Something Magic This Way Comes (32 page)

His smile lit up the road when he spotted her. She threw herself at him and he enveloped her.

“Sorry I’m late, James. They time when you switch the computer off, and the traffic was bad and—”

He stopped the flow of words with his mouth on hers. “Come on,” he said, coming up for air. “I’m starving.”

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into the café and found a table.

“What’ll you have, love?” asked the waitress.

“The all-day breakfast,” James said to the waiter.

“With tea.”

The waitress looked at Rhian.

“Um, some beans on toast.”

“No, you don’t.” James interrupted her.

“She’ll have the same as me,” he said to the waitress.

“Then you must let me pay my share,” she said “Nonsense, I earn more than you.”

He took her hand and chatted about his day. She wasn’t really listening to what he said. She just enjoyed hearing him. He slipped the button on her blouse cuff as they talked and worked the sleeve up.

“Do you want to see the other arm?” she asked, slightly nettled.

“No, as long as you are taking care of yourself,” James said. “I merely wondered why you were wearing long sleeves again.”

“I ran out of clothes.” She shrugged. “I have laundry issues.”

“Let’s go shopping tomorrow. We’ll get you some new sleeveless tops to show your beautiful arms off.”

He ran his fingers gently along the thin white scars on her forearm. They hardly showed at all now.

* * *

She and James sneaked into the hall via the back doors as they were late. Doctor Galbraith was already standing at the front.

“Order, ladies and gentleman, can we please come to order?” said Galbraith, running his fingers through a surprisingly thick head of gray hair. “I have exciting news. I have secured a sponsorship deal for us to carry out an archaeological investigation of the land by Rodomon Street.”

“The rat-infested wasteland by the canal?” asked a well-dressed lady.

“Um, yes,” said Gailbraith.

“Why would someone pay good money to dig up that dump?” asked a sharp young man called Mick.

“It could be an interesting site,” said Galbraith, defensively.

“The waterway is a canalized river. We could find an historical settlement there, an Anglo-Saxon village or a Neolithic encampment, who knows?”

“Or a place that Elizabeth the First slept in,” said Mick.

“Yes,” said Galbraith, absentmindedly.

The society members laughed. Every second-rate rural inn in Southern England had a plaque on the wall claiming that Queen Elizabeth slept there. Good Queen Bess must never have spent a night in her own bed.

“Very amusing, calm down,” said Galbraith. “But seriously, this is a great opportunity to for us to do some practical work. We can write the dig up in
The
Ealing Historical Journal
. Think what that might do for our circulation.”

“If circulation is the right word,” said Mick. Galbraith affected not to hear him.

James smiled at Rhian.
The Journal
was a laserprinted, stapled-together sheet that society members received as part of their annual subscription. Galbraith also gave it away free to local libraries whose staff put it politely on the periodical shelf. Rhian never read her copy, it was deadly dull, but James liked it. Galbraith used it as a vehicle to promote various ideas that had failed to get published in an academic journal.

“How much money are we talking about?” asked James.

“Ten thousand pounds,” said Galbraith, triumphantly.

“Who on earth wants to give a little local society like us ten grand?” asked James, astonished “Ah, the Rayman Property Development Company,” said Galbraith. “They intend to build a block of luxury apartments on the site and, very properly, want to check for any evidence of historical use first.”

“Are they not legally obliged to do that anyway?” asked Mick.

“I believe that is the case,” said Galbraith.

“And how much would a professional study by, say, London University cost?” asked Mick.

“Ah, I am a bit out of touch since I retired,” said Galbraith.

“Roughly,” said Mick, remorselessly.

“Perhaps a hundred thousand,” said Galbraith.

“So these Rayman people are getting one hell of a cheap deal,” said James.

When the meeting broke up, James and Rhian stopped for a few words with Mick who was lighting up a cigarette.

“I have heard a few things about Rayman,” said Mick, thoughtfully.

“Like what,” asked James.

“He’s supposed to have blackmailed a planning officer. People who cross him have bad luck. Their cars catch fire, that sort of thing. Just time for a pint before closing, I fancy,” Mick hurried off.

