The town we were
working in was best viewed at night, though perhaps not one like
this.
The boats rocked in the
harbour, sprayed down by the rain that was slowly building up
momentum. The radio had apologised for this, and reassured people
that the second they heard that better weather was on the horizon
that we would know about it.
We had decided to go
the local pub. A maze of rooms over two stories, thick dark wood and
long tables. We were divided into the groups we would largely be
working in, and so I found myself facing my team directly, eight
pairs of eyes looking me over. It was a far more intimate
interrogation than the tent, and I was not really in the mood for it.
But still they seemed
earnest enough, and were willing to be led through the usual series
of conversations without resisting too much. I got their names out
of them, and a little about themselves, and before too long everyone
was sitting there with a drink, and conversations were flying around
them the twos and threes chatting independently and amongst
themselves to the rhythm of the pub chat.
However one of them had
decided that I had not given enough away about myself up until that
point, and so I was dragged away from my reverie by a question.
'So, what are you going
to miss about home?'
She had raven hair, and
a precise way of holding herself. She did not look at you, she
scanned you. That is the only way to describe seeing a person's
first impression of you form beneath their features. That was Dee, a
constant re-evaluation.
'I can't answer that
yet,' I offered, 'I haven't been away long enough.' She smiled
slightly at this, and was seemingly satisfied. Her gaze shifted to
the next person, and the conversation carried around. After a few
minutes the weight of the conversation was lifted from her, and she
leant back. After a few moments the rhythm in her head took over,
her foot started to tap against the table leg and her shoulders
swayed. Gently at subtly at first, and then – believing herself
unobserved – she danced in earnest.
The talk then turned to
two pint topics, at least for those of us that weren't dancing. The
lights outside were completely extinguished now, and the subjects
grew more severe. The normally poisoned chalices of religion and
politics were discussed openly, as the camps had not yet divided.
The process was engaging to watch, the speaker would exposit their
own view, and whatever it was would draw nods and the occasional
interruption from their supporters or apologists, and silent respect
from their detractors.
Though when one of the
students took up the conversation, and then ran with it, there was
clear dissent from another. Who sat in absolute, rigid silence.
Her lips were pursed so tightly that the liquid she defiantly raised
to them was forced to slump back to the bottom of the glass.
Defeated.
If indeed the crucifix
had not given her away, the clear drop in the temperature of the room
should have clued the boy in. Though I agreed philosophically with
him, her silence coupled with the bluster with which the larger man
fumbled over ideas borrowed, overheard and not comprehended, made me
take the side of the slight figure. Her silent offence was
restrained, locked within her seemingly impenetrable bun of hair.
Though I could not fully hate a man so comically unaware of the
offence he was causing, I made no attempt to jump to his aid.
It was not as though I
was the only one to notice, the atmosphere in the room was pulled
tight by the diatribe. If he posited much more, there would be a
chair lodged firmly in his face. Even Dee had shot him a glance that
would break a lesser man, or any man who understood to hold his
tongue. He probably though that the stare had nothing to do with
him.
Eventually, he lets the
subject drop with a final swill of his beer, stands, and slides
himself through the thin room and towards the toilet. The
conversation was left brutalised in his wake, and as he pushed his
way through the thin room I struggled to find a way to combat the
silence.
'What a jackass,' came
from the offended woman, breaking the pressure that she had been
under, and causing everyone else to tense up.
I was saved by Hope.
Who slid along the bench next to me, and clunked her drink down
dramatically to show that it was empty.
'Hello grumpy.' She
chimed, the alcohol bringing her devious side out, scanning the
tension at my table. She smiled broadly at the tension already
apparent in the group, and was immensely happy with it. I knew
instinctively that hers would be in the bar somewhere performing team
building exercises, or proposing marriage. 'How are your little
minions coming along?'
'Now give us time,
there is no way we can have broken him in yet.' The shot came from
the blonde, tiny, mouth in the corner. She had insisted that her
name was Cleo, which did not appear on any of my lists for these
eight. Process of elimination meant that I knew who she was meant to
be, and after a little investigation she confessed to her given name.
