The Dig (3 page)

She was standing beside the open cupboard. Rows of dresses were hanging inside, most of them still in their muslin dust-covers.

“What would you like to wear tonight, ma’am?”

I pointed at one of the dresses that was not in a cover. There seemed no point going to any more trouble than necessary.

“The green silk again, ma’am? That’s an old favorite, that one, isn’t it?”

As she was helping me to put the dress on, Ellen chattered away about members of the staff and what they had been up to. To begin with, I also feared that I might find her talkativeness trying. Instead, I have rather come to enjoy our conversations, even to look forward to them. Apart from anything else, I learn far more about the household from Ellen than I ever could on my own. Although she is not a gossip, she has a natural curiosity about people, as well as a keen ear for their idiosyncrasies. On the subject of her own circumstances, however, she is rather less forthcoming. For several months she was stepping out with a boy from Woodbridge. However, it has been some weeks now since she last mentioned him and so I suspect this is no longer the case.

Once we had finished, she asked if I wanted her to repin my hair. I said that would not be necessary.

“I could just give it a quick comb if you like, ma’am.”

“No, thank you, my dear.”

I wonder if Ellen has noticed that I am losing my hair. She can scarcely have failed to do so. But while she may be something of a chatterbox, there is a natural discretion about her too. It is another of her virtues.

At eight o’clock, Grateley knocked on the swing door that leads out from the dining room to the kitchen. For such a bony man, it never ceases to surprise me that he should have such a cushioned-sounding knock. It is as if he has little pillows on each of his knuckles. Silently, he brought the tureen into the dining room and carried it over to the table.

After Grateley had ladled out the soup, he asked me if I wanted to listen to the news. In anticipation of my saying yes, he had already moved over to the sideboard and was about to lift the lid of the wireless. However, I had no desire to listen to the news; it was certain to be alarming or depressing, or quite possibly both. Instead, I told him that tonight I would rather read.

When he had gone, I opened my copy of Howard Carter’s account of the excavation of the tomb of Tutankhamun and propped it against the tureen. Increasingly, I have found myself reading about the past. It is a retreat, of course. I know that. Nonetheless, there is something peculiarly comforting in reading about events that have already happened. This as opposed to those that seem to hang, half-formed, above one’s head.

Once again I read Carter’s description of the discovery of the king’s burial chamber:

Grateley brought in the main course: boiled beef with carrots. The smell rose from the plate. As it did so, my gorge rose with it. Partly to put off having to start eating, I asked after Grateley’s wife — she works as a nurse at the cottage hospital.

“She’s quite well, thank you, ma’am.”

“And you, Grateley, how are you?”

“I too am quite well,” he allowed.

“Is your lumbago any better?”

“Still playing up a little, ma’am. But nothing to complain about.”

When he had gone, I could only manage a few mouthfuls before I had to push the plate away. Afterwards, I started reading again, but I was unable to concentrate. All the while my thoughts kept returning to Frank. In one sense, I felt an enormous sense of relief at finally embarking on something that meant so much to him. In another, of course, doing so only
made his absence more acute. Not for the first time, it struck me how this excavation was like a form of disinterment.

Yet even as these thoughts ran through my mind, I had a sense of everything fading. Memories fleeing as I attempted to clutch on to them. Still staring at the open book, I recalled how Carter had written that he could remember little or nothing of the actual moment when he had stood looking into the burial chamber. All these impressions had crowded in on him to such an extent that not one of them had lodged. Looking back several months afterwards, he found to his dismay that his mind was quite blank.

Grateley’s face was as impassive as always as he cleared my plate away. “Would you thank Mrs. Lyons for me?” I said. “The beef was delicious. It’s just that I don’t appear to have much of an appetite at the moment.”

“I expect it is this weather, ma’am.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I expect it is.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“No. That will be all, thank you.”

“I’ll wish you goodnight, then, ma’am.”

“Goodnight, Grateley.”

