The Dig (13 page)

The man made no reply to this.

“See if you can do what Eric says, dear. Try to laugh a bit more. Because it’s not all doom and gloom out there, you know. Now then, shall we see who else is trying to get through?”

Next she got a Bernard, swiftly followed by an Eileen. “I feel a lot of fluid here,” said the woman clutching her stomach. “Was that her problem? Tummy troubles?”

So it went on with this chorus of weeping rising and falling, along with occasional interruptions from the dog. “Can anyone take a Brian for me? A tall gentleman. Something in his buttonhole. I think it’s a carnation. They won’t come if someone won’t accept them, you know.”

A woman’s hand duly went up.

“You, dear? I asked Brian if he had a message and he said no. He doesn’t have anything particular to say. He just wanted to say hello.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “He never was a talkative one.”

By now I felt that I had no business here, sitting in on other people’s grief. I got to my feet, intending to slip out through the still-open door. But I’d only taken a couple of steps when I became aware that something had changed. It must have been the quality of the silence.

I looked up. The woman in blue was again descending from the stage. Now she was walking down the aisle in a purposeful sort of way. She had a somewhat rolling gait. I watched her come closer, not sure what to do.

When she reached me, she touched my shoulder. “Are you familiar with an Emily?” she asked.

“No,” I said, relieved. “I don’t believe I am.”

“A friend of your mother’s? Possibly your grandmother’s? A woman of about fifty years of age? Very light on her feet and a nice sense of humor?”

For the sake of being polite, I pretended to think about it. However, the moment couldn’t be put off for long. “It means nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”

She tapped her fingertips against her cheek as if she was ticking herself off. “I see green fields. Yes … green fields which you left for a more important position. Now does that make any sense?”

Everyone had turned to face me. They had twisted round on their chairs, their faces large and curious.

“Possibly,” I said.

“And sand. Sand and green fields. Tell me, is somebody holding you up in your business?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Yes,” she said. “I thought so.”

She touched me again. This time her eyelids fluttered as if her eyes had rolled back in her head. When she next spoke she did so with absolute conviction. “My message to you is plain: you must assert yourself. Do you understand me?”

Again I nodded.

“Good. Don’t let anyone hold you back in your endeavors. Sometimes you just have to carry on regardless.”

She turned and walked back to the lectern. After that a man came on and said that he wanted to speak for all of us in thanking Miss Florence Thompson for a remarkable example of mediumship. He was sure this had brought a great deal of comfort to everyone.

A murmur of agreement ran through the congregation. Once it had died away, he asked us to stand up and turn to Hymn 308 in our hymnals. From one side of the stage came the sounds of an organ. Very slow and dirge-like, as if whoever was playing it had their hands stuck in treacle. Above a low curtain a pile of blond hair — presumably belonging to the organist — could be seen swaying from side to side.

First she ran through one verse to reacquaint us with the tune. And then in we all came:

I don’t know how long it took me to walk back to Sutton Hoo House. A lot less time than it took me to walk into Woodbridge, that’s for sure. As I turned into the driveway, my watch was showing just after seven thirty. Apart from a few dabs of cloud, the sky was still bright. With a bit of luck, I reckoned there should be another hour and a half of daylight left. Mrs. Pretty’s car was parked outside the back door. She must have come back from wherever she’d been to while I was in Woodbridge.

At the mounds, everything was just as we’d left it. That was a relief. I lit a pipe and climbed down the ladder. After I’d reached the bottom I took the ladder away from the side of the trench and laid it flat on the ground. I’m not sure why — it wasn’t as if there was much chance of anyone else coming along. Even so, I wanted to make sure I was left alone.

When I unrolled the tarpaulins, the square of discolored earth showed up just as clearly as it had done before. I knelt down and set to, scraping and brushing. I didn’t have to wait long. Two feet away from where I had found the coin, I came
across a greenish band. It looked like the remains of a piece of copper. And then came another green band. Duller than the first — even after I’d brushed it down — but about the same width and length as before. Bronze hoops, I thought. That’s what these will be. Bronze hoops from a barrel.