That incident should have been my first indication that this lady
was trouble, and the easy rapport that she was developing with Hope
told me that I would have to watch her closely. Hope could get away
with such aspersions on my character, this lady had not earned an
iron tight grip on my leash.
'Delicious', she
swilled the liquid around in her glass to emphasise her approval. 'I
think they have got the measure of you already.'
Now, I am a reasonable
man, I could have taken that slur on my character had Dee not been
nodding emphatically. To her credit, she stopped at my glare, but
laughed at the wall.
'Come on now,' said
Hope, her arm was suddenly crooked around mine and I was hauled to
the bar. 'I need to borrow you, and your wallet...'
Having bought her
another drink, I was summarily borrowed to the doorway. The rain
still hammering the boats in the harbour, bright sheets sweeping in
the wind, cast in gold in the glow of the street lights, the odd
miserable figure zipping through the view to the nearest cover. This
view, pretty as it was, could mean only one thing.
'Yup, the site will be
a fucking pool by now.' She said it calmly, but with a healthy
respect for how serious the situation could get.
'Well, it's not as
though we can do anything about it.' My pint glass had suffered in
the last wave of rain, and I committed the freezing water within it
to the gutter.
'The first day of a
dig, and we will probably be sitting around playing cards.' She
summed up the situation well, but there was one thing that she had
not considered.
'Oh really? Do you
think that the tents are still standing?'
Her face was perfect,
dropping with the thought, her head beating the brickwork with the
knowledge of what we had to do now.
'If mine isn't, I'm
having yours.'
We decided to leave
them drinking and take a look at the camp site. I went back for my
jacket and emerged with Dee in my wake.
She had spotted me
making to leave, and since the tensions in the group had not properly
resolved themselves, had decided that a swift getaway would be
preferable. If the tents had fallen, an extra hand would be useful.
With hindsight I should have bought them all back, the tents were
faring badly in the wind and there was no guarantee that any of them
would last the night.
For the time being,
only one had fallen, and its occupant was already busy fixing it.
His voice carried across the field with the wind, and he called to us
cheerfully as we hopped the fence. As we got close to the sad
deflated tent, he emerged, cutting some string with his teeth.
In minutes we had
arranged for a kettle to be fired up and for a few student to aid in
pinning down the more unruly parts of the tent. This done, he
happily strode around the outside, smacking the pegs deep into the
sodden earth. Eventually the structure steadied itself, and when we
gingerly backed away it was content to lurch with the wind in
imitation of its neighbours. We gathered in the large mess tent to
celebrate. Drinking tea around this poor unfortunate's gathered
belongings. All holding steaming mugs and talking happily, and
loudly about the end of this roaring wind and rain.
It was fast approaching
midnight. A few students had tried to get some sleep, but had
returned to the singing kettle, shivering against the warmth that the
tea offered.
Hope and I were
discussing the next day feverishly. Could they get up later? Do a
half day? Discussing plans that could be bought into play if this
rain lasted into the next morning.
Ultimately our council of war would be fruitless. Decisions would be
left to those who would not arrive until too late the next morning to
put their grand ideas into play. We would be left with disappointed
and angry students, and no way to appease them.
The conversation made us feel better, proactive in the face of the
deluge that was rapidly turning the work to mulch.
If we let it, this rain would ruin everything. We knew it, and under
canvas we could hear the rain renewing its assault on the ground.
By one, the last few stragglers had succumbed, and not returned from
their last attempts to get some sleep. We presumed they were alive
and so retired the kettle, which simmered faithfully down to await
the rush of the morning. Without the burners we were left with the
roar of the wind, and the shake and shimmy of the large tent against
it. It was a bitterly cold noise, for a bitterly cold night. Once
outside however, the weather did not feel that bad.
Arm in arm we made for the tents that shivered miserably ahead of us.
'There is no way that this rain can hold out for much longer,' she
turned an eye to the sky and surveyed it suspiciously.
Once we had said our good nights and sealed ourselves inside the
small brightly coloured cocoons, the clocks were fast approaching
two. It would be a relatively early night for me on this project,
and the slow drumbeat of rain above my head was a poor omen.