Upstairs, I looked in on Robert. Recently, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, he has become obsessed with making drawings of the Matterhorn. When I asked him why, he did not reply. Instead, his shoulders seemed to fold towards one another, as if he was shutting himself from my gaze. These drawings are identical, or nearly identical; I assume because
they have been copied out of a book. A number of them had been pinned to the wall. They lifted in the breeze when I opened the door.

Robert was asleep and had thrown off most of the blankets. One of his feet was exposed, the white bulb of his heel sticking up in the air, the toes bent against the mattress.

I covered his foot with one of the blankets, then kissed him on the forehead. He gave a small grunt — it was almost a sigh — but did not stir.

On the following afternoon I was told that Mr. Maynard from Ipswich Museum had come to pay a visit — Mr. Maynard is the curator of the museum and effectively Mr. Reid Moir’s deputy. According to Grateley, he had gone straight out to the excavation rather than come to the house and risk disturbing me. I decided that I would also go and see how Mr. Brown was getting on.

During the night it had rained and the grass was still slippery. I had to be careful where I put my feet. Hearing a yell, I looked up to see Robert running towards me. Around his head he had what appeared to be an elastic garter with several feathers stuck in it. I watched him come closer, rooted to the spot. All the time I was waiting for him to stop. However, he just kept coming. His arms were outstretched, his mouth open wide and his cheeks full of air.

When he threw his arms around my legs, I reached down and gripped him by the tops of his arms.

“Darling, no,” I said.

I thought that I might fall backwards, that his weight might make me topple over. For a moment it seemed as if his legs were still spinning. As if he had not heard what I had said, or intended to ignore it.

“Darling, no, please,” I said, and pushed him away.

Abruptly, his legs stopped. He looked up at me in confusion, as if everything had just slipped out of true.

“You — you musn’t rush everywhere, Robbie. You could easily cause an accident.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said.

Turning round, he walked off towards one of the spoil heaps. Feeling wretched, I watched him go, trying to read his mood from the slope of his shoulders.

Mr. Maynard and Mr. Brown were standing on the far side of the mound. The first trench now reached all the way to the center. It was also wider than before; wide enough for two people to stand side by side. At right angles to it was a second trench, narrower than the first, but also reaching to the center.

Maynard is a bustling, fretful man with a kind of perpetual dampness about him — a result, in part, of his having unusually moist eyes. With the best will in the world, you could never describe him as scintillating company. But at times, when he is being especially literal-minded, there is a small, faraway smile on his face, as if in some private corner of his brain he relishes the effect he is having on others.

After I had greeted the two of them, Mr. Brown asked if I might like to see how they were getting along.

I told him I would like that very much.

“But your feet, Mrs. Pretty,” said Mr. Maynard unhappily. “I fear they will become muddy.”

“There’s no need to worry, Mr. Maynard. As you can see, I am wearing quite sturdy shoes.”

It was a strange feeling, stepping into the mound. A rich underground smell rose all around me, of roots, dankness and decay. The mud walls shone with moisture. The imprints of the shovel blades were clearly visible in the earth. So too were the layers of soil, these broad, perpendicular bands on either side. In some places, the walls had already started to crumble. Planks had been placed vertically on the ground to try to prevent them from doing so.

At the far end of the trench was a small pit. At the bottom of it, I could just make out a lighter-colored patch of soil with ragged, ill-defined edges. The outline had been marked with pegs and baling twine.

Mr. Brown pointed at the pit. “Now, that might be the chamber there. Although I have to tell you it could just as easily be a dew pond, Mrs. Pretty. Sometimes it’s the devil to tell them apart.”

“Surely the solution is to dig down and find out,” I said.

Mr. Brown started to laugh. “Oh, that’s the solution all right. At least that’s what I would have said. However, Mr. Maynard and I were just having a discussion about the best way to proceed. He is in favor of our digging a third trench here —” He indicated the other side of the mound to the narrower of the two trenches. “Whereas my instinct under the circumstances is to make do with just the two.”

