The Cave (7 page)

‘But today is Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I went to
Larzat to find help. Mrs Galy arranged everything. The car is in the garage being fixed.’

This time, there was no mistaking the look of concern on Brown’s face. ‘They found the car at the side of the road, old chap. The front was all bashed in. Still there, for all I know.’

Turner took up the story. ‘You were lucky. Tree stopped you from going over. People go missing for days. As it happens, a local fellow came upon your car at about three o’clock this afternoon. No sign of you. He was trying to decide what to do, when he saw something up above the road. He couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman. Only that they were wearing a heavy red coat and were calling for help. He went up and found you inside one of the caves. You were out cold, with a nasty knock on your head. You were muttering something about a girl called Marie.’

A wave of memory washed through Freddie’s mind. He closed his eyes.

‘Bring us home,’ he murmured.

‘Rather grisly, though, as it happens,’ Brown was saying. ‘Of all the places to pick, you blundered into some sort of tomb. There were four bodies in there. Been there for some time. Hundreds of years, they are saying.’

Freddie remembered his lunch in the square.
Surely that was Tuesday? He remembered climbing up and finding the rocks piled high in the narrow tunnel. He remembered seeing the four skeletons and the name on the parchment.

His eyes snapped wide open. ‘The papers?’ he said urgently. ‘Are they safe?’

‘Steady on, old chap,’ Brown muttered.

A nurse swept towards the bed. ‘If you upset my patient, gentlemen,’ she said in a sharp voice, ‘I shall ask you to leave.’

Turner held up his hand. ‘Of course, of course.’

‘Did you find the papers?’ Freddie hissed, not caring if she told him off. He had to know.

Brown glanced over his shoulder. ‘They are safe. You were hanging on to them for dear life, saying the girl’s name over and over. You kept on about some date, or so the fellow said.’

Freddie sighed. He remembered: 1328.

‘Turns out to be rather a coup, in fact,’ Brown carried on. ‘They will do tests, of course, but it seems the skeletons are very old indeed. It appears that during the wars of the Middle Ages, around here whole villages took shelter in the caves. Many of the bodies were never found. Those papers might turn out to be a hugely important find. The author had
recorded the names of all those who fled to the mountain, and all those who stayed behind to defend the village.’

‘The Galys, Michel Auty and his sons, the Marty sisters,’ murmured Freddie. He could not explain it, but he was beginning to understand. None of them existed, although once they had. All those living and breathing people had been dead for some six hundred years.

‘And so, here we are,’ Turner said brightly. ‘You were brought to the hospital. They found our names and address in your pocket and got in touch. We drove here as soon as we could.’

Freddie let out a deep breath. ‘And it is still only Monday, you say.’

‘Coming up for midnight.’

‘We should leave you to get some sleep,’ Brown said.

Freddie heard the concern behind his words and was touched by it.

‘Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll square it with the garage. We’ll take care of things. You just think about getting back on your feet. You can’t be too careful with a bump on the head.’

The nurse was hovering in her crisp uniform and stiff white cap. ‘That’s enough now, gentlemen.’

They stood up. Brown slapped him on the
shoulder. Turner went to shake his hand, then thought better of it.

‘We’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘See how you’re doing.’

Brown leaned down. ‘And this girl, this Marie, the one you kept talking about.’ He looked awkward. ‘If you need me to help in any way, money, anything.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Just say the word.’

Freddie smiled. He realised Brown thought he had got himself mixed up in some difficult love affair. In his clumsy way, he was trying to be a good friend.

He shook his head. ‘Not to worry,’ he said softly. ‘She’s long gone.’

‘Jolly good.’ Brown sighed with relief. ‘Good. Very wise, very wise.’

The door swung shut behind them. The nurse returned a few minutes later to tuck him up for the night. Then she, too, left.

At last, Freddie was alone.

Around him, he heard the sounds of the hospital. The squeak of wheels somewhere in a distant corridor. The rubber-soled shoes of the night nurses going to and fro.

He knew he would never speak of this day. No one would believe him. Freddie did not know how it had happened. Nor why it had
happened. He only knew that, for a moment, he had somehow slipped between the cracks in time. And in that instant, between reality and shadow, Marie had come to him. She had sought his help and he had given it.

Was she a ghost?

Perhaps. He thought of the way he had felt hidden eyes on his back as he walked through the woods. He closed his eyes. Marie had asked him to bring their bodies home. She had led him to the cave.

He had kept his word.

An English country garden in October. It was a late summer of warm sun and long days. The world was bathed in the colours of autumn, gold and copper, the deep green of the fir trees.

Wine-coloured leaves were scattered over the grass. Freddie stood with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed. His parents stood beside him. Their local parish priest, an old family friend, stood a little to one side.

Freddie had motored down to his childhood home the evening before. He was due back in town later to meet an editor at a leading publishing house. After his return from France, Freddie had started writing short pieces on French history and travel articles for the newspapers. From time to time, he wrote something more hard-hitting about war or grief or death. The editor had written last week and suggested Freddie might like to put them together into a book.

On the strength of it, Freddie had handed in his notice at the school. He was no longer
content to spend his life in a job he didn’t much like. Since his experiences in France, he was a new man. He wanted to do things, to make his time matter.

Freddie turned to his parents in turn and smiled. All that, a new career, writing, a break with the past, belonged to tomorrow. Today belonged to George. It was 20 October, George’s birthday. He had finally persuaded his parents to accept that George would never be found. But it did not mean they could not remember him.

In front of them stood a simple headstone carved out of grey marble. Shining, bright, the sun glinted off the surface and sent rainbow patterns on to the thick grass. They had chosen the place where George had played as a boy, beneath the trees where the robins and the blackbirds made their nests.

The lettering was plain, giving George’s name, his date of birth and the month and year of his death. They had never known exactly when he fell. Beneath that, carved in block capital letters, was a simple message.

‘We shall not forget.’

At a nod from Freddie, the priest stepped forward and said a few words. He told stories of George as a boy, and described the courage
with which he had gone to war and the tragedy of his death. Beside Freddie, his mother sobbed. He reached out and took her hand.

The priest made the sign of the cross and said the final words of blessing.

‘Amen.’

He stood back. Freddie looked to his father, who gave a brief shake of his head. His mother looked up at him and nodded. He squeezed her hand, then let go.

As he stepped forward, he was thinking of Marie’s gravestone and those of her family in the tiny cemetery in France. Their names, too, would now not be forgotten. History is words carved on stone so that we should remember. Words endure when memories fade into dust.

‘Welcome home, George,’ he said.

In the branches of the tree above his head, the robin began to sing.

Quick Reads are bite-sized books by bestselling writers and well-known personalities for people who want a short, fast-paced read. They are designed to be read and enjoyed by avid readers and by people who never had or who have lost the reading habit.

 

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Patience Thomson
Foreword by Michael Morpurgo

 

Barrington Stoke

 

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