As he opened the gate he thought he smelt tobacco smoke. The air was heavy and humid. If someone had been up here smoking during the afternoon perhaps the smell would linger on that air for many hours. The two great comb-shaped shadows lay spread, between the stones and out beyond. Stephen walked along the shadow and caught it again, the whiff of smoke. The feeling of being alone up here had left him and now he turned back sharply to see who was following him.
The plain was deserted. Stephen blinked and closed his eyes against the dazzlement of the sinking sun. He turned away again and looked with screwed-up eyes towards the far end of the avenue and as he did so a figure moved out from behind the broad protection of the Giant and stood against the sky, the sun’s rays gleaming on it with a brassy sheen. It was the figure of a very tall man with a bush of dark hair, a bearded man who wore dark trousers and a white or very pale sweater that the sun had dyed a fiery gold.
Stephen remained still. The man took the cigarette from between his lips, but instead of dropping it and treading it out, pinched it in his fingers and put the end into his pocket.
He began to walk down the avenue, between the bars of shadow. Stephen drew in his breath in a hiss. He went forward to meet the advancing figure, the godlike, bearded, golden figure, who was coming towards him down the aisle of a druids’ cathedral.
The voice rang out like a bell. ‘Stephen!’
It was part of the ritual, the magic, that this man in the pale loose aran, this man who was taller than Ian Stringer, taller even than Dadda, should know his name and address him by it. But Stephen himself couldn’t speak. He simply stared and walked.
‘I thought it was you. I reckon I still know your walk after all these years.’ A long brown hand went up to the mass of disguising beard, the curly hair. ‘You don’t know me, do you, under all this? Peter. Peter Naulls.’
19
They sat on the Altar, watching the sun go down. It lay like a crimson ball on the horizon but only after it had sunk did the sky turn red, as red as the heart of a fire. Peter lit a cigarette, pushed the wooden matchstick deep into the earth.
‘I used to dream about Vangmoor while I was on my travels,’ he said. ‘It gets you that way if you’ve been brought up here. I’ve been all round the world, walking mostly, going on buses, getting lifts, but the longer I was away the more I got to thinking about the moor and — well, missing it.’
‘How long were you away?’ Stephen asked.
‘Years. I lived in Kathmandu, in the place they call Freak Street, for two years. I was a freak, I was all spaced out, I can tell you. There was a doctor there, he reckoned I’d die if I went on the way I was, so I came home. I’ve even got a job.’
‘Here?’ Stephen hazarded.
‘In London. Hospital porter. Christ, Stephen, I sometimes wish I’d been bred up to a trade like you. What use is an English degree?’
Stephen looked at him in wonder. ‘When did you come back from — Kathmandu?’
‘Christmas, it must have been.’
‘They’ve taken your picture away at Uncle Leonard’s. Last time I was there it was gone.’
‘Like I’m dead to them? You didn’t think I stayed with them when I came up here, did you?’
‘You could stay with me,’ Stephen said.
‘You’re married, aren’t you?’
Stephen shook his head vehemently. ‘I’d like you to stay with me. I’ve got a big empty house, all those empty rooms. Whenever you want to come up to the moor you can always stay with me.’
It was a sidelong glance Peter gave him, one eyebrow raised. ‘I’ve got a place to stay.’
‘With me it wouldn’t cost you anything. You could come and go as you liked, you’d be free.’
Peter didn’t really answer that. He said, ‘There’s a girl I know in Loomlade, we’ve known each other since we were kids. It’s her I come up to see.’ He got up. ‘Let’s go. It’ll be dark soon and I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.’
‘But we’ll meet again, won’t we?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
They walked along the avenue together. Stephen asked when Peter was going back. Sunday, not till Sunday. He wanted to ask about the girl, he wanted to ask if she had long fair hair, but he didn’t quite dare so he asked her name instead.
‘Stella. Stella Crane. Her dad keeps the electrical shop. You and me, when we were kids, we went in there once and bought a torch battery. Remember?’
Did he remember! Stephen’s heart was full. He began to laugh with joy. He had to stand still and hold his sides, he was laughing so much.
‘What’s so funny?’ Peter was looking at him oddly again, looking him up and down.
‘I’m so happy,’ Stephen gasped. ‘Lord, I’m so happy it just makes me laugh, I don’t know why. It’s so terrific to see you, it’s amazing. It’s what I needed, d’you understand me?’
‘I don’t know that I do.’ Peter closed the gate, stood at the point where the path divided, one branch descending the fell to Chesney, the other curving away over Foinmen’s Plain. He said rather awkwardly, ‘It’s been good seeing you, Stephen.’
‘Ring me before you go back? Say you will. I’m in the book.’
‘Sure. Sure, I will, Stephen.’
‘We mustn’t lose sight of each other again.’ Stephen put out his hand. He didn’t know quite why he had done this, whether he expected Peter to shake it or hold it, and perhaps it was as well Peter didn’t seem to see that outstretched hand in the gathering dusk. For a moment, though, it seemed to him that he had put out his hand in order to hold onto Peter and stop him going away. ‘Good night,’ he said, and wistfully, repeating himself, ‘We’ll meet again?’
Walking away, Peter laughed. His voice came very clear in the windless twilight. ‘You know where to find me. Good night.’ He looked back once and gave Stephen a wave. Stephen watched him until he was out of sight, and that was for a long time, for the Plain stretched more or less fiat to the east of Ringer’s Foin and in the dusk Peter’s white sweater showed up as a moving glimmer.
They hadn’t mentioned the mine or Apsley Sough. That was because they hadn’t needed to, Stephen thought, or because what it meant to both of them was too deep for words at this their first meeting. Besides, Peter had referred to it. He couldn’t have done so more delicately and subtly than by speaking of the day they had bought that torch battery in Crane’s shop, the very day, Stephen remembered and knew Peter remembered too, when they had found the entrance to the mine. Perhaps Peter had been wise in refusing to come and stay in his house. Houses only trammelled people like them. It was up here in the open that such as they must meet. Probably Peter would phone him tomorrow. He would phone and then they would go to the mine together.
With nightfall the rain began again. It was a slow steady fine rain. Stephen went up to his bedroom, remembering that ‘first thing’ in the morning the police were due to search the house. On the foot of his bed, on the turned-back covers, was Harriet Crozier’s handbag.
Slowly he emptied everything out of it onto the sheet. Every object was quite small, the largest item being Harriet’s notebook and that was no more than six inches by four. Stephen reflected. He couldn’t burn the things, there were no fireplaces in the house. Nor would he dare put the things in his dustbin. Lyn had probably asked her mother to send the rest of her clothes on to her but as yet Mrs Newman hadn’t put in an appearance to do this and a great many of Lyn’s possessions remained in the house. Stephen hesitated for a moment longer and then he put the empty handbag with Lyn’s three handbags, the lipstick and eye liner in the drawer with Lyn’s make-up, and the coins with the loose change in his own trouser pocket. Why not carry the rest of the things on him tomorrow? They would search the house but they wouldn’t search him.