“Maybe we should keep out of this, James,” said Rhian, worried.

“I wouldn’t take too much notice of Mick. He likes to pretend that he is in the know but he’s just a law student, not Perry Mason,” said James.

* * *

Rhian pushed the wheelbarrow across the dusty archaeological site. She stopped halfway to wipe the sweat from her face and readjust the ring that held back her hair. It was one of those weeks when the wind came in from the east and blew hot, humid, continental air across London. Traffic fumes built up fast, and the air turned acrid. The city was in drought, again, and the short-lived showers of rain that had fallen were insufficient to wash away the pollution.

She could taste the acid in her mouth, and her eyes stung. She had abandoned any pretence of femininity for practical combat trousers and a crop top. Her feet felt hot and swollen in the heavy leather boots stipulated by health and safety rules.

Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle and pushed the barrow up the incline to the earth dump.

Tipping out the excavated soil in the humidity exhausted her. She tottered back to the trench.

“You look beat, love. Let’s have a break,” said James.

“Oh, yes,” she replied.

They walked to the portable hut where they stored their equipment.

“Would you like water or Coke?” James asked.

“Water, please.”

He took out a bottle of Evian and unscrewed the cap for her. Rhian drank and couldn’t stop. The water tasted of warm plastic, but she didn’t care. It was the best water that she had ever drunk. It reminded her of summer days as a child when she carried water in plastic bottles clipped to the front of her bike.

Mick wandered over to join them. “I see Galbraith has sloped off again,” he said. “ ‘Who’s with me?’ the man said. What a joke.”

“He’s old,” said Rhian. “Physical work in this weather must be difficult for him, especially as he never takes his tweed jacket off.”

“You see the best in people, honey,” said Mick. He prodded James in the arm. “You’re a lucky fellow.”

“I know,” said James. He put his arm possessively around her and she cuddled into him. He smelled of fresh sweat mixed with aftershave and male soap. On him, it smelled good.

“I reckon that we are wasting our time in that trench,” Mick said, cracking open a drink of cola. The sun-warmed can exploded in a spray of foam.

“The geophys equipment indicated a structure there,” said James, somewhat defensively.

“No offence, James, but I am past trusting cheap, clapped-out, rented equipment operated by a noveltycard shop manager who had read the manual in his lunch break,” said Mick.

“James did his best,” said Rhian hotly, leaping to his aid.

“Of course he did, honey,” said Mick. “I don’t blame him, I blame bloody Galbraith. I don’t see much evidence that ten grand has been spent on this investigation. He hasn’t even provided a poxy diesel generator to power a drinks cooler.”

“Let’s take the trench down just one more foot before abandoning it,” said James.

Mick grunted, which James obviously took as agreement. The boys went back to their shovels, and Rhian went back to her hateful barrow. She was on her way back from a trip to the dump, when she heard an excited yell from Mick.

“I’ve got something, bloody stone.”

“Stop digging and use trowels,” said James.

The other men joined him and scraped away frantically.

Rhian watched from the top.

“The stonework is completely discontinuous,” said James.

“We could be looking at the top of a smashed up medieval wall,” said Mick. “Keep scraping but be careful.”

Other boys jumped into the trench to help, and the work progressed swiftly. For the first time, Rhian understood why James found history interesting. This was like a treasure hunt.

“Hang on a minute,” said James. “These stones aren’t connected in any way. They are just jumbled together.”

He grabbed a spade and dug deeper. “There is bare earth underneath. The stones form a layer.”

“Like a Roman road?” asked Mick.

“There aren’t supposed to be any Roman roads here,” said James.

“So it’s a hitherto undiscovered Roman road,” said Mick, excitedly. Dreams of glory were clearly passing through his head.

One of the other boys started to laugh.

“What’s so funny,” said Mick, aggressively.

“The stones in that layer are smooth and rounded,” said the boy.

They gazed at him with incomprehension.

“I can see that you are city folk,” said the boy, in an exaggerated rural Norfolk accent. “That, there, canal was once a river, right?”

Rhian still did not understand. She was not the only one, judging by the uncomprehending expressions from the others.

