The Dig (20 page)

There was no doubt, though, that the preparations hampered our work. Already we were desperately short of manpower — still there was no sign of either Mr. Crawford or Mr. Ward-Perkins.

Nonetheless, we did make one more significant find. To begin with, Phillips thought that he had uncovered a shield. But as he went on it became clear that this was an enormous dish, almost two feet in diameter. Made of silver like the bowls, it was badly dented on one side, yet otherwise unmarked. The center of the dish was decorated with an eight-pointed star and on the rim were two stamps. One was hexagonal and consisted of lettering. The other was oval. Within the oval was the image of a veiled and haloed woman.

Phillips pointed at the stamps. “These, as you may or may not be aware, are control stamps of the Emperor Anastasius I. Anastasius, of course, being ruler of the Byzantine Empire from AD 491 to 518. Incredible, isn’t it? For centuries, everyone thought these people could barely make a club to beat each other over the head with. Now we find that their trading routes stretched as far as Constantinople.”

At lunchtime, Phillips lay against a tree trunk in his shirtsleeves, his legs stretched out in front of him. Mr. Grimes was also lying down, with his hands behind his head. While the rest of us became covered in mud and dust as a result of working in the chamber, his boiler suit was always immaculate. Mr. Jacobs,
Mr. Brown and Mr. Spooner were sitting by themselves, a little distance away.

Robert was also there, wandering about distractedly and looking upset. His cheeks, I saw, were wet with tears. When I asked him what the matter was, he said that he had lost one of his roller-skates. I tried to reassure him that it was bound to turn up sooner or later.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I don’t know for certain,” I said. “I just think it probably will.”

I would have been perfectly happy having lunch on my own, but no sooner had I settled down than Mrs. Pretty called me over. She was sitting in her wicker chair with her nephew, Rory, on a blanket at her feet. I sat beside him on the blanket.

“I do hope your husband will be back for the sherry party,” Mrs. Pretty said.

“I’m sure he will make it if he possibly can.”

“It is so good of you both to come here. It can hardly have been the start to married life that you were anticipating.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Pretty, I would not have missed this for the world.”

After we had finished eating, Rory went off to take some more photographs while the burial chamber was deserted. I was about to go myself when Mrs. Pretty said, “My dear … I wonder if I could ask you something. I would have asked Mr. Phillips, except that he seems a little preoccupied today.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Pretty had not eaten anything, at least not while I had been there. Nonetheless, she touched her napkin to her lips before continuing. “Does it not strike you as strange that you have not found a body? The tomb — plainly it is a tomb — contains the grave goods of someone of great importance. And yet there is no sign of whoever was buried there.”

She was quite right, of course. It was strange that we had found no sign of a body. To begin with, Phillips had been convinced that it was only a matter of time. However, as the excavation had gone on, he seemed less and less willing to discuss the subject. From this I concluded that he was as puzzled by the absence of a body as everyone else.

I explained that this might not be a grave at all, but a memorial. Possibly for someone lost at sea, or else killed in battle.

“You mean, there might never have been a body at all?”

“That is a possibility,” I admitted.

“But if there is a body, might it still be there?”

“Oh, yes. It’s much too early to give up hope.”

“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “That was all I wanted to know.”

There was no further word from Stuart that day. Only after returning to the hotel did I remember that I had better give some thought to what I was going to wear for Mrs. Pretty’s sherry party. Not that I had any real choice: the only possibility was my going-away outfit. On Stuart’s insistence, this
had been made especially for me by Mr. Molyneux of Bond Street. Both the jacket and the skirt were in russet-colored silk, while the buttons were all ormolu.

But when I put it on and stood in front of the mirror, I was appalled to see a brawny farmgirl staring back at me. I blinked, hoping she might disappear. Only she didn’t disappear; she stayed stubbornly in place. My shoulders appeared to have broadened and my wrists to have thickened. My hands were as rough as a navvy’s. There was a sharp V of suntanned skin on my chest that looked ridiculous with the hooped neck of the jacket. My only consolation, I thought, was that at least Stuart would be spared from seeing me like this.

