October skies

The people we are travelling with — I know nothing about the tenets of their faith. It seems so strict and very much apart from the churches I know. The women folk of Preston’s curious style of Mormonism appear obliged to be bound head to foot in modest clothing, with only their faces revealed. The men are all compelled to wear beards, clipped from their mouths, but left untrimmed beneath their chin, long enough to hide a fist within.

And what a hold he appears to have on them. That he can throw away the Bible and their Mormon book and start over… and they will take whatever he decides to write, as gospel?

He looked up from his journal, across at the dark outlines of the Preston party’s wagons.

I find that disturbing.

CHAPTER 11

Saturday

Blue Valley, California

Rose studied a scanned page from the journal on her laptop. ‘It’s so weird.’

Julian looked up from the diner’s very short, single-sided menu. ‘What?’

‘He just seems so… I don’t know, so… it’s like this journal was written yesterday.’

‘Because it’s not all “yea” and “forsooth” and “verily”?’

Rose nodded. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’

‘Diaries and journals are informal. They’re usually the most intimate of historical records. No one writes a diary thinking it’s going to be read by anyone else, let alone some historian from the future. It’s personal, and a much closer and more reliable record of a person’s life than any census or public document.

‘When I was a researcher for the BBC–Christ — ten years ago now,’ Julian continued, looking down the menu once more, ‘I went through loads of unearthed correspondence from Roman soldiers, dug out along Hadrian’s wall — amazing stuff that could’ve been written by squaddies serving in Iraq; lads asking their mums for extra pairs of underwear, for soap. The language that normal people use and the things that fill their everyday lives, what concerns them… none of that ever really changes. I love that about history.’

The waitress came over with her pad flipped open and ready to go. ‘What’ll you have?’

Julian puffed and bit on his lip for a moment before looking up at her with a hopeful smile. ‘I don’t suppose you got anything along the lines of a lasagne or a-’

She sighed. ‘Just what’s on the menu, sir.’

He nodded, suitably chastened. ‘Oh. Then, um… a Ranch Burger, please.’

Rose waited until she’d finished scribbling. ‘And I suppose I better have the caesar salad,’ she said.

‘Another drink with yer meals?’

Julian looked at Rose. ‘Another couple of beers?’

‘Why not? The last lot went down easily.’

Rose watched her go before looking back at her laptop, perched on the small table between them in their cosy corner booth. ‘We’ve got all the pages digitised now?’

Julian nodded. ‘I flicked through and scanned them last night. The Lambert journal is now tucked safely away, sealed, dry and covered. Grace would approve, I’m sure. And very soon it’ll make a nice exhibit for some local museum.’

‘That’s a relief. Knowing how clumsy you can be, Jules, I had visions of you spilling coffee all over it, or something.’

Julian grinned. ‘The ole girl would skin me alive.’

Rose nodded. ‘She would that.’

Julian looked around the bar, empty except for a couple of young men shooting pool on the far side, away from the booths. A TV behind the counter was on FOX News. They were covering the Reagan Presidential Library debate; six candidate hopefuls for the Republicans were slugging it out between them.

‘I think he sounds really sweet.’

‘Who?’

‘This bloke, Benjamin Lambert.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for a dead guy?’

She smiled. ‘He comes across as tender, sensitive. I like that.’

Rose had come across very few men in her life thus far that she could genuinely describe as tender and sensitive. None that had seen past her falsely confident cheeriness, and sensed the insecurity inside. Not even Julian, who seemed to know her so well; not even he sensed she felt like an ugly duckling amongst the glamorous production assistants and floor managers and other media muppets that swanned around their world.

Rose knew Julian thought highly of her. Respected her talent, trusted her judgement. In fact she was certain most of the male professionals she interacted with on a regular basis were quietly impressed with her techie talk and media savviness, but beyond that saw nothing more than a plain-Jane struggling to stay in a size twelve.

‘I’m no glamorous Paris Hilton,’ she’d moaned once.

‘Sod that. You’re the most talented filmmaker I’ve ever worked with,’ Julian had replied sincerely.

Just what an ugly duckling needs to hear.

The waitress returned with their food and drinks, deftly dealing them out with a cheerless smile. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said in a flat tone, and was gone.

Rose speared a leaf of lettuce with her fork whilst looking at Julian’s plate. ‘God, I wish I could eat that sort of crap and stay whippet-thin like you.’