Crow Stone. Jenni Mills
ammonites. We looked in the index, and bingo.’
I took a bite of my sandwich. ‘It looks great,’ I said, through a mouthful of ham and salad. I opened the book and showed him the ammonite marble. He raised his eyebrows.
‘I like yours better, eh? It’s in colour. What are you up to this afternoon?’
‘Poppy’s having a pool party. Could you drive me up there? It starts at three.’
‘It’s raining,’ said my dad.
‘So we’ll get wet. That’s what happens when you swim.’
I sat in my room, in front of the dressing-table, fingers rubbing the cool polished surface of the ammonite. I imagined the shrieks and the splashes, feet skidding on rain-slippery tiles by the side of the swimming-pool. I saw myself sitting ignored on the edge, kicking my toes in the water, pretending I was having a good time, watching a scum of wet leaves and dead insects rocking on the surface. I didn’t want to go to Poppy’s party after all.
I felt like the girl in my Edward Dulac poster on the wall next to my bed, a waif-like creature kneeling in a huge dark pinewood, hiding her face in her hands. Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.
‘Katie?’ My father’s voice came up the stairs. ‘Time to go.’
I heard his feet on the stairs. The door opened.
‘Come on, you’ll be late.’
I could see him in the dressing-table mirror. There he was, by the door, hovering awkwardly behind the hideous pink lump in the foreground that was me.
‘What’s the matter?’
My eyes filled with tears again. I put my face into my hands like the girl in the poster. He came over and I felt his arm round my shoulders. ‘Come on, sweetheart, nothing’s that bad, surely.’
‘I look like a freak.’
He peeled my hands away from my eyes. I could see him in the mirror, kneeling beside me, his concerned freckled face next to my shiny red one. ‘You look nothing of the sort. You look lovely.’
‘No, I don’t. I look like an ugly blancmange.’ I was wearing a pink blouse he had bought me from the market. It wasn’t my colour.
‘Mmm.’ He looked carefully at my reflection in the mirror. ‘I admit it clashes with your nose. Put something else on, then.’
‘Everything else is dirty,’ I moaned, ‘or horrible. I haven’t got the right kind of clothes. Trish and Poppy …’
Trish and Poppy had pocket money. They went into town to buy clothes at Miss Selfridge and Top Shop. They were going to be in bikinis this afternoon, and all I had was my black school swimming-costume with its high front and crossover straps.
My father’s lips made a hard straight line in his face. ‘Trish Klein looks like a little … madam, sometimes. You don’t want to grow up too soon, Katie.’
‘But they’re growing up and leaving me behind.’
My father looked at me in the mirror. He took in my long dark brown hair, straight like my mother’s, not curly like his, my blotchy reddened skin, my narrow shoulders hunched in misery. The blouse was awful, the colour of internal organs. It reminded me somehow of a dog’s tongue. It was made of cheap nylon, and my father always bought things a size too big so I could grow into them. He sighed. ‘Perhaps I should ask Mrs Owen to buy more of your clothes.’
‘No-oo!’ I wailed. I was wearing one of the sensible A-line skirts she’d bought me; it skimmed my knees, neither short nor fashionably long. I plucked fretfully at the blouse, just above where my breasts had recently started to sprout, two hard little apples in their first A-cup bra, almost lost under shapeless shiny pink.
‘They’ll just laugh at me.’
My father closed his eyes as if praying for a miracle. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but I felt his arm tighten across my shoulders.
‘Look,’ he said eventually. ‘Look in the mirror.’
I looked. No magic transformation. Pink face, pink swollen eyes, pink dog-tongue blouse.
‘You’re pretty,’ he said. ‘I know your old dad’s bound to think that, but you are. You’ve got lovely hair.’ He twisted his fingers clumsily in the shining strands. ‘Go and splash your face with cold water. And if you don’t want to go to the party, I’ll take you to the climbing wall again. Or the cinema. I’d be proud to be seen with you.’
I didn’t go to the party. We went to see Rocky at the Odeon instead. Afterwards, walking back up Milsom Street to where we’d left the car, I tried not to look in the shop windows.
We were passing Jolly’s, the big department store, when my father spoke: ‘I think you’re old enough to shop for your own clothes now. I’ll give you an allowance.’
My eyes slid away to the shop window. There was a mannequin in kick-flares and a top that knotted under the breasts, leaving the midriff bare.
‘But not,’ my father added quickly, ‘anything too extreme.’
‘The clothes or the allowance?’
‘Both. I’m not made of money.’ He was smiling at me, but I could tell he felt out of his depth.
I felt a huge bubble of happiness push its way up from my stomach, so forcefully I thought I’d have to belch with joy. Milsom Street looked wonderful, its pavements still shiny from rain, the summer evening sky washed blue and yellow above the rooftops. The air was fresh and smelt of wet leaves. I wondered if Poppy and Trish had noticed I wasn’t at the party. I hoped they’d missed me. But I didn’t care.
‘Hey,’ said my father. ‘There’s your nice librarian over there.’
You can see why Mithraism was so attractive to the Roman army. Its appeal lay in its simple code of duty and honour. The god’s followers are his soldiers, who take a binding oath to serve him. Miles, the Soldier, represents the third grade of initiation. His symbols are his lance and helmet; his element the solid, reliable earth. His loyalty must be tested, and his courage proved. This is where the ordeals begin.
From The Mithras Enigma, Dr Martin Ekwall, OUP
The sky is a receding blue circle. It’s bitterly cold. My breath hangs as mist in the shaft while I go down the ladder, slippery with frost.
Gary Bennett’s just above me. Looking up in the dim light, I can see his heavy steel-toecap boots on the rungs. As Martin would say, send the woman down first so you’ve got a nice soft landing. In fact, this couldn’t be more different from unofficial visits to flint mines; there’s a platform half-way down, to catch us if we slip. Nowadays this is probably the most regulated, safety-conscious industry in Britain. A bit late, really, for all those earlier miners who died of black lung or in coal-gas explosions.
Above Gary is the archaeologist, the one with the red runny nose and stringy hair, whose eyes keep swivelling to my breasts. I can hear him sneezing. His name’s Dickon, very emphatic on the last syllable. I wish he’d learn to wipe his nose. I’m sure any second it’s going to drip on me. Not, perhaps, a good idea to look up, after