“Streams run down into rivers,” Norfolk boy said.

“We have spent all weekend digging up a bloody dried-up stream bed,” said Mick, throwing down his trowel. “That effing does it. Get the metal detectors out.”

“We are not supposed to use them on an archaeological site,” said James.

“This isn’t an archaeological site,” said Mick.

“Right now, it’s just a wasteland that some poor bloody muppets have hand-dug a trench through.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” James agreed.

“You use the detector love; I will be your digger,” he said to Rhian. “You have done enough heavy work for one day.”

James had a modern lightweight detector with designer styling.

“You take that side and I’ll sweep this,” Mick said.

Rhian had to adjust the phones as she had a narrower head than James. She started the slow walk, swinging the detection ring from side to side. The machine murmured gently in her headphones. After half a dozen steps, the machine chimed.

“What do you reckon, love, a bottletop or a can?” asked James, digging carefully. He pulled something out of the ground. “It’s a beans can, super.”

They moved on, finding the metallic detritus of a consumer society. After half an hour, the most valuable thing that Rhian had discovered was a 50 pence coin, and Mick had found a broken fountain pen dropped by some ancient schoolboy from before the invention of the ballpoint pen.

“This is a complete waste of bloody time,” said Mick, switching his detector of with a decisive flick of his hand.

Rhian’s detector changed tone. She waved it back across the spot and it chirruped urgently.

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” James said. “Fancy a swift pint?”

“I’m getting a reading of something large,” said Rhian.

“Sure do,” said Mick, ignoring her. “Shall we pop in the King’s Arms up the road or go to the Barmaid’s Breasts down on the river? It’s a bit of a walk, but it always has a fine flock of tourist chicks to leer at.”

Rhian took the shovel from James’ unresisting hand and dug down. Every so often, she ran the detector over the hole to get her bearings. When the tone indicated that she was close, she carefully removed earth with a trowel. A strange, tarnished, metal object stuck out of the ground. She pulled it free. It was shaped like a round half-dome attached to a spine of metal across the base.

“What have you got there, honey?” asked Mick. He examined the object carefully, brushing soil away from it. “What in the name of all that’s holy is it?”

James took it. “Could it be a shield boss?”

“Dunno,” said Mick, taking up his detector again, pub outing forgotten. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

Over the next hour, they found more strange metallic objects, including chain links and round flat plates of metal.

Rhian’s detector chirruped again. James dug enthusiastically.

“Look at this,” he said.

It consisted of two bars, connected by a chain link that was rusted into a solid mass. At the other end of each bar was a large metal loop decorated by a cross.

“Do you know what it is?” Rhian asked.

“I think it’s an ancient horse bit. The linked bars went in the animal’s mouth. The reins were attached to the loops,” James said.

“Over here,” Mick called a halt. “Everyone bring their finds to the hut.”

Rhian and James went over to show their bridle bit.

One of the girls had a small cast-metal animal, a wolf.

“That is a Celtic helmet crest,” said Mick, confidently.

“Oh, come on,” said James. “How do you know that?”

“Because I found this,” said Mick. He put an object in front of them. It was pointed, leaf-shaped, and socketed at the back.

“A spearhead,” said James.

“Look at the markings,” said Mick. Vinelike metal decorations ran down the blade. They were clearly Celtic.

“I wonder what this place was,” said James. “There is no sign of a settlement.”

“Could it have been a battleground?” asked Mick.

“Imagine Queen Boudicca’s Celtic war chariots sweeping down the Thames valley.”

“There’s no recorded battle in this area,” said James. “It was London that she burned.”

“But there could have been an unrecorded skirmish,” said Mick, eyes shining with excitement.

“I guess,” said James. He grinned at Rhian. She knew that he was not convinced, but he would not spoil Mick’s romantic dreams.

An elderly Ford Escort pulled onto the wasteland, the engine expiring in a cloud of blue smoke. The young people crowded around Galbraith.

“Have a look at this lot, Doc.,” said Mick, excitedly.

“Ah, yes, most interesting,” said Galbraith. “Perhaps I should take these away for assessment. I still have a few contacts at the university.”