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Hannah was out pruning the standard roses when the car pulled up. She had plenty of time to get self-conscious while she watched the woman get out of her car, look at the house, frown, and then make her way up the path. She had an artsy look about her Hannah didn’t much like: loose pale blonde hair and a flowing soft blue dress that made her look like she’d lost a Pre-Raphaelite painting somewhere.
She drew up in front of Hannah, smiling, and said, “Excuse me, is this Wisteria Cottage?”
When she was cranky, Hannah wondered why people could never read the nameplate on the gate. When she was feeling more reasonable, she was aware that there was no wisteria, and no cottage either. Wisteria made a mess, and John didn’t want it dragging down their new guttering. “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Diana, is she in?”
Hannah blinked, puzzled. “No, I think you must have the wrong house, there’s no-one called Diana living here.”
“But this is Wisteria Cottage. She told me Wisteria Cottage, I’m sure of it. I’m Bridget, I’m from Cottingdon’s Antiques, does that ring any bells? Perhaps I got her name wrong.”
Hannah was dubious, though at least the antiques connection explained the other woman’s peculiar appearance. She had to wonder if the obvious confusion was perhaps down to some inadvisable on-the-job drug use. “I know Cottingdon’s, of course, in Epping, but we haven’t been in there for years. I’m certainly not expecting anyone.”
The blonde woman frowned. “Bother. I must have got something wrong. I’m sorry, do you mind if I ring the shop from here and check? I’d feel silly if I went all the way back and I was supposed to be next door. I wouldn’t ask, but you don’t seem to have any cell coverage here.”
Hannah covered her hesitation by pulling off her gardening gloves and tidying her tools. She wasn’t sure letting this woman in the house was a good idea, but that also seemed paranoid to the point of rudeness. She tried to remember if she’d ever heard any stories about antique dealers going mad and slaughtering people in their homes after asking to use the phone. No, she’d let her make the call and send her on her way. “Of course, do come in. I’m Hannah, by the way, Hannah Veres.”
Smiling, the other woman extended her hand with obvious confidence and shook. “Hello, Hannah, I’m Bridget. I’m terribly sorry about all this.”
She followed Hannah into the house and made no comment on the elegantly textured wallpaper or the lovely Turkish rug in the living room that Hannah was so proud of. Hannah was rather miffed: she was used to people telling her what a lovely house she had. She’d worked hard on it, consulting all the right magazines and getting advice from an interior decorator. Still, not everyone could recognize taste. “The phone’s on the table, just here. Please make yourself at home.”
Bridget, however, had stopped in the middle of the room, staring at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. “But that’s her! That’s Diana!”
Hannah’s gaze followed Bridget’s, seeing the tall, pale woman as if she hadn’t seen the picture every day for years. “It can’t be. I got that painting from my Gran, it’s her mother. She’s been dead for… Lord, sixty years?”
Bridget turned, and there was something hard in her gaze. “What was her name?”
Sinking into the nearest armchair, Hannah could feel her heart beat, a rush of useless adrenaline making her shake. “Who are you, really? You’re not one of those fake mediums, are you, because you can sod off if you are. How did you know?”
Bridget dropped suddenly to her knees in front of Hannah’s chair and took her hand. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t. I saw that woman yesterday. She asked if I could come and value a bowl for her. From what she described, I think it may be very valuable indeed. That’s all I know. I don’t know who Diana was or how many kids she had or whether she’s happy on the other side if there is one… Hannah, I just want the bowl.”
Hannah was confused, and starting to get scared. She was staring into Bridget’s face, and finding her odd eyes disconcerting. They were like water, the palest blue-green color. “But I haven’t got a bowl. I mean,” she laughed shakily, “obviously I’ve got lots of bowls, but not like that. You mean some kind of antique, Georgian silver or something?”
Bridget shook her head, not letting go of Hannah’s hand. “No, I mean older. Much older. Something made of bronze. It might not look like much, a bit rough, about the size of a side-plate?” Her grip on the other woman’s fingers tightened, her voice taking a lower, slower timbre. “Hannah, think. I need the bowl. Where is it?”
Hannah almost seemed to shrink, diminishing next to her companion. “Oh, that. You mean the old thing we found when we drained the pond out the back. You’re hurting me!”
Abruptly, Bridget let go of Hannah’s fingers and sat back on her heels, her long blue dress pooling around her. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. Sorry. But yes, that sounds just right. Where is it now?”
Hannah got to her feet, smoothing down her trousers, trying to stop the trembling in her hands. Right now, she just wanted this woman out of her house. “It’s out in the shed. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Seeing Bridget wasn’t about to be talked out of it, Hannah led her through the house and out into the back garden. She chattered as she walked out to the shed, nervous. “We found all kinds of old junk when we drained the pond. It wasn’t that big, but… there was even a car tire in there. We might have left the filthy old thing, but, well, we were planning to have children, and it wouldn’t have been safe, would it, open water like that, not with little children. Then of course, things never quite worked out that way.”
