Boneland. Alan Garner

removed the layers, one by one. Between, there was folded clothing. He lifted each piece and placed it on the table, and when the box was empty he stood back and considered.

      ‘Full dress? Or habit? Convocation? Convocation habit. Con-voc-ation. I think so.’

      He put on a white shirt and white bow tie, pulling the ends level. Next the white bands, to hang evenly. He changed his sandals and jeans for black shoes, socks and charcoal grey suit, adjusting the braces so that the trousers broke at the shoe. He fitted gold cufflinks and held the sleeves as he slid his arms into the black gown. Then he brushed the scarlet and blue silk chimere, fitted it over the gown, and fastened it with the two buttons. To finish, Colin slipped the green silk hood with the gold edge over his shoulders and set the bonnet on his head, and adjusted the tassel.

      He checked in the mirror, arranged his hair and beard. He locked the hut and made his way from the quarry to the track, holding up the gown and chimere to avoid snagging. He turned left.

      Away to the right were the hills: the flat top of the cone of Shuttlingslow stood clean and in the freshness he saw farms and fields on its lower slopes. To the south was Sutton with its tower. Colin went along the old broad way by Seven Firs and Goldenstone to the barren sand and rocks on Stormy Point and Saddlebole and looked out across the plain beneath. Kinder’s table was streaked with the last of late snow; Shining Tor was black.

      Colin stood, pulled his hood about him, and breathed the wind. He saw the bright of spring. He smelt returning life. Then, in a moment that he knew, it was time to go. The Edge was waking to its other self. He turned from Stormy Point and strode back through the woods along the broad way.

      He sat outside in the evening light with a bottle of wine.

      ‘I am. Must. Am.’

      Colin sat, watching the shadows move over the herringbone pick marks on the wall of dimension stone. And when he could see the marks no more he went into the hut, and without lighting lamp or fire, undressed, folded the clothes into their box, got into the bunk and cried himself to sleep.

      He lay for one day. He lay for two days. He lay for three days. He woke and blew a fire heap.

      ‘Afternoon.’

      ‘Hi, Trouble,’ said Owen. ‘You’re looking rough.’

      ‘Thanks. Can’t think why,’ said Colin.

      ‘Rough as old gorse. What’s up? Has your mother sold her mangle?’

      ‘This lot.’ He dumped a wedge of paper in the waste bin. ‘God, the kids are bad today.’

      ‘I’ve learnt to tune ’em out.’

      ‘We should get those dishes moved. Create an idiot zone.’

      ‘You’ve got a right cob on, haven’t you?’ said Owen.

      ‘Sorry. Could you run these data, to see if there’s anything fresh? No hurry. Tomorrow will do.’ Colin slid a notebook across the control desk.

      ‘And here’s the latest for you to look at while you’re badly,’ said Owen.

      ‘Thanks. I’ll take them to my pillow.’ Colin unfolded the first sheets and scanned them.

      Dill doule.

      ‘What? What did you say?’

      ‘Colin, we’ve been too long at this lark—’

      ‘Alauda arvensis arvensis. It flies high and is insectivorous, with an exuberant song carried out on the wing. There’s also a liquid trilling flight note; Slater, Williams and Whisterfield, page 208. Sorry. You were saying. M45.’

      ‘As heck as like. I was saying you’re off sick, you should be at home, and if this bollocks you’re gobbing is part of it—’

      ‘All’s well,’ said Colin. ‘Please don’t lose any sleep over me. Apart from the hardware, I can drudge from home as easily as here.’ He put the new sheets into his backpack. ‘Now I’m going to sort those kids.’

      He went out past the Discovery Centre over the grass. There was a notice: WHISPERING DISHES. Two metal bowls stood apart from the telescope, inconspicuous against its presence, but the same parabolic shape. They were mounted on edge, facing each other. The focal point of each was a central ring held on three struts, and on the rings was engraved SPEAK OR LISTEN HERE, and there were two aluminium steps up to the rings, with rails on either side. Children were swinging on the stabilising frame at the back, labelled PLEASE DO NOT CLIMB ON THIS SUPPORT STRUCTURE. Other children were on the steps of both dishes, yelling across the gap, and others running and barging at each other between. Colin went close, saying nothing, waited. The noise died under his presence.

      ‘It doesn’t work if you shout,’ he said. ‘You must whisper. Softly. Otherwise the signal distorts. And if you face away from the dish it’s forty-one point seven metres between, and all you hear is your own voice. You have to turn towards the dish and whisper into the ring. Then the person at the other end can hear you. Try it. Like this. Excuse me.’ Colin stood at the foot of the steps, held the rails and whispered into the focus ring. ‘Hello?’

      The children had drifted off. There was one boy and a girl left. ‘Go and put your ear at the ring of that dish and listen,’ Colin said to the girl.

      The girl ran, and when she was in position he said to the boy, ‘You stand up and speak into the ring as I did.’

      The boy went to the top step.

      ‘Hello!’

      ‘Too loud. You have to remember to whisper,’ said Colin. ‘The parabolic surface has the property that all sound waves disseminate parallel to its central axis and travel the same distance to get to its focus. Which means that the sound bounces off the dish and converges towards the opposite focus in phase, with its pressure peaks and troughs synchronised so that they work together to make the loudest possible sound vibrations. The sound is thus enhanced at the focus, but only if it originates from the source you’re aiming it at. It’s simple. Radio waves are no different. The telescope operates on the same principle. Try again.’

      ‘Hello!’

      ‘Come down,’ said Colin. ‘Listen.’ He whispered. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

      ‘Yes!’

      ‘No. Shh. Shh. Like this. Can you hear me?’

      There was a giggle at the focus.

      ‘That’s it,’ said Colin. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘Good. Now say something.’

      Giggle.

      ‘Shall I say something?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Right. I’ll sing you a song. But quietly. Shh. Ready?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh, I’m one of the nuts from Barcelona. Did you hear that?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I plink-a-ti-plonk.

      I Casa-bi-onk.’

      More nervous laughter. Colin held the rails and danced, kicking his legs out, keeping his mouth at the focus. The boy ducked and crouched by the steps.

      ‘Round at de bar I order wine-o.

      Half de mo I’m feeling fine.

      Light-a de fag, de old Woodbine-o.

      Order de cab for half-past nine.

      I’m one of the nuts from Barcelona.

      I plink-a-ti-plonk.

      I Casa-bi-onk.

      Did you like that?’

      Silence.

      ‘Another try,’ said