mike turned to Gally and said, ‘All right then. What have I done?’
‘Well,’ she said judiciously. ‘You
were
a bit snotty.’
‘Snotty?’ he said indignantly. ‘He comes up with all that nonsense and you call
me
snotty?’
‘Who says it’s nonsense? You should listen to people like that.’
‘Folk memories? If historians took folk memories seriously there wouldn’t be any history books and we’d all be making offerings to tree spirits.’
‘Double whammy,’ she said. ‘Both ways there’d be more trees left.’
It was too good a morning to argue and she suddenly felt protective towards Mike, knowing intuitively but without being able to explain it that what he felt towards Ferney was partly
jealousy.
‘Come on, professor,’ she said, ‘I’ll make you some bacon and eggs and you can look through the history books and tell me how long ago they were laid.’
They walked down the road with
Similar Books