“Of course they didn’t,” Bridget muttered, walking out across the manicured lawn. “You drained the pool. What did you think was going to happen?” She crouched down in the grass and laid her hand on it. “It was here. The spring came out here.”
Unlocking the shed, Hannah frowned. It didn’t seem necessary to be polite any more, when her guest was being so offensively strange. “I don’t know, I can hardly remember any more, it was so long ago. And you don’t know, because you’ve never been here before.” She shut the shed door behind her, desperate to get away even for a moment. She found the bowl and emptied John’s bits and bolts out of it. That was the only reason they’d kept it, really, the tarnished, battered old thing. She left it as it was, not even bothering to wipe off the dust. The silly girl could get her hands dirty. She had to smile, too, despite her nervous anger: she still had her mother’s gorgeous Seventeenth Century chalice upstairs in the safe, and all Bridget wanted was this grubby dish. It could be her little secret.
When she carried it out of the shed, she was surprised to see the younger woman standing in the middle of the lawn, smiling happily. It hardly seemed possible, but her face lit further as she saw the bowl in Hannah’s hands. “There it is!” She poured forward and took it in her hands, stroking the pitted metal. “I know it doesn’t look like much… it’s Iron Age, I believe, about two thousand years old. One piece of shaped bronze, with, yes, one handle. There’s one very like this in the British Museum. And most people would say that’s where this should be, in a museum… It was probably in the pool because it had been deliberately put there, as a sacrifice to a local water spirit.”
Hannah all but forgot her discomfort in the face of such startling news. This little tatty thing was obviously important. “How… would we have to give it up? And… how much do you think it would be worth?”
Bridget laughed. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? Money. Well, luckily for you, it seems inarguable that this bowl was thrown away, even if it was in praise of a goddess. That means under British Treasure Trove law, it belongs to the person who finds it. You. As for a price… I wouldn’t even like to guess. So few pieces like this ever come up. Not as much as the Ringlemere Cup, so… perhaps ten thousand, fifteen thousand pounds?” She bit her lip. “It would be worth more if it was properly restored and cleaned, which I can do. I’d be asking you to trust me to take it away, though. I’ll give you a receipt, and it will just be at Cottingdon’s, you can come in and check whenever you like.”
A long moment later, Hannah remembered to breathe out. Fifteen thousand pounds. She could trade this bowl for a new kitchen. All she had to do was trust this woman, and she felt suddenly compelled to do so. All her instincts told her that this was the right thing to do. She should give the water bowl to Bridget. She almost laughed. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
Regret didn’t really set in until that evening, when Hannah tried to explain what she’d done to John. He was adamant that she should have taken the bowl to someone else, to a museum, got a second opinion, and she had to admit it sounded like a good idea. (For all his skepticism, he got in a friend with a metal detector to go over the lawn, but they didn’t find anything.)
The last of her assurance, however, didn’t evaporate for another two weeks, when she finally phoned Cottingdon’s. They were terribly sympathetic, but they didn’t have her bowl, they didn’t deal in artifacts that old, and they didn’t have anybody on staff called Bridget. So sorry, but they couldn’t help anyone who thought it was smart to give things to strangers who just came to the door.
On top of that, John was in a bad mood because it seemed the back lawn was subsiding. Water kept pooling up in the middle of the garden and not draining away. Since Bridget’s visit, the ground had dropped four inches and was constantly water-logged. Another month, and they’d have the damn pond back. It didn’t make any sense.
Hannah found, though, that she couldn’t care as much as John did. What harm could a little pond do? She’d got up early one morning and found a heron wading out there, white and eerie in the morning mist. She’d simply stood and watched until it flew away. John got cross at her for planting the reeds and irises, and she didn’t bother telling him she hadn’t done it. They’d just come. Like the heron. Like Bridget.
She started spending more and more time outside. Not pruning and trimming and spraying as she once had, but just sitting. Listening. Sometimes she didn’t have dinner ready when John came home. The neighbors started complaining about the birds. The standard roses faltered and died despite her husband’s efforts to save them, just as the buttercups seemed curiously immune to his poison.
John didn’t leave her, though, until he found Hannah throwing the silver-gilt Ypres chalice into the pool. She was almost as surprised as he was when he tried to retrieve it and she punched him in the face. She hardly noticed he was gone; it was just quieter. Easier.
By the time Bridget came back with the bowl, Hannah was ready. They drank from the bowl in turn, the fresh spring water that bubbled up through John’s once-immaculate lawn. It made Hannah feel drunk, and she laughed in sheer joy as they threw the bowl back into the pool. Then she turned and threw her arms around Bridget’s face, kissing her warmly. “Welcome home, Exalted. Welcome home.” |
