A Nest of Nightmares

Phil parked the Mini on the curving gravel drive. ‘No need for you to get out,’ he said. ‘I’ll just pop in and ask.’

I got out anyway, just to stretch my legs and feel the warmth of the late, slanting sun rays on my bare arms. It was a beautiful afternoon. There was a smell of manure on the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant, mingling with the other country smells. I walked towards the hedge which divided the garden from the fields beyond. There was a low stone wall along the drive, and I climbed onto it to look over the hedge and into the field.

There was a man standing there, all alone in the middle of the field. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but something about the sight of that still figure gave me a chill. I was suddenly afraid he would turn his head and see me watching him, and I clambered down hastily.

‘Amy?’ Phil was striding towards me, his long face alight. ‘It’s a lovely room – come and see.’

The room was upstairs, with a huge soft bed, an immense wooden wardrobe, and a big, deep-set window which I cranked open. I stood looking out over the fields.

There was no sign of the man I had just seen, and I couldn’t imagine where he had vanished to so quickly.

‘Shall we plan to have dinner in Glastonbury?’ Phil asked, combing his hair before the mirror inside the wardrobe door. ‘There should still be enough of the day left to see the Abbey.’

I looked at the position of the sun in the sky. ‘And we can climb the tor tomorrow.’

‘You can climb the tor tomorrow morning. I’ve had about enough of all this climbing of ancient hills and monu­ments – Tintagel, St Michael’s Mount, Cadbury Castle, Silbury Hill – ’

‘We didn’t climb Silbury Hill. Silbury Hill had a fence around it.’

‘And a good thing, too, or you’d have made me climb it.’ He came up behind me and hugged me fiercely.

I relaxed against him, feeling as if my bones were melting. Keeping my voice brisk, mock-scolding, I said, ‘I didn’t complain about showing you all the wonders of America last year. So the least you can do now is return the favour with ancient wonders of Britain. I know you grew up with all this stuff, but I didn’t. We don’t have anything like Silbury Hill or Glastonbury Tor where I come from.’

‘If you did, if there was a Glastonbury Tor in America, they’d have a lift up the side of it,’ he said.

‘Or at least a drive-through window.’

We both began laughing helplessly.

I think of us standing there in that room, by the open window, holding each other and laughing – I think of us standing there like that forever.

Dinner was a mixed grill in a Glastonbury café. Our stroll through the Abbey grounds took longer than we’d thought, and we were late, arriving at the café just as the proprietress was about to close up. Phil teased and charmed her into staying open and cooking for two last customers. Grey-haired, fat, and nearly toothless, she lingered by our table throughout our meal to continue her flirtation with Phil. He obliged, grinning and joking and flattering, but every time her back was turned, he winked at me or grabbed my leg beneath the table, making coherent conversation impossible on my part.

When we got back to The Old Vicarage, we were roped into having tea with the couple who ran the place and the other guests. That late in the summer there were only two others, an elderly couple from Belgium.

The electric fire was on and the lounge was much too warm. The heat made it seem even smaller than it was. I drank my sweet milky tea, stroked the old white dog who lay near my feet, and gazed admiringly at Phil, who kept up one end of a conversation about the weather, the countryside, and World War II.

Finally the last of the tea was consumed, the biscuit tin had made the rounds three times, and we could escape to the cool, empty sanctuary of our room. There we stripped off our clothes, climbed into the big soft bed, talked quietly of private things, and made love.

I hadn’t been asleep long before I came awake, aware that I was alone in the bed. We hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains, and the moonlight was enough to show me Phil was sitting on the wide window ledge smoking a cigarette.

I sat up. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘Just my filthy habit.’ He waved the lit cigarette; I didn’t see, but could imagine, the sheepish expression on his face. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

He took one last, long drag and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray. He rose, and I saw that he was wearing his woollen pullover, which hung to his hips, just long enough for modesty, but leaving his long, skinny legs bare.

I giggled.

‘What’s that?’

‘You without your trousers.’

‘That’s right, make fun. Do I laugh at you when you wear a dress?’

He turned away towards the window, leaning forward to open it a little more.

‘It’s a beautiful night . . . Cor!’ He straightened up in surprise.

‘What?’

‘Out there – people. I don’t know what they’re doing. They seem to be dancing, out in the field.’