The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

while you entertain the children for a few days. I am sure you will all have a wonderful time without me. But don’t forget they’ve both got revision.’

She hadn’t even stayed long enough for a cup of tea.

‘It’s OK, Dad. Chill. We won’t get in your way.’ Fifteen-year-old Felix threw himself down in the armchair by the fire, his phone already in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen.

Emma was still standing at the door, looking wistfully after her mother. As the sound of Val’s car died away, she turned and surveyed the room. ‘I like it here,’ she announced. ‘It’s cool. Kinda magical.’

Simon felt a surge of gratitude. ‘That’s a good word for it. Sorry about the rain.’

‘It’ll clear – I checked the weather app.’ Felix glanced up. ‘We brought all our gear. Mum said it always rains in Wales.’ They had dropped their belongings in a heap of rucksacks and boots and anoraks just inside the door.

‘And you’ve brought your books?’ Simon scanned the luggage for signs of study. Felix was about to take his GCSEs, and his sister her A levels.

‘I’m having the spare room, if there is one,’ Emma announced, ignoring his question. ‘Felix can sleep on the sofa. Where is the sofa?’ she added, casting a suspicious eye over the cottage.

‘No sofa.’ Simon felt it was a personal failure. ‘There is a spare room and I gather there are blow-up beds.’

Felix greeted this news with surprising equanimity. He was once more engrossed in his screen. The internet signal was apparently having one of its better days.

They were so alike these two that sometimes people took them for twins in spite of the two-year age gap. Both were tall and slim with mid blond hair, Emma’s very long, Felix’s very short; both had grey-blue eyes and fair skin. There the resemblance ended. In character they were completely different, and it soon became clear that Emma, the eldest, was as usual in charge. She lugged her stuff up the stairs and into the smaller of the two bedrooms, establishing possession of both beds, one to sleep on and one to put her stuff on, before her brother could change his mind and argue, then she came downstairs again to investigate the kitchen. ‘What on earth are we supposed to eat, Dad?’ The question floated through the door as Simon tried to heave a bag containing what he assumed to be one of the beds out of the cupboard under the stairs.

He sighed. ‘I haven’t stocked up for you lot yet, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting you ’til tomorrow. We’ll go out for supper, OK?’

Behind him, Felix had put down his phone and moved over Simon’s worktable. He opened the laptop. ‘What on earth is all this?’

‘Be careful!’ His father rounded on him sharply. ‘I’m deciphering a manuscript. It’s part of my work. It wouldn’t interest you. Don’t touch, please.’

‘It’s OK, Dad. I’m not going to do anything.’ But he was, his hands already busy over the keys. ‘Is this language Anglo-Saxon?’

‘Old English. Photos of an ancient volume. I’m transcribing it into English.’

‘It’s beautiful writing.’

‘It is, isn’t it.’ Simon found himself smiling. ‘Imagine, all done with a quill pen and ink made from crushed oak galls.’

‘Let’s see.’ Emma was there now, peering over her brother’s shoulder.

‘You saw this actual book?’ Felix was swiping gently through the pages. ‘Look at the lovely way this guy has decorated some of the letters. They’re not illuminated, are they? If they were, they would be covered in gold. We saw them at the British Library – do you remember when you took us? But he’s put them in red with some little twiddly bits. He’s taken so much trouble.’

‘I didn’t know you were interested in this sort of thing,’ Simon said quietly.

‘You don’t know much about us, Dad, be fair,’ Felix retorted. It was said with tolerant humour. ‘You’re always locked away in your study and Mum never lets us near you on pain of death.’

That was a gross exaggeration, but he let it pass.

‘You’ve obviously forgotten I’m studying history, so I’m supposed to be keen on this sort of stuff,’ Emma put in, glaring at her brother. ‘Hey, look at this bit.’ They had arrived at a blank page, shaded with scratchings out and shadowy deleted words. ‘Why did he do that? What does it say?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ Simon felt an unexpected warmth towards these two beings who were supposed to have sprung from his loins, but who he had always assumed to have come from some distant planet. ‘It’s a bit like a detective story. The scribe has written something he, or someone else, doesn’t want to be read by other people. I’m not sure why he didn’t cut out the page, which he has done elsewhere. I would love to be able to work out what it was he’d written.’

‘Can we help?’

Had his son actually said those words? Simon grinned at him. ‘I would love you to, if you can. Your eyes would be much better than mine.’

‘But we don’t speak Old English,’ Emma put in. Simon heard an echo of his wife’s voice there; the cold light of reason.

‘Dad does.’ Felix was leaning in, tapping at the keys. ‘Your phone camera isn’t all that good, but we can use the software on Dad’s laptop to enhance what’s here.’ His voice had lost its note of perpetual boredom. ‘And then Dad will be able to read it as it floats up off the page.’

16

When Mark returned home after evensong, Bea was in the kitchen preparing supper. She looked up. ‘I’ve heard from Petra and Anna.’

‘How are they?’ He reached gratefully for the glass of wine she pushed towards him.

‘It doesn’t look as though either of them will be home for Easter.’ She turned to slide a roasting tin into the oven, hiding her expression. The disappointment of not seeing their daughters had hit her hard. She hadn’t realised quite