The Whirling Girl Read Free Page B

Excited now, pointing out how the horseshoe shape of the cliff brought it into perfect view of the house above. “That is the essential element for an Etruscan city of the dead — in view of the habitation of the living.”
    What a strange activity for a child.
    â€œShall we carve the entrance of a rock-tomb, like the drawing I showed you?” Dark hair falling in his face as he set down the fishing gear. What child wouldn’t enjoy feeling singled out, special? What child wouldn’t delight in taking turns with his fish knife to carve an elaborate house-front into clay, then being hoisted onto his shoulders so she could cut stick figures on the triangle shape above the columns? But as she’d wriggled down and begun to hollow out a true entrance between the columns, he’d grabbed her back, scolded her. Yes the Etruscans had carved tombs deep into the living rock, but this was only clay. It would be dangerous to burrow in there.
    In deeper now, when it turns out she isn’t special after all. Burrow deeper still! The hot sun baking the outer clay, the blood roiling through her brain as she carves her way to darkness, hacking out great reckless chunks with the stolen butcher knife.
    Eventually she hears him calling. So what? She will live here. In the night she will bring blankets, a camp stove, food.
    When she feels the down-rush of dusty earth, it is too late to call out or do anything but curl up like a snail and wonder, almost triumphant, if perhaps she will not be found till centuries later. Will she be fossilized by then, the clay turned to limestone at last, her curled body too?
    What she smells next is his fear. Sharp as a knife it cuts a channel ahead of him, the stink of it. She keeps her eyes closed after he gets her free. He collapses to his knees outside, crushing her tightly to him, saying, “Jesus Jesus Jesus.” Her hand creeps to his armpit. She breathes his fear from her fingers, and the smell of love and almost-death. There will never be anything, ever, to match that moment.

Adonis Flower
    CLARE WOKE; THE BUTCHER of Florence had not battered down her doors in the night.
    On chill air from outside flowed the scent of grass and herbs. The woods were loud with birdsong; in her sleep she had pictured a tap suddenly opened, a faucet pouring out melody and birds. A cuckoo started calling. She waited until it reached fifty, then swung her feet out of bed, felt the chill of the terracotta tile, slipped barefoot into her boots, pulled the hunting coat around her shoulders and walked onto the stone balcony beneath the wisteria arbour.
    Light rushed across the valley, springing the far hills into view. As she leaned on the railing, she imagined being on the prow of a ship, the house racing towards morning.
    She turned to close the glass doors. An envelope fell to the ground from the scrollwork above the handle.
    THE PAPER WAS CREAMY and stiff, the up-thrusting script so like her uncle’s British boarding-school writing. She retrieved the envelope gingerly.
    An invitation.
    Someone who described himself as the owner of an adjoining property was hosting a party in her honour, that very night. This had been arranged, he wrote, by the “wealthy chap who took you under his wing in London, Sir Harold Plank.” For as Clare was undoubtedly aware, the note went on, “old Harry Plank” had delegated an archaeologist in his employ, a chap who was staying just down the hill, to set up contacts for her.
    â€œOld Harry Plank.” Clare couldn’t help a flush.
    The spiky script went on to explain that “a goodly number of Etruscan glitterati” would also be attending. They were champing at the bit to hear about her fascinating travels, and of course to meet the niece of “the elusive Geoffrey Kane.” Sir Harold Plank had even couriered a carton of Clare’s recent book about the Amazon. Copies had been delivered to each of the expected guests,