then someone laughed, and the noise began again. Michael fidgeted on the doorstep, anxious to be gone. A sound of movement came from inside, and the door opened. Mr Cleever looked out, squinting a little as he adjusted to the dark, and broke into a wide smile of welcome.
"Michael MacIntyre, isn't it? An unexpected pleasure."
"Hello, Mr Cleever. Sarah sent me over . . . to collect some pamphlets . . ."
He trailed off, conscious of the intensity of Mr Cleever's gaze, feeling somehow a little foolish as he stood there on the step, still grass-stained from events on the Wirrim. I should have tidied myself up a bit, he thought.
"Pamphlets . . ." Mr Cleever seemed to have difficulty focusing on the issue himself. "Of course! She can't make it, then?"
"No, she's a bit under the weather."
"I'm sorry to hear it. Well, it's good of you to pop down yourself, Michael. Come in a moment."
"I don't want to bother you if you've got guests." Michael hesitantly moved into the house; Mr Cleever held the door ajar, and closed it as soon as Michael stepped through.
"Good heavens, no bother about it," said Mr Cleever. "Just some old friends. They can wait a minute. Straight down through the house, Michael, to the sitting room. I'll hunt out the pamphlets in a moment."
Michael walked down the narrow hall, with Mr Cleever close behind. The walls were white and adorned with prints of old engravings. They reflected their owner's archaeological interests – Michael caught flashes of standing stones, henges, forts and ruins. The floor was of black and white tiles; aspidistras in large vases took up position in tight corners; and the light was surprisingly poor. Somehow, it all gave off an old-fashioned aura which made Michael feel hemmed-in by history.
They passed a door which must have led into the front room. It had been pulled almost to, but the bright light gleamed round the cracks. A stream of classical music came from inside, yet it seemed to Michael that the volume had been turned low, and that the voices were stilled too.
There was a small sitting room at the end of the hall. Mr Cleever squeezed past Michael and waved him to a chair.
"The pamphlets are upstairs somewhere. I'll fetch them. Would you like a beer while you're waiting?"
Michael was slightly taken aback. It was not something adults asked. The only beers he had tasted were surreptitious ones, bought for him at off-licences by Stephen and some older friends. Still, Mr Cleever was a bachelor; maybe he didn't quite know the score.
He took advantage. "Yes please."
"Excellent." It was only while Mr Cleever was unearthing a bottle from somewhere in the neighbouring kitchen that Michael remembered that his host was sometime youth group leader of Fordrace, and had been known to campaign on the subject of underage drinking. "You old hypocrite," he thought, as he accepted the bottle.
"Won't be a moment," smiled Mr Cleever, and disappeared back into the hall. His footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs.
Michael sat back in his chair and sipped the beer. The sharp smooth earthy tang settled round his tongue and added to his general feeling of unreality. He looked about him, taking little in, waiting for Mr Cleever to return. Above, there was the scuffled sound of movement, but his host did not reappear on the stairs.
An engraving above the fireplace caught his eye. It was the only picture on the wall, caught in an age-darkened gilt frame. It was of the kind he had seen in books, a three-dimensional plan of an historical site, only with odd perspective, and with little figures wearing the costume of another century. There were curly letters – A, B, C, D – next to important bits, and notes to these letters written in ornate handwriting at the bottom of the engraving, but they were too far away for Michael to read.
The site depicted was a burial mound, covered with grass and with its rim set about with stones. Half of it seemed to have fallen in on itself. Men in tall
"Michael MacIntyre, isn't it? An unexpected pleasure."
"Hello, Mr Cleever. Sarah sent me over . . . to collect some pamphlets . . ."
He trailed off, conscious of the intensity of Mr Cleever's gaze, feeling somehow a little foolish as he stood there on the step, still grass-stained from events on the Wirrim. I should have tidied myself up a bit, he thought.
"Pamphlets . . ." Mr Cleever seemed to have difficulty focusing on the issue himself. "Of course! She can't make it, then?"
"No, she's a bit under the weather."
"I'm sorry to hear it. Well, it's good of you to pop down yourself, Michael. Come in a moment."
"I don't want to bother you if you've got guests." Michael hesitantly moved into the house; Mr Cleever held the door ajar, and closed it as soon as Michael stepped through.
"Good heavens, no bother about it," said Mr Cleever. "Just some old friends. They can wait a minute. Straight down through the house, Michael, to the sitting room. I'll hunt out the pamphlets in a moment."
Michael walked down the narrow hall, with Mr Cleever close behind. The walls were white and adorned with prints of old engravings. They reflected their owner's archaeological interests – Michael caught flashes of standing stones, henges, forts and ruins. The floor was of black and white tiles; aspidistras in large vases took up position in tight corners; and the light was surprisingly poor. Somehow, it all gave off an old-fashioned aura which made Michael feel hemmed-in by history.
They passed a door which must have led into the front room. It had been pulled almost to, but the bright light gleamed round the cracks. A stream of classical music came from inside, yet it seemed to Michael that the volume had been turned low, and that the voices were stilled too.
There was a small sitting room at the end of the hall. Mr Cleever squeezed past Michael and waved him to a chair.
"The pamphlets are upstairs somewhere. I'll fetch them. Would you like a beer while you're waiting?"
Michael was slightly taken aback. It was not something adults asked. The only beers he had tasted were surreptitious ones, bought for him at off-licences by Stephen and some older friends. Still, Mr Cleever was a bachelor; maybe he didn't quite know the score.
He took advantage. "Yes please."
"Excellent." It was only while Mr Cleever was unearthing a bottle from somewhere in the neighbouring kitchen that Michael remembered that his host was sometime youth group leader of Fordrace, and had been known to campaign on the subject of underage drinking. "You old hypocrite," he thought, as he accepted the bottle.
"Won't be a moment," smiled Mr Cleever, and disappeared back into the hall. His footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs.
Michael sat back in his chair and sipped the beer. The sharp smooth earthy tang settled round his tongue and added to his general feeling of unreality. He looked about him, taking little in, waiting for Mr Cleever to return. Above, there was the scuffled sound of movement, but his host did not reappear on the stairs.
An engraving above the fireplace caught his eye. It was the only picture on the wall, caught in an age-darkened gilt frame. It was of the kind he had seen in books, a three-dimensional plan of an historical site, only with odd perspective, and with little figures wearing the costume of another century. There were curly letters – A, B, C, D – next to important bits, and notes to these letters written in ornate handwriting at the bottom of the engraving, but they were too far away for Michael to read.
The site depicted was a burial mound, covered with grass and with its rim set about with stones. Half of it seemed to have fallen in on itself. Men in tall
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