Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
already. Viv, this is going to be wonderful.’ She took a sip of wine, then reached for her spectacles again. Opening the manuscript she glanced at it, running her finger down the text as though she were going to read a bit from it. Then she changed her mind. ‘What we need is a new outline.’ She studied Viv’s face and hesitated. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
Who is Maeve?’
‘Maeve?’ Viv echoed the name in shock. ‘Why?’
Maeve. Medb.
Medb of the White Hands.
She was not in the play. Not in the book. She had no part to play in recorded history.
Pat was frowning. ‘The name keeps coming to me. I dreamed about her last night, as though she was a character in your book. But she isn’t. Is she? I checked the index and I couldn’t find her.’
Viv shook her head. ‘No, she’s not in the book.’ Her mouth had gone dry.
‘But the name means something to you?’ Pat cocked an eyebrow. She picked up her glass and standing up, wandered over to the other chair near Viv’s where, careful not to disturb the cat, she perched on the arm. ‘Who is she?’
Viv shook her head. ‘I believe she was someone Cartimandua came across in her early life. A period not covered by the book because we know nothing about it officially.’ She paused. Then she found herself unable to resist asking, ‘What did she look like. In your dream?’
Pat was silent for a moment, remembering. ‘She was young. Very beautiful. Tall. Slim. With amazingly striking eyes. Intense light steely-blue. A hard face.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think she was very nice.’
The silence in the study drew out into a long pause as Pat swung one leg slowly back and forth, the shoe dangling from her foot. She was studying Viv’s face.
‘No.’ Viv sounded worried. ‘She wasn’t very nice. But I don’t know how we know that. We know nothing about Cartimandua’s life apart from what the Roman historians tell us. They were not interested in anything much but politics.’
‘A point you make very clearly in the book.’
Viv nodded.
‘And yet you’ve put in a lot more than Roman politics.’
‘Extrapolated from other sources,’ Viv said, almost to herself. ‘From archaeology for instance.’
‘And Maeve’s name is not mentioned anywhere.’
‘No.’
‘But she features in the story, doesn’t she? Why haven’t you mentioned her?’
It was Viv’s turn to reach for the bottle. Lunging forward out of her chair she grabbed it and slopped a little wine into her glass with a shaking hand, spilling some onto the carpet. ‘Nothing more than guesswork. Forget her. She’s not part of this story.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pat was frowning. ‘Why would I dream about her?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
For a moment the two women looked at each other, then at last Pat shrugged. She changed the subject. ‘How do you want to work with this? Shall we get together each morning? I could come over to your place and we can concentrate on getting it done before you have to go away. I gather you have a publicity tour coming up?’
Viv nodded. ‘A week or so talking about my book.’
‘Right. Well, we’ll try and get as much done as possible before that.’ Pat paused. Then went on, ‘Another idea has just occurred to me. Rather than do all this in a studio, I think it would be really effective to record some if not all of it on location. With sound effects. Like the music. It would be tremendously atmospheric. It works on radio. Something TV has taught us. Any editing we need I’ll do myself initially on my laptop.’
‘That sounds a wonderful idea.’ Viv nodded vehemently, then she glanced round as the door opened and Pete put his head in. ‘Supper’s ready, girls.’
As they stood up and made their way after him towards the kitchen Pablo sat up and stretched, then he jumped down from the chair to follow them. In the doorway he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder into the empty room. For a moment he hesitated, eyes wide, his tail fluffing with fear, then he followed them.
There were five of them around the table this time including Tasha, and tonight’s menu was once-more child friendly. Fishcakes made from a mixture of organic wild salmon and sustainably-sourced white fish, the name of which Cathy could not recall.
‘You can help Viv and me choose a name for ourselves, Tash,’ Pat said with a grin as she sat down. She was becoming quite fond of this precocious mixed-up child. ‘Maddie has suggested we form a production company. And this could be the start of a very exciting new angle to Viv’s career. You realise, Viv,’ she added enthusiastically, ‘if this is the success I think it is going to be, we needn’t stop with Cartimandua. We could go on to make other historical drama documentaries for radio. The success of this will carry us forward and your name will be linked with the product rather than with the period. That would get your professor off your back.’
‘But I’m a Celticist.’
‘You’re a talented woman with several strings to your bow,’ Pat contradicted. She sat back in the chair, her arms outstretched on either side of her plate, eyeing her fishcake. She was dying for a cigarette. Opposite her Pablo the cat was sitting on the draining board watching the proceedings with inscrutable green eyes. ‘So, what are we going to call ourselves?’
Half an hour later they were still arguing. Wearily Cathy stood up and went to rummage in the fridge for another bottle of wine. ‘Do you think you’ll find it easy to agree the script if you find it this difficult to decide on a name?’ She picked up the corkscrew with a rueful smile.
‘Sisters. That’s good. Something sisters. Or sisters of something,’ Pat went on, ignoring her. She too was growing impatient. They were going round in circles.
‘Sounds too much like feminist stuff.’ Pete shook his head. He helped himself to the last of the peas.
‘Daughters, then.’ Cathy topped up their glasses.
‘That’s less aggressive, certainly.’ Pete nodded. He was keeping out of the argument.
‘Daughters of Fire,’ Viv said suddenly. ‘That’s it. Brigantia is a fire goddess, the Brigantes the people of fire and Cartimandua is a fiery woman.’ She was conscious of Pablo watching her, his eyes unblinking.
‘As are we! Perfect!’ Pat punched the air. ‘Yes! Then if we write other things we can specialise in feisty women. Mary, Queen of Scots. Elizabeth. Mary Tudor. Eleanor of Aquitaine –’
‘They needn’t be queens of course,’ Cathy put in. ‘Jane Austen. The Brontë Sisters, George Eliot.’ The excitement was catching. ‘Amelia Earhart, Mata Hari. Florence Nightingale.’ She paused. ‘So, as I said, no need to panic at being typecast as a Celticist who kicked over the traces, Viv!’ She laughed. ‘Right, now, one thing at a time. Don’t forget you need a working title for the play.’
‘The Forgotten Queen,’ Viv put in quietly. ‘That’s what I’ve called it. After all, you’ll find hardly anyone has heard of her.’
‘Perfect.’ Pat nodded. ‘It’s intriguing. Descriptive. Tantalising.’ She didn’t tell them it would probably be changed several times before the editors decided what was right. ‘So, let’s drink a toast. To the Daughters of Fire: Viv, Pat and Cartimandua, the Forgotten Queen.’
Tash was very silent. She had finished her fishcake, pushed aside the impeccably vegetarian peas and rice and the especially bought bottle of tomato sauce which was her exclusive property and which now stood untouched beside her plate. ‘Do