The Dig (12 page)

Throughout the morning, we kept on digging in the middle of the ship — in the area where I suspected the burial chamber must be. For fear of disturbing the soil, I switched to a trowel, a brush and the bodkin. While this was sure to take longer, there was less risk of doing any damage. Yet despite being careful not to hurry, I felt more of a sense of urgency than ever before. It was like having a metal band round my head, growing tighter and tighter.

Meanwhile, I crept along, scraping and brushing. The three discolored lines went down a good fourteen inches without getting any lighter. Despite not finding anything, I could be sure of one thing — there were no signs of disturbance. That didn’t mean that the burial chamber was still intact, of course. On the other hand, it was hard to see how else any robbers could have got in. Not without leaving a trace. And if the chamber really hadn’t been touched — well, anyone with any degree of curiosity would have to wonder what might be inside. No matter how hard they tried to stop themselves.

At the end of the day, when Robert and I had finished covering over the center of the ship, he said, “Mr. Brown …”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“You’ll give yourself a headache if you’re not careful. What have you been thinking about now?”

“If Mama has any more visitors, would you like me to keep my ears open and tell you what happens?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble for me.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t. But even so …”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone either. It could be our secret.”

“Our secret, eh?”

“All I’d have to do was listen.”

“Listeners hear no good of themselves. That’s what they say, you know.”

There’s a bruised look that comes into Robert’s eyes sometimes. When he doesn’t understand what’s going on, or feels left out.

“All right, then,” I said. “Our secret. But just make sure you don’t get caught.”

“I won’t, Mr. Brown,” he said — he’d already started running back to the house. “I promise you.”

There was no sign of Mrs. Pretty the following day. I assumed that this was because she was still feeling poorly, but then Robert said she’d gone down to London. He seemed puzzled
by this and when I asked why, he said that she normally went on a Wednesday and this was a Thursday.

He also had more information to pass on. The previous evening his mother had had a telephone call from the Ministry of Works. Apparently, they’d been making a lot of fuss about a roof, saying how an excavation of this importance shouldn’t be left open to the elements.

Already I could smell the busybodies gathering. Building a roof was bound to take several days, I would have thought — and no doubt all digging would have to be halted in the meantime. Mrs. Pretty, however, had not taken kindly to this suggestion. According to Robert, she’d told them to get lost. Or words to that effect anyway.

“She was very angry,” he said. “I could hear her talking on the telephone from my bedroom. And she was still angry when she came up to read to me. Afterwards, Mama went back downstairs to the sitting room and shut the door behind her … I’m afraid that’s all I was able to find out.”

“You’ve done well,” I told him.

“Have I?”

“Yes, you have, boy.”

Putting all this aside, as much as I was able to, I began to excavate the western end of the chamber. Within a few minutes, I came across something solid. Working outwards, I found the edge of this object and began to trowel my way around the outside. After a couple of hours, I could see that the object appeared to be made out of clay. It was about three feet in length and eighteen inches wide. There was a dip in the
middle. In this dip I found a number of stones and two small fragments of charcoal.

“Ever seen one of those before, Baz?” John asked after we’d cleaned it off.

I shook my head.

It was a big slab of clay. There was no telling if it had been made by hand. From where it was lying, it must originally have been placed on the roof of the chamber. Somehow the slab had remained in one piece when the roof collapsed.

The four of us prised it free. It was surprisingly light — much lighter than the butcher’s tray in the first mound. Underneath lay a square patch of earth. This patch was much darker than the sandy soil all around. Just like a trapdoor.

None of us said anything. We just stared down at the square of darkened earth. As we did so, that sense I’d had of a metal band tightening round my head — all of a sudden it was as if it had sprung apart and wasn’t there any more.

“Baz?” said Will quietly.

“Yes,” I said. “I think so …”

Taking the bodkin, I began scratching away. I scratched my way up one narrow strip of earth and then down again. The first chink was so faint I scarcely heard it. I tried again. There was another chink. With the brush, I swept the earth away. As I did so, a bluish-gray shape began to appear.

I told myself it was probably a pebble. I went on telling myself it was a pebble until I could be certain that it wasn’t. It was a coin, no bigger than a shirt button. Not entirely circular, but close enough and with sharp edges. I rubbed it down,
cleaning off the earth. On one side of it was a plain cross. On the other what appeared to be the imprint of a head.

Everyone crowded round, keen to have a look. When we’d all finished doing so, I looked up to see Grateley walking towards us. His tail coat was swinging behind him.

He stopped at the entrance to the trench. “I have a message for you, Basil,” he said.

“What’s that, then?”

