including Ted and Trace. Slightly to Ruth's irritation, Max greets Trace enthusiastically. 'She's been working on the Swaffham site. She's a good archaeologist. Very knowledgeable about the Romans.'
'Mmm.' Ruth's appreciation of Trace's skills is not improved by the fact that she is looking rather stunning in a black T-shirt and black leather trousers. 'Let's go and sit down somewhere,' she says. Her back is killing her.
They sit in the shelter of one of the dunes, eating vegetarian hot dogs. Max has managed to annex one of the better bottles of wine and Ruth is drinking orange juice. Max doesn't comment on her abstemiousness. They talk about the two sites—the Roman excavation and the seventy-five luxury apartments—about the two decapitated bodies, about the Roman gods, particularly Janus, the two-faced God. 'He's also connected to the spring and the harvest,' says Max. 'He's not just the god of doorways but of any time of transition and change, of progression from one condition to another.'
'Is that because he can look backwards and forwards at the same time?'
'Yes, it also helped him pursue women, the nymph Carna, for example.'
'Did he catch her?'
'Yes, and in return for her favours he gave her power over all door hinges.'
Ruth laughs. 'So, instead of WD40 we should pray to Carna?'
'It's worth a try.'
Max pours more wine but Ruth has caught sight of a modern nymph, walking towards them across the sand. Shona, wearing a shawl and a flowing purple dress, accompanied by a very unwelcome acolyte—Phil.
'Ruth! What are you doing skulking here?'
Skulking, thinks Ruth, getting to her feet, is really a very unattractive way of putting it. She had been feeling rather good, lounging on the sand beside a good-looking and intelligent man. Now she feels foolish and somehow rather disreputable.
'Hallo, Ruth,' says Phil, too loudly. This is the first time Ruth has seen him in Shona's company. This evening must represent some sort of 'coming out' as a couple. No wonder Shona looks so triumphant.
'Hallo, Phil,' says Ruth warily. 'You remember Max Grey from Sussex? He's the archaeologist in charge of the Swaffham dig.'
'Yes, of course. How are you? Glad Ruth's looking after you.'
This remark, like Shona's, serves to make the whole evening seem ridiculous. Who is Phil to say that Ruth is 'looking after' Max? Why does he need looking after, anyhow?
'I'm having a wonderful time,' says Max, making things slightly better.
'I've got no time for all this hippie nonsense,' says Phil, 'but Malone is a friend of Shona's.'
'Malone?'
'Catweasel or whatever he calls himself.'
'Cathbad,' says Ruth between gritted teeth.
'I hear he's an ex-archaeologist,' says Max.
'Years ago,' says Phil dismissively. 'He works as a lab assistant now. He's one of the airy-fairy type, believes in the symbolic landscape, ley lines, spirits of the ancestors, all that crap.'
Max says nothing. Ruth is pretty sure that he too believes in some of these things but it is in his interests to stay on the right side of Phil, who is partly funding the Roman dig.
It is nearly dark now. The Druids have planted burning torches in the sand and now the capering figures around the bonfire look monstrous and misshapen, their shadows black against the flames. The scent of wood smoke fills the air with acrid sweetness. Ruth realises that she is suddenly very tired. More than anything she wants to be home, in bed, with Flint flexing his claws against the duvet. But she is sure that Max won't want to leave yet. How many more hours will she have to spend watching Cathbad throwing symbolic objects onto the fire? The last one was a University of North Norfolk sweatshirt; she dreads to think what this signifies.
She realises that Shona is talking to her, lowering her voice so that the men won't hear. 'He's promised to leave his wife. What do you think of that?'
'I've heard that one before,' is what Ruth thinks. Aloud, she says, 'Do you think he will?'
'I don't know,'
'Mmm.' Ruth's appreciation of Trace's skills is not improved by the fact that she is looking rather stunning in a black T-shirt and black leather trousers. 'Let's go and sit down somewhere,' she says. Her back is killing her.
They sit in the shelter of one of the dunes, eating vegetarian hot dogs. Max has managed to annex one of the better bottles of wine and Ruth is drinking orange juice. Max doesn't comment on her abstemiousness. They talk about the two sites—the Roman excavation and the seventy-five luxury apartments—about the two decapitated bodies, about the Roman gods, particularly Janus, the two-faced God. 'He's also connected to the spring and the harvest,' says Max. 'He's not just the god of doorways but of any time of transition and change, of progression from one condition to another.'
'Is that because he can look backwards and forwards at the same time?'
'Yes, it also helped him pursue women, the nymph Carna, for example.'
'Did he catch her?'
'Yes, and in return for her favours he gave her power over all door hinges.'
Ruth laughs. 'So, instead of WD40 we should pray to Carna?'
'It's worth a try.'
Max pours more wine but Ruth has caught sight of a modern nymph, walking towards them across the sand. Shona, wearing a shawl and a flowing purple dress, accompanied by a very unwelcome acolyte—Phil.
'Ruth! What are you doing skulking here?'
Skulking, thinks Ruth, getting to her feet, is really a very unattractive way of putting it. She had been feeling rather good, lounging on the sand beside a good-looking and intelligent man. Now she feels foolish and somehow rather disreputable.
'Hallo, Ruth,' says Phil, too loudly. This is the first time Ruth has seen him in Shona's company. This evening must represent some sort of 'coming out' as a couple. No wonder Shona looks so triumphant.
'Hallo, Phil,' says Ruth warily. 'You remember Max Grey from Sussex? He's the archaeologist in charge of the Swaffham dig.'
'Yes, of course. How are you? Glad Ruth's looking after you.'
This remark, like Shona's, serves to make the whole evening seem ridiculous. Who is Phil to say that Ruth is 'looking after' Max? Why does he need looking after, anyhow?
'I'm having a wonderful time,' says Max, making things slightly better.
'I've got no time for all this hippie nonsense,' says Phil, 'but Malone is a friend of Shona's.'
'Malone?'
'Catweasel or whatever he calls himself.'
'Cathbad,' says Ruth between gritted teeth.
'I hear he's an ex-archaeologist,' says Max.
'Years ago,' says Phil dismissively. 'He works as a lab assistant now. He's one of the airy-fairy type, believes in the symbolic landscape, ley lines, spirits of the ancestors, all that crap.'
Max says nothing. Ruth is pretty sure that he too believes in some of these things but it is in his interests to stay on the right side of Phil, who is partly funding the Roman dig.
It is nearly dark now. The Druids have planted burning torches in the sand and now the capering figures around the bonfire look monstrous and misshapen, their shadows black against the flames. The scent of wood smoke fills the air with acrid sweetness. Ruth realises that she is suddenly very tired. More than anything she wants to be home, in bed, with Flint flexing his claws against the duvet. But she is sure that Max won't want to leave yet. How many more hours will she have to spend watching Cathbad throwing symbolic objects onto the fire? The last one was a University of North Norfolk sweatshirt; she dreads to think what this signifies.
She realises that Shona is talking to her, lowering her voice so that the men won't hear. 'He's promised to leave his wife. What do you think of that?'
'I've heard that one before,' is what Ruth thinks. Aloud, she says, 'Do you think he will?'
'I don't know,'
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