I turned round to Mr. Maynard. He was standing right behind me.

“The normal procedure is to dig three trenches,” he said doggedly. “That way one can be as sure as possible that nothing is missed. Mr. Reid Moir always insists on three — always.”

“I do appreciate that thoroughness is vital, Mr. Maynard,” I said. “And I can assure you that I would never countenance anything slapdash. Yet at the same time one also has to bear in mind that there is a certain amount of urgency about the excavation.”

“Urgency?” He gazed at me with his moist eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“We are at the mercy of factors beyond our control.”

Maynard blinked several times and then lowered his voice. “You are alluding to the international situation, madam?”

“Exactly.”

A lengthy pause followed, during which Mr. Maynard stood quite still. Slowly, as if by infinitesimal degrees, the small, faraway smile came over his face.

I glanced at Mr. Brown, who caught my eye. We waited a little longer. At last Mr. Maynard said, “I shall tell Mr. Reid Moir that two trenches would appear to be sufficient. Under the present circumstances.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Maynard. That is kind.”

The two of us walked back to the house. Robert came too. He was careful, I noticed, to keep a safe distance away. Every few paces, he jumped in the air and gave a piercing whoop. Then he ran on ahead and waited for Mr. Maynard and me to catch him up.

“A delightful boy,” said Maynard. “Quite charming … Do you have many grandchildren, Mrs. Pretty?”

“As a matter of fact, Robert is my son,” I told him.

For a pale-skinned man, Maynard changed color with remarkable speed. His entire face became crimson, even his ears.

“I — I really am most dreadfully sorry.”

“Please do not distress yourself, Mr. Maynard,” I said. “It is a perfectly understandable mistake to make.”

On Wednesday morning I made my weekly excursion to London. As usual, Lyons brought the Alvis round to the front door after breakfast. He was standing outside in his navy-blue uniform, the sun glinting off his buttons. Robert came to see me off. I was aware of how heavy my feet sounded on the gravel, crunching laboriously from step to step, and of how little noise his own feet made by comparison.

“Will you be able to amuse yourself while I am away?” I asked.

“Mr. Brown says that I can help with the digging.”

“Does he? Well, just be careful not to —”

“Not to what, Mama?”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

After I had kissed him, he remained squinting up at me.

“Is there something wrong, darling?”

“Your hat.”

“What about it?”

He giggled. “It’s on crooked.”

I reached up to straighten it. “There, is that better?”

“Yes,” he said doubtfully.

On the way into Woodbridge it began to spit with rain. We became stuck behind a convoy of army trucks. Men in uniform sat in the back. They gazed out, their white faces fusing into a single, biddable mass as they swayed from side to side. The convoy was moving so slowly that I grew concerned that I should miss my train.

However, when we arrived at the station it turned out that the train had been canceled due to a points failure at Ipswich. As a result, it would be an hour before the next one. Rather than simply sit and wait, I decided to go for a walk around the town. I asked Lyons to stay where he was and told him that I would return shortly. I then set off up Market Street, towards the Bull Hotel.

Halfway up the hill, I stopped briefly in a shop doorway, then looked back down towards the estuary. Despite its being high tide, surprisingly few boats were on the water. Those that were drifted listlessly about, their jibs flapping. I had not gone much further when I became aware of a very disagreeable sensation. I began to suspect that I was being followed. At first, I assumed I must be imagining it and tried to push the thought to the back of my mind. But instead of going away, as I hoped it would, the suspicion steadily hardened.

Once again I stopped and looked back down the street. This time, however, I stayed where I was. Within a matter of seconds, Lyons came round the corner. He saw me immediately, although
he tried his best to pretend that he had not. Nonetheless, he had no real choice but to continue walking in my direction. In an attempt to make himself appear more nonchalant, he began to whistle.