The light was starting to go now. When I looked at my watch it was already past nine o’clock. I couldn’t believe it. I calculated how much time I’d waste going back and fetching a torch, and then decided that I’d just have to make do.

Sweat ran down my face, dripping onto the ground. I can’t say how much later it was when I came across the piece of wood. To begin with, I assumed this must be the barrel. Or the remains of it at any rate. However, the wood was both larger and flatter than I would have expected. But if it wasn’t a barrel, then what was it? There was another possibility, of course — it could be one of the collapsed roof timbers from the burial chamber.

I kept on brushing for a while. And then I decided to stop, just for a moment, before I went on. As soon as I’d put the brush down, I saw it. There was a small hole in the top left-hand corner of the piece of wood — hardly larger than the coin I had found earlier. While I was staring at it, wondering what to do next, I became aware of a presence nearby. A movement in the corner of my eye.

To begin with, I tried to ignore it — I didn’t much care who it was, or what. And then came a whispered voice: “Mr. Brown.”

I looked up. Robert was crouched on one of the terraces. He had slippers on and was wearing his dressing gown.

“What are you doing here?”

“I saw the glow of your pipe. What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

“Can I come and have a look?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Please, Mr. Brown.”

“Not now, boy!” I said, much more loudly than I meant to. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Just go back to bed and leave me be.”

Aware that I’d spoken harshly, but too intent on what I was doing to make amends, I carried on as before. By the time I looked up again, Robert had gone. The light was fast disappearing now, the last few glimmers fading away. Maybe if there’d been more time, I wouldn’t have done what I did next. I don’t know. Probably that’s just an excuse. The truth is I couldn’t stop myself. At the same time, I was hardly even aware of what I was doing.

I pushed my finger into the hole. As I did so, I had the strangest feeling — it felt as if it was passing from one element to another. After a few minutes — I’ve no idea how long — I withdrew my finger. Then came the great wash of sadness, knocking me back.

Walking to the house, the sweat was cold against my skin. Above the rooftop the moon was so pale it was almost white. I rang the bell. Grateley stood in the doorway with the light bouncing off the walls behind him.

“Do you know what time it is, Basil?”

“Even so, I need to see her.”

He paused to consider this. Then he gave me a look. “I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to wait until morning.”

The next morning I did something I hadn’t done in weeks — I overslept. By the time I woke up it had gone six and it was close to half past by the time I started work. I spent the next two hours working my way round the piece of wood. It was slow going as the wood kept flaking. Even so, it was absorbing enough to stop me from thinking about anything else.

At a quarter to nine I rang the bell, assuming that Mrs. Pretty would be up. Once again Grateley answered the door. Once again he told me that Mrs. Pretty was not available. I asked if she was feeling poorly again. No, he said. Not as far as he knew.

I couldn’t understand what was going on — it didn’t seem to make any sense. Still, there was nothing to be done, nothing I could think of anyway. So I went back and carried on as before. At eleven o’clock Grateley appeared at the mouth of the trench. He didn’t make any comment on the fact I was working. He just announced that Mrs. Pretty would see me now. We walked in silence back to the house.

As we were standing in the corridor, he said quietly, “Hands, Basil.”

“What about them?”

“They could use a scrub.”

After I’d washed in the pantry, he led me through into the hallway. The door to the sitting room was shut. I could
hear voices inside. The moment Grateley knocked, the voices stopped.

The first person I saw was Charles Phillips — the man in the bow tie. He was standing by the fireplace with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. I looked around. Maynard and Reid Moir were behind the sofa. Although Reid Moir stood perfectly still, something about the way he was holding himself suggested he was writhing about inside.

Mrs. Pretty was in the middle of the floor. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Brown,” she said. “You know Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard, of course. Have you met Charles Phillips before?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“Now that we are all here, would everyone care to sit down?”

