mostly low scrub. However, against the northern wall where run-off had created an area of slightly greater fertility, a screen of more substantial growth had formed. Spot of course had to investigate behind it, and disappeared for a surprisingly long time despite being called repeatedly. Eventually he returned with a piece of ancient bone that Tom at first thought must have come from a sheep but on closer examination might perhaps be human.
That warranted closer investigation, so Tom forced his way between the bushes and the rock face, finding an opening a few feet wide and deeper than the length of his arm or even of a stick that he carried. Not much light reached even the mouth so of course the interior was completely obscure. Tom thought he might return some time with a lantern, but kept quiet about it on returning home as he thought it might some day be useful to have a secret hide-out.
The occasion came when he was on the run after the spat with the gamekeeper. He found that the cave opened out after a couple of feet into quite a large chamber with more than adequate headroom for occupation, and he spent a few days camped out there before being caught on a hunt for provisions. He had to clear quite a lot of clutter but was able to make it tolerably comfortable. What amazed him once his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light was a series of painted drawings on the flatter areas of wall: animals, humans and in one alcove, a complete hunting scene. He had enough skill to copy the more impressive into a notebook along with a sketch of the approach and an account of the discovery, and that notebook had now come down to Nick. He was anxious to find the cave and investigate.
“I’d have thought the professional palaeontologists would have been interested enough to help with that. It must be rare; after all, you never hear of cave art in Britain.”
“That’s the problem. I gather there’s hardly any, and what there is was engraved, not painted, so the professionals I’ve approached simply don’t believe it.”
“Always the same, isn’t it? Amateurs with new ideas are never welcome. Do you have any directions to the actual location?”
“No, just the drawings. Tom knew where it was, obviously, but probably didn’t want to give anything away.”
“Reasonable enough. Do you think I could have a look at the drawings?”
That was the start of Ned’s involvement. He had some free time and Nick was only too pleased to accept local assistance. Enquiries of sheep farmers, the most likely people to know about such a feature of the landscape, were less help than Ned had hoped, as no one recognised the drawing; of course, the bushes in front of the cave mouth must have changed completely in the two centuries or more since it was made. However, three possible locations might fit the verbal description, and the second looked most promising, although if there were actually a cave mouth it could be reached only with the branches cut back from the rock.
Returning the next day with more lights and a range of cutters, they cleared enough for at least Nick to see there was cave mouth and get inside, where he found the situation just as described and took a series of photographs (digital, so they could be quickly recovered and copied). After that they cleared the way enough for Ned too to enter and confirm the discovery. Nick was all for going straight to the Press with the shots, but Ned urged caution.
“People don’t worry too much about property rights up here, but that’s because only sheep have any interest in the place. Once this story gets out, you can’t tell what may happen; maybe only a few specialists will take any notice, but it’s far more likely to bring tourists, and I’m not at all sure they’d be welcome. We’d better discuss it with Jack Birtwhistle at the pub this evening. I’ll arrange to have dinner with you there, and we can explain the situation afterwards.”
Jack, appraised of the situation, called in some of his cronies and as expected there was a serious disagreement over whether an influx of visitors would be a good or a bad thing. However, Ned pointed out that there was no need for a hasty decision on that, as the paintings could have been there for anything up to forty thousand years and weren’t going to fade in the next month or so.
However, Nick’s discovery needed to be registered officially without necessarily publicising the location. Fortunately the phone line had at last been repaired, and Ned was able to e-mail the photographs to me with a list of the professionals whom Nick had contacted. The one who had been most disparaging proved to have a bitter academic rival, so that was obviously the man to approach and I made arrangements for the two of them to visit him.
He was immediately enthused by the photographs and, sworn to secrecy on the location, promised to visit it personally with one or two trusted colleagues as soon as it could be set up. Without proper dating he wouldn’t commit himself on the age of the paintings, although he suggested somewhere around twenty thousand years, but their real significance lay in their being so much further north than anything comparable previously known. Because of its importance, he was as anxious as anyone to keep the place secret at least until the date could be roughly confirmed. There was an important conference coming up, and he looked forward with glee to the prospect of presenting a bombshell.
All this was conveyed to Jack Birtwhistle, who was as relieved as anyone that the question of publicity could be postponed. While eager for the extra business that tourism could bring, he realised that it could be disruptive and had no wish to anger his regular customers. Meanwhile, life could go on as usual, but to avoid being caught on the hop, he made tentative enquiries about a hypothetical possibility of setting up a minibus service to the head of the valley and painted an “UNFIT FOR CARS” sign for the track beyond the pub. He was confident that few tourists would want to walk the distance, and any who did could be welcomed unreservedly; they were sure to be hungry and thirsty on their return, and there was nowhere else to go. When the query about the minibus sparked a disturbing question of why it might be wanted, he invented a totally spurious tale about the Ramblers’ Association and a possible walking route to Hawes for which a start along the way might be appreciated.
His thoughts about this were interrupted by an appalling racket from upstairs. His yell of “What the hell’s going on up there?” was evidently drowned out and, with hands over his ears, he went to investigate. His son Robin was there with a friend Sandy who had a received as a birthday present a radio cum CD player of the “ghetto blaster” variety that they were putting through its paces. Unable to make himself heard, Jack signalled them to turn it down as they reluctantly did but only to a merely deafening level; in fear for his hearing, he charged in and turned it off. “If you’ve got to use that damned thing, do it outside!” he told them.
Out they went, but in the open air the volume failed to satisfy them. Robin remembered overhearing about the cave, and suggested that as an enclosure it might improve matters if they could get there without having to carry the machine all the way. The next afternoon they spotted Albert Williams heading that way with a trailer loaded with sacks of feed, and begged a lift; Sandy’s dog decided to join them, and they saw no reason why he shouldn’t.
Three hours later, Jack had an emergency call from Albert; Sandy had appeared, badly bruised and in great distress with a story of Robin’s being caught in a rock fall. “Get everyone you can up here.”
There weren’t many around, but he piled the few into his car and dashed off up the valley. In a sense they were too late: Albert and his hands had already got Robin out, and his wife had patched up the cuts, but the broken leg needed hospital care. On the way Jack got the story.
The lads had found the cave and thought the effect very satisfactory; the dog evidently didn’t and stayed outside. Robin had brought along a relatively innocuous bottle of something or other from the bar with a good supply of crisps and they were making quite a party of it. Then the CD came to an end and the dog, relieved at the silence, came in for attention and a nose around. He must have somehow altered the volume setting because when the next CD started, the result was too loud, the dog bolted and Robin jabbed at the control, inadvertent
ly turning it up instead of down. The reverberation was terrible and the cave roof started to collapse; Sandy scrambled out safely, but Robin was caught by a rock on his legs.
“At least you’re safe,” was Jack’s comment.
“Yes, but there’s the Rugby match tomorrow.”
“Well, one thing’s certain; you won’t be playing.”
As Molly said afterwards, that was the least of the worries. What were they going to say when Professor Whatsisname turned up to look at the wall paintings and couldn’t get at them, even if they hadn’t been destroyed?
However, at least Robin had lost his taste for rock music.
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About the author.
Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.
A short biography and more of his writing (plays, film scripts and some non-fiction) may be found with contact details at his web site
https://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk
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