the University? You’re a bit old, like.”
“I’m at the University.”
“Aye?”
Raybould settled himself opposite Jerry. Both men watched the engravings.
“I’m reading for a higher degree. Historical research.”
“I like a bit of history.”
“I’m doing a study of lost villages,” Jerry said, seeing Raymould’s interest. He knew he shouldn’t describe his work, since it was a dead bore to anyone but a few historians
“Lost villages? Who lost them?” Raybould was mildly amused. His small features moved closer together, nose to mouth, eyes almost meeting in merriment.
“They got built over, or the ruins sank into the ground during the past thousand years.”
“Aye?”
“If you map their distribution, you get a picture of England as it was in that time.”
“Oh, aye?” said Raybould, now uninterested. He gestured to the thick wall behind the open fireplace. “This is old, you know. A bit of the old castle before it was bombed.”
Jerry’s professional interest was immediately engaged.
“What castle?”
“This! Castle Caff, that’s this place!”
“I know what you call it. But I didn’t know it was a castle!”
No wonder Professor Bruce de Matthieu was opposed to the study he’d been working on. The fat, smarmy-voiced old bastard had been cutting just before Christmas: “All very well writing about Lost Villages, Howard, but isn’t it about time you found one or two?” And here was a bloody castle that he hadn’t known about!
“Aye, well, a sort of castle,” said Raybould. “The Nazis blew it up in the war. Bombed it, like. Blew it to buggery!”
Jerry thought he had misheard when Raybould first referred to a bombing. Now he adjusted mentally. A castle bombed!
“What did they bomb it for?”
“Here’s your sausage, bacon and eggs!” Mrs. Raybould called. “No, stay by the fire—I’ll move this table. Sam!”
Sam obliged and the scent of the food overcame Jerry. They watched him eat for a moment and then Mrs. Raybould crossed to the window.
“You couldn’t see a hand in front of you!” she called. “Telephone lines will be down. And electric. Three days, Sam?”
“About that,” Raybould said to her. He was interested in Jerry’s reaction to his story. “I don’t know why they bombed it. But they did. Only this part were left. And the cellars.”
Jerry glanced down and saw the shifting, enigmatic figures in their eternal frozen dance. A medieval castle right under his nose and he hadn’t known it existed! He might as well get a job now and forget the research. Something simple, like truck-driving. There were perks. Hard-faced Brenda, for one. Or maybe not.
“Is it all right?” asked Mrs. Raybould.
“The best I’ve ever eaten,” said Jerry truthfully. His mouth full of fried egg, he asked Raybould: “When was the castle built?”
Raybould shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”
“It can’t be medieval!”
“Oh no?” said Mrs. Raybould, She changed the subject, “They’ll never get through,” she said. “Her and Bill’s tanker. Never! We’ll have snow for three days. Be a few caught in it on the Peak.”
She didn’t seem particularly unhappy or sympathetic about the prospect. But Jerry’s belly was full, and his mind was drowsily filled with a mild curiosity about the caff. The building could be old, but not seven or eight hundred years old like the other crumbling relics of Henry Plantagenet’s troubled reign. It was too much of an effort to ask any more questions, though. He was amazingly tired.
The door swung open, causing a huge draught that brought a surly belch of flame and smoke into the room. Jerry looked round bewildered and saw the snow-covered slight figure trying to shut the door.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Raybould.
“Well wheer else could we come!” Brenda yelled. “He’s stuck in a sodding drift miles down the Hagthorpe road. I came on. I weren’t staying to freeze out there!”
She made for the fire and stood with the snow turning to big drops of water that fell on to Jerry’s bare feet.
“She’ll have to stay,” said Sam Raybould.
Mrs. Raybould glared and collected the dirty plates. Sam Raybould’s watery eyes were on the girl’s flushed face. There was an intent, feral look on his face.
“I’ll get off to bed, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Raybould,” Jerry said. He hated confrontations, which was why Debbie had gone. She had said as much. Often. He was an intellectual, which meant that when he had to make decisions on ordinary everyday matters like rows, marriage, money, and where to live, he got confused. Debbie didn’t admire this trait. He knew it but refused to admit it to himself; when there were difficulties, he evaded them. She was a girl who took life head on. “All right, Mrs. Raybould?”
She led the way, silently loathing the lorry-girl.
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