Under the Downs Chapter 7

A/N: Mention of Paganism and teenagers being teenagers. Please note any opinions of Paganism expressed are John's and not mine.

The footpath skirts a field still thick with golden wheat that rustles in a dry way as we pass. A few last poppies dot the field margins. There is a hedge on our right, mostly hawthorn and blackthorn, already thick with sloes. We startle rabbits, and they scoot off into the crops, their white tails flashing. On the top of the hill is a thicket of ancient woodland, oaks, chestnut, ash and lime. There are a few tyre tracks in the dusty depressions on the path, places where bikes have been on earlier, wetter days. They are not a deep enough tread for serious mountain bikers. These are the transport of the village kids who come up here to escape and be teenagers.

We are dripping with sweat when we reach the shade of the copse. Even Sherlock has rolled up his shirt-sleeves as far as his biceps. He has a dew of perspiration across his downy upper lip. I have to look away.

A few yards in, we find evidence of habitation. Beer bottles. Alcopop bottles. Fag ends, both ready-made and roll-ups. Sweet wrappers and used condoms. No needles, though, because these are nice, middle class kids. They won't get into drugs until they get to University, and even then, it won't be the injecting kind.

'What do you think?'

Sherlock pokes about a bit, and then lets out a heavy sigh. 'Not here. These are the popular kids.'

He's right of course. John-Matthew would not be welcome here, and the in-crowd would not venture any further into the woods, although they would not admit they are afraid to.

There is a little rabbit path through the nettles, scarcely visible, but Sherlock finds it. We push through, over dried out ditches and banks, evidence of habitation long since gone. In places there is bracken. All the while, the leaves whisper above us. There is something different about woodlands on chalk, I realise, something primal. I feel like I am walking back in time.

We plod on until we have almost reached the far side of the copse. From here, where the bank edges the oaken margins, you can see down the other side, towards the High Downs behind Worthing and Brighton, great undulating ridges, white floury rock breaking the surface in places. In the distance a tractor is humming. Further down the valley, horses are at pasture. The sky is a clear, pale blue, sun-lightened and shimmering. The heat haze is clearer down this side of the hill, even though we are looking east, away from the sinking sun.

Sherlock starts striding about until he finds what he wants, a fallen trunk that time and animals have worn smooth and flat. It is covered with the corpses of candles and nightlights. There is a small jam-jar filled with a fistful of wilting meadow flowers. There are wax dribbles, and stumps of joss. A little altar.

'Hmmm.'

'What are you thinking?'

'Well, Josh said John-Matthew wanted to find things out, didn't he? Maybe he was experimenting. Religiously.'

'What kind of religion experiments like this,' I say, picking a lump of congealed wax up in my fingers. 'Do you think he was into Satanism, or something?'

Sherlock crouches down and rummages in the dusty hollow under the tree. He pulls out a plastic carrier bag. Something is wrapped inside. He glances in.

'As I thought.'

'What?'

'John-Matthew wanted to find things out. The Down drew him out. Just like it has you, John.'

'I don't understand, what?'

'It's hot. I need a shower. Let's go back to the hotel and get ready for dinner.'

And he sets off back down the slope again, leaving me bewildered in front of the meagre altar.

'Sherlock?' I call after him, but he has his head back, and I know he won't answer. The arrogant sod.

The shower is drumming water on the bottom of the bath. Sherlock is humming to himself in his sweet, mellow baritone. He sings Gilbert and Sullivan in the shower. That's another thing people would never guess about him. Little morsels. One day, I sometimes threaten when he is being especially objectionable, I will write an exposé on his secret habits. He'll sulk for a while and then laugh at me, because he knows I won't tell the world he picks his nose when he's watching University Challenge.

While I wait for my turn, I look at the book he found under the tree trunk. It is a nice copy, somewhat well-thumbed and liberally annotated in a crabbed, dark blue and rather smudgy hand, of a standard pagan text, 'Wicca for the Solitary Practitioner' by Scott Cunningham. I know nothing about these matters, but Sherlock says it is a book that every Pagan will have in their library. I haven't asked him how he knows.

Reading a few pages, it turns out to be nothing like I expected. It is gentle, rather sweet, even playful, like a guidebook on playing witches for small girls, but with a slightly Buddhist spin. There are recipes for spells, different incenses and potions, and rites for various times of the year. It seems just about as far from what the Allens believe as it is possible to go. There is a sticky label on the back, above the bar code. It says: 'Castle Magic, gifts of spirit and mystery' and an address in the main street of Arundel.

Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, dripping. He is wearing just his towel, anchored around his waist rather precariously. His chest hair is drizzled flat. His nipples are erect. Water beads on his beautiful skin. I have to look away.

'Have you seen my green shirt?'

'Did you bring it?'

'Good point.'

'So this book?'

'Mmm?' He is rooting about in his suitcase. His rump is emphasised by the clinging towel. I examine the curtain fabric on the other side of the room.

'We going to the shop tomorrow, then?'

'Can't go now, they'll be shut.'

'You know where this is going, don't you?'

'I don't want to spoil the excitement for you.'

'So are we staying another night? After tonight, I mean? Or going back?'

'Another night,' he says, finally dragging out the rumpled shirt. 'Oh God, do you think they have an iron?'

I end up ironing his shirt.

Tomorrow, a romantic dinner at the pub, and a revelation by moonlight...