While there was a murmur of agreement at this, no one made any move to do so.

“Would you care to sit, Mr. Brown?” Mrs. Pretty asked.

“I’m fine where I am. Thank you very much, Mrs. Pretty.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Mrs. Pretty said, “I have asked you here to discuss a rather delicate matter, Mr. Brown.”

Already I’d decided to make a clean breast of it — there seemed no point doing anything else. Without further ado, I said, “I know that Mr. Phillips told me to stop digging. And I know that I had no business going back and carrying on last night —”

Before I could say anything else, Mrs. Pretty held up her hand. “I have no intention of rebuking you for your enthusiasm, Mr. Brown. Quite the contrary. In fact, I want to
make it plain from the outset that no one here has anything but the highest praise for the way you have conducted the excavation.”

Reid Moir nodded. So too, I saw, did Charles Phillips. It was at this point that I began to grow alarmed.

“Nonetheless,” she went on, “we must, all of us, take into account that this is a far bigger project than we could ever have imagined.”

Mrs. Pretty paused, apparently to catch her breath. But before she could do so, Phillips stepped in. “You mustn’t take this personally, Brown,” he said.

“Take what personally, Mr. Phillips?”

“Mmm? What I am about to say. First of all, I would like to second Mrs. Pretty’s opinion of your abilities. You have done a first-rate job here. Your knowledge of Suffolk soil is second to none. Frankly, I doubt if anyone could have done any better. However, as Mrs. Pretty has already pointed out, this is now a very important dig, among the most important ever undertaken in this country. One that simply cannot be left in the hands of a somewhat ad hoc team from what, with the best will in the world, can only be described as a small provincial museum. Especially at this critical juncture. Therefore, with the full agreement of Mrs. Pretty and, of course, with Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard’s consent, I have assumed full control of the excavation. I will be working with a number of people from the British Museum. All of them top people in their fields. We in turn will be liaising closely with the Ministry of Works.”

Even then his words took a few moments to sink in.

“You’re replacing me?” I said.

“That is not how I would choose to put it, Brown. I very much hope that you will feel able to carry on. Albeit in a more subordinate role.”

I looked across at Reid Moir. He gazed back at me. I’ve seen livelier-looking stares on a fishmonger’s slab. Then I looked at Mrs. Pretty. She was staring at the floor.

“When exactly are you taking over, Mr. Phillips?” I asked.

“Immediately. From today.”

There was still a kind of swirl inside my head. Spinning everything round and round and then tossing it away.

“I see …” I said. “In which case, I’d like to assure you that I’ll do anything I can to help. In — in whatever way you see fit.”

Phillips turned to the others.

“You see? I told you that I did not anticipate any difficulties. Nonetheless, I am grateful for your attitude, Brown. Very grateful.”

“Was there anything else?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so, unless …”

He glanced across at Mrs. Pretty, but she didn’t react. “No, I think we have said everything that needed to be said.”

Grateley was waiting outside the door to lead me away. As we were passing the kitchen, Robert ran out. He stopped when he saw me. I started towards him, intending to give him a pat on the head. That was all. But as I did so, he flinched and ran back through the door.

After breakfast Stuart went for his morning walk. I sat in the lounge and read the newspaper. Several of the other guests were also there, sitting half-buried in their tatty chairs, staring out with veiled, incurious eyes. They barely moved even when the maid came in with the carpet sweeper. Part of me wanted to pull them to their feet, the women as well as the men, and spin them round, twirl them out of themselves. This thought, though, was immediately succeeded by a sense of guilt. What a troublesome nature I have and how hastily I rush to judge people.

Some judgments, however, cannot be avoided. The matter of the hotel, for instance. When Stuart was a child he had come here on holiday with his parents. Ever since, he had dreamed of coming back. But the place is not what it was. That much was obvious on our first night as we sat in the dining room, struggling to read grease-speckled menus by the light of a flickering chandelier.