'Wish this lady was still around, Diane She'd get us organised all right.'
Diane handed him his tea and said nothing.
'Ever heard of the Watchers of Avalon, Diane?'
'Sort of. The group she founded to defend Britain against Nazi black magic in World War Two?'
'I believe that,' Woolly said. 'Everybody goes on about the V-2 or whatever it was being the Nazis' secret weapon, but the secret secret weapon was heavy-duty magic. They were well into it. Now the Watchers, they were all over Britain, but they all concentrated on the Tor at certain prearranged times and like pooled their energy. Really heavy. A real reservoir of psychic power to keep the enemy out.'
'The Tor's a very powerful beacon,' Diane said. A few weeks ago, all this would have sent her into overdrive, but this morning, everything felt so dull and stagnant.
'Some people say the Watchers of Avalon are still around, you know. Not the original ones, like, but magical adepts who've picked up the banner. What I wanner know- is, if they are around, what the hell they doing about this fuckin' road? Right,' Woolly rubbed his hands together. 'Got your notebook?'
'I've got a good memory. Oh gosh!'
'Huh?'
'Nothing. It's OK.'
What if Colonel Pixhill and John Cowper Powys were involved with DF in the Watchers of Avalon? Pixhill first came to Glastonbury in the War – while recovering from his wounds in fact. Was that how the three got together?
'OK,' Woolly said. 'Gimme a sec to get my head together. Everything'll be cool.'
'Everything will be cool,' repeated a voice as smooth as cashmere 'Is this a cartographer's convention, Diane, or have I wandered into a timewarp?'
Woolly spun round in alarm.
Dark overcoat, briefcase, gloves. Diane's brother Archer in his city clothes.
'Leaving early to catch my train to London,' Archer said.
'Saw the lights. The sign said Closed but the door was slightly open. So I took the liberty of walking in.'
Woolly dived at his maps like a maniac, gathering them to his chest. The one held down by the table legs ripped in two places.
'Not inconvenient, I trust,' Archer said.
Young Paul, who thought even anoraks were a little avant garde, was wearing a sleeveless pullover in maroon. He was waving his arms about.
'Swear to God, Sam, I'm coming back from the Avalon Internet Group at Dean Wiggin's flat, I'm taking a short cut across the car park… and there she is. Got three, four spray cans and she's going at it like a loo… like mad.'
'Painting her van? At night?' Sam leaned back in his favourite director's chair, legs stretched out, hands behind his head. 'You don't by any chance take hallucinogenic drugs at meetings of the Avalon Internet Group?'
Paul looked insulted. The kid didn't even drink; his idea of hard drugs was extra-strong mints.
'Sam, I saw it.'
Sam needed to think about this. He'd been in the print-shop since seven, no need to be here, wasn't expecting Diane cracking the whip or anything. The Avalonian dummy was more or less in the can, just waiting for the interview the guy with the dog was doing with the bishop. So no sleep lost over The Avalonian.
Just Diane?
Daft eh? Found he couldn't sleep for ages last night, through… not exactly worrying about her. Trying to puzzle her out. Track down her motivations. Odd, that. Never lost a wink of sleep over Charlotte or the row with his dad. Or even getting arrested over the sabbing, come to that. Probably the last time was the fox cub. Six nights feeding the little guy with a dropper – seven, eight years ago, this must be, a hunt orphan from Pennard's land.
Nearly got himself snatched by that bastard, Rankin – Hughie Painter shouting, Leave it, Sam, they'll see your face.
He couldn't do that.
Rufus. Cute little guy. Still had that sweet, puppy smell. Used to fall asleep on Sam's knees. He'd cried like a baby into his pillow the night Rufus died.
'OK, Paul,' Sam said. 'You don't mention this to a soul.'
'No, Sam.'
'Good boy.' Sam sat up in his director's chair, Beyond puzzlement this time
Verity arose at seven-thirty and made a point of not putting on any lights, doing her tenebral breathing as she found her way through the shadows to the kitchen.
Although it was the youngest and least museum like part of the house, the Victorian kitchen was depressing in its own way. Those tall, dark stained, fitted dressers leaving hardly any wall visible. Knotted, exposed wiring crawling along two beams like varicose veins. The water pipes coiling in the shadows, making intestinal noises.
In the drab stillness, the telephone rang just after eight a.m., rattling the plates on the dresser, the combined sound somehow reminding Verity of the shrill, protesting warble of the fire engines trapped in Wellhouse Lane, less than half a mile away, while poor Mr Battle had burned to death.
She picked up the receiver sharply.
It was Dr Grainger; he came straight to the point.
'Verity, I've been thinking about this a good deal. Also discussing it, in confidence, with my partner, the psychotherapist Eloise Castell. Bottom line is, if you are going to gain any benefits from our work together, we need to get around to some corrective therapy for the house itself.'
'Yes, but Dr Grainger, I don't…' He was suddenly a runaway force in Glastonbury. The publication of his book. Embracing the Dark, had been brought forward to coincide with the Winter Solstice, the shortest, darkest day, and the Sunday Times had done an article on him for its colour magazine.
But she really couldn't have him tampering with the fabric of Meadwell.
'I would like to check this out soonest. Verity. Specifically the old well itself.'
'But you can't get to the well. It's sealed up, Dr Grainger. Concreted over. Because of contamination. There was a… a health risk.'
'Precisely. The sealing of the well put the house into a state of denial. What you have there is a vital subterranean artery you can no longer access. I say vital, because this was the reason for the house being built in this location. Could we say tomorrow? Eleven a.m.?'
'Oh, but I…' Verity frantically fingering her wooden beads. 'I would need to consult the Trust.'
And I'm afraid to. Because I don't know who controls the Trust ant more or to what extent it still honours the Colonel's wishes.
'Verity,' he said with heavy patience 'I ran into Oliver Pixhill last night. We discussed the problem at some length. Oliver is concerned about your situation. He wants to help you. He said to me, go ahead.'
'Go ahead?'
'And unblock the Meadwell.'
Afterwards, Verity, who had not been down to the old well in years, felt so jittery that she was obliged to take a measure of Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy before she was even able to leave the oppressive kitchen.
Archer stood in the doorway exuding Presence; Diane wondered if this was something they taught you at Conservative Central Office, how to walk into a room and dominate everybody or perhaps he'd just had lessons from Father.
'Councillor Woolaston.' Archer smiled, managing to make Diane feel as though he'd discovered her and Woolly dancing in the nude.
Woolly shoved roughly folded maps under his arm to shake hands. Archer said, 'I suspect we'll be seeing a good deal of each other in the years to come. Or perhaps not.'
'If you get elected,' Woolly said. Diane glanced at him; wasn't like Woolly to be so abrasive. He must have been very startled.
She saw Archer's full mouth develop a petulant twist, swiftly straightened. Too swiftly – as if he'd been studying his less appealing expressions on video, with a view to strangling them at birth.
'Quite,' Archer said pleasantly. 'Look, I don't want to intrude on you, Diane, if…'
''s OK,' Woolly said hurriedly. 'I was just off. Got this site-meeting out at Meare in half an hour. Catch you again, Diane.'