It had rained during the night. The grass squelched beneath my feet as I walked out to the mounds. We brushed the water away from the edges of the tarpaulins and mopped up the residue with foul-smelling sponges. The men had already set up rows of wooden chairs below the leveled-off spoil heap. There were far more chairs than I had expected; I counted close to a hundred.

From the beginning it was plain that we were unlikely to be able to do much work that day. At two o’clock, Phillips called a halt and said that we should all go and prepare ourselves for the party. Mrs. Pretty had offered me the use of a bedroom to change in, but I felt more comfortable doing so in the shepherd’s hut — somehow I felt that a more dramatic transformation might be expected if I changed in the house.

Robert stood guard outside to make sure that no one barged in. Around my neck I wore a gold and ruby necklace that had belonged to my grandmother. I hoped it might make my sunburn less evident. By the time I emerged, trestle tables had been erected at the foot of the spoil heap and covered with white tablecloths. Sherry bottles and glasses stood waiting, along with teacups and saucers. Resplendent in their uniforms, the Woodbridge Silver Band unpacked their instruments and set out their sheet music. Rabbits hopped unconcernedly about between the metal legs of the music stands.

“Ready?” said Charles Phillips.

He had changed into a fawn-colored suit and was wearing a larger bow tie than usual, along with a matching handkerchief that spilled from his breast pocket.

“Now,” he said, “I am sure I don’t need to tell you that secrecy is the key.”

“Secrecy?”

“If news of this gets out we’ll have all sorts of people swarming round here. Journalists and the like — dreadful people. No doubt you will be asked no end of fatuous questions. Just don’t tell them any more than you have to, is that clear?”

“Quite clear,” I said.

“Good girl.”

At five o’clock, the conductor tapped his baton and raised his hands, whereupon the band launched into “A Londonderry Air.” Soon afterwards, the first guests arrived, making their way out from Sutton Hoo House in small groups. As the leading group came closer, Phillips muttered, “God help us.”

The group consisted of three men and a woman. Two of the men as well as the woman were wearing tweed suits, while the third man had on a suit made from a similar fawn material to that worn by Phillips. However, this suit was of a considerably better cut than his. From the way the material flowed as he walked along, it appeared to have been sculpted to his body. When the third man saw Phillips, he stopped for a moment, then came forward more slowly than before.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Phillips,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Reid Moir,” said Phillips. “May I introduce Mrs. Peggy Piggott? This is Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard. From Ipswich Museum,” he added.

“How do you do?” said Mr. Reid Moir smoothly. “May I introduce my friends, Sir Joseph and Lady Veevers. This is Charles Phillips, from Selwyn College, Cambridge … Sir Joseph, as I’m sure you know, is the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk.”

“A Selwyn man?” said Sir Joseph after we had shaken hands. “Do you know Wagstaff? From Emmanuel?”

“I don’t believe I do,” said Phillips.

“A. P. Wagstaff?”

Phillips shook his head.

“A. P. Wagstaff, the palaeontologist?” Sir Joseph pressed on.

Again Phillips shook his head. Clearly he had no intention of budging. Sir Joseph seemed unsure how to proceed. He continued to regard Phillips with a puzzled frown as Reid Moir said, “I understand you are favoring us with a speech.”

“A speech? How delightful,” said Lady Veevers.

“A brief address,” Phillips conceded. “Nothing more.”

“I trust you will be paying due credit to Ipswich Museum in your brief address,” said Reid Moir.

Phillips made no reply to this.

“And of course Sir Joseph and Lady Patience are very much looking forward to seeing the finds. As we all are.”

“Joseph and I have been able to think of little else for days,” said Lady Patience.

Phillips turned to her. “Then I fear you will be disappointed.”

“I — I don’t think I understand.”

“Are you saying the finds are no longer here?” said Reid Moir.

“No,” said Phillips. “I’m not saying that. Some pieces are still here. However, we have decided not to show them, not to members of the public.”

Reid Moir took a step forward. “May I remind you that Sir Joseph and Lady Patience are my personal guests,” he said, speaking quietly and almost furtively. “Also that there would not even have been an excavation if it had not been for Ipswich Museum.”

“Possibly so. Nonetheless, Mrs. Pretty is very concerned about security. Rightly so, in my opinion.”

“Now, look here, Phillips …” said Reid Moir, taking another step forward.

Phillips looked down on him with detached interest, rather as if Reid Moir was about to attempt an ascent of his shirt front.

At that moment other guests arrived. Unaware that anything was amiss, they started to talk to Phillips. As they did
so, Reid Moir steered Sir Joseph and Lady Veevers off towards the mounds. I also took the opportunity to slip away. Already people were lining the edges and peering down into the ship. Shielding their eyes from the sun with one hand, they reached for sandwiches and cakes with the other.

The band, meanwhile, played a selection of hymns and subdued marching songs. After half an hour or so, following prompting from Grateley and other members of staff, everyone sat down for Phillips’s address. I didn’t sit down, but stood off to one side. The band stopped playing.

Phillips strode out in front of the chairs. He waited until there was absolute quiet and then announced, “Due to the risk of landslides, we have decided that no one can be allowed up onto the grandstand area.”

There was a groan of disappointment at this. Phillips ignored it. Keeping one hand in his jacket pocket, he proceeded to give a cursory and remarkably undramatic account of the discovery of the ship.

Soon after he had begun talking, people started to shift about on their chairs. For some reason, Phillips’s voice sounded unusually faint. Only guests in the first few rows were able to hear anything. Matters were not helped by a high-pitched buzzing sound that was coming from overhead.

I glanced up.

There was an aeroplane high in the sky, sunlight glinting off its wings. Phillips continued to talk. His lips were moving anyway, although nothing seemed to be emerging. “Please
speak up,” people shouted from the back. Then, more plaintively, “We can’t hear anything!”

Still Phillips carried on, just as inaudibly as before. The buzzing sound grew steadily louder. Then all at once it turned from an annoying distraction into a high-pitched mechanical scream.

I looked up again.

Now the aeroplane was pointing vertically at the ground, wrapped in this stream of air. I could see the blades of its propeller spinning round. Also the lines of rivets along its fuselage. All around me I was aware of people diving for cover. But I stayed where I was. I couldn’t look away. The hood of the cockpit was pulled back. There was a man’s head inside. Shiny and brown, like an enormous nut.

Air beat against my cheeks, pulling my hair back. The screaming seemed to fill every part of my body, shaking everything up. Thrilling and appalling me at the same time. I felt a blow against my side. My feet were swept from under me. Twisting round as I fell, I saw the aeroplane skimming across the tops of the mounds, pulling up just in time to clear the trees. When it had gone, two plumes of black exhaust remained hanging in the air.

No one moved for a few moments. Then a voice said, “Are you all right?”

I looked over to where Rory Lomax was lying. Dimly and resentfully, I realized he must have pushed me over.

“Are you all right?” he repeated.

“What happened?”

“Some damn fool showing off, I expect. Either that, or he was trying to hear Phillips’s speech.”

I stood up and brushed myself down.

“Look,” he said. “You’ve grazed your knee.”

“It’s perfectly all right.”

“But it’s bleeding.”

I looked down and saw a small smear of blood just below my right knee.

“Hardly.”

“Here, let me.” Rory Lomax had already started unwinding a cream silk scarf from around his neck.

“Please,” I said. “It’s not necessary. Besides, I have a hanky.”

I wiped the blood away — there really was very little. Rory Lomax stayed where he was, still holding his silk scarf in both hands. Everyone else was standing up now. Some were still brushing themselves down, others talking excitedly to one another.

The band cleaned off their instruments and prepared to start playing again. It was at this point that I saw Mr. Jacobs running towards me. He ran straight past, continuing through the crowd until he reached Charles Phillips. Once there, he stopped and began talking to him. He hadn’t been doing so for long when Phillips raised his head.

I followed his gaze. Four people were making their way up the side of the leveled spoil heap. Reid Moir was in front, with Sir Joseph and Lady Veevers behind him. Maynard brought up the rear. As soon as he saw them, Phillips strode over to the foot of the spoil heap. “Will you come down?” he bellowed.

Reid Moir ignored him. He kept going until he had reached the platform. Once there, he stood defiantly, holding on to the guardrail with both hands. As we watched, the other three joined him, looking rather less defiant.