“It’s from Mr. Charles Phillips.”

“Yes?”

“He says you are to stop work immediately and to replace all the tarpaulins.”

“Stop work?” said John Jacobs. “What the hell do you mean ‘stop work’?”

“I’m just passing on what I’ve been told,” said Grateley. “All of you are to stop work, with immediate effect.”

“What does this mean, Baz?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. Is Mrs. Pretty back yet?”

“I am afraid not,” said Grateley. “Nor do I know when she will return. I am assuming this evening. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave a number where we can reach her.”

“May I use the telephone?”

“I already told you, Basil. She can’t be contacted.”

“May I use the telephone?” I said again.

Grateley hesitated, far from taken with the idea. Then he said, “If you think you really need to.”

In the event all of us trooped in through the back door and down the corridor. The telephone was mounted on the
wall by the kitchen door. I picked it up and dialed Maynard’s number. He answered after the second ring. I explained what had happened. However, it turned out Maynard knew about it already. He said that Reid Moir had had a conversation with Phillips earlier that day. Not that Maynard knew what the conversation had been about — only that Reid Moir was currently trying to reach the relevant person in the Ministry of Works.

“I think it’s this business with a roof, Basil,” he said.

“You’re telling me we’re having to stop for a — for a blasted roof? What ruddy fool came up with that idea?”

I knew I was shouting — I couldn’t help it.

“Apparently in exceptional circumstances the ministry can order the landowner to follow their instructions,” said Maynard. “I believe the ministry has been liaising closely with the British Museum. I also understand there may be other complications.”

“Complications? What other complications?”

“I don’t know yet, Basil. Everything is a little fraught here. As I say, I haven’t been able to speak to Reid Moir. I think all you can do is wait for Mrs. Pretty to come back and then discuss the matter with her.”

“So, you’re saying we really do have to stop?”

There was no reply, not at first. I thought we must have been disconnected. And then Maynard came through again. “I’m sorry, Basil. I don’t think you have any choice. I’ll do my best to keep you posted. Goodbye.”

There was a click as he put down the receiver. A moment or two later, I did the same.

My first instinct was to write to May and tell her what had happened. Except that I couldn’t face putting my thoughts into words. I couldn’t face talking to anyone either. After we’d replaced the tarpaulins, I decided to walk into Woodbridge. Just to give myself something to do.

There was hardly any traffic on the road. Only a few cars and a couple of carts — one of them carrying beet, the other piles of hurdles. A boy was spread-eagled on top of the hurdles, clinging on as the load swayed about underneath him. It took me about an hour to reach town. Once there, I headed for the dock and sat on a bench beside the tide mill. I thought that gazing at the river might settle my mind. But it didn’t do that at all — it just made me feel like jumping in.

Next, I walked along the High Street, trying to summon some interest in what I saw in the shop windows: the rows of shoes, the shelves of dry goods, the mounds of bric-a-brac behind screens of orange cellophane. The library was already shut so that was no good. I could have gone into a pub, I suppose, but I didn’t fancy that either.

And so I carried on aimlessly wandering. Up past the Bull Hotel and St Mary’s Church, then veering down the side streets to the right. When I reached the common on the edge of town, I doubled back, this time taking a different road.
I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going — my thoughts were still tying themselves up in knots.

After a while, though, I made myself concentrate on my surroundings. I was walking past a terrace of low, brick-built houses that fronted directly onto the street. All the houses were blotched with white, dusty patches — the builder must have put too much lime in the bricks.

At the end of the terrace was a chapel. This was also made of brick, but it was a deeper, more ruddy color than the houses. The chapel was set back from the road. A strip of tarmac led through rows of gravestones to a set of double doors. One of these doors was open. Lights were on inside. A service was in progress.

Without thinking twice — hardly thinking once, really — I walked up the path and in through the door. Once inside, I saw that the chapel was more crowded than I’d expected. A few people turned round to see who this late arrival was, although not many. Most of them were staring at a small stage at the far end.

Mounted on the back wall was a portrait of the Savior. On one side of it were the words “Give Out Light” written in large gold letters, on the other side, “Give Out Love.” In front of “Give Out Light” was a frosted white bulb mounted on top of a barley-twist pole.

A woman was standing on the stage. Her gray hair was cut into a bob and she wore a long powder-blue dress. I found myself a seat near the back and close to the wall. There was a small shelf beside me with a decanter of water and two glasses on it.

Only as I sat down did I become aware that at least one person — and possibly more — was crying. Sobbing quietly to themselves. I should have left there and then, of course. The trouble was I would have risked making a spectacle of myself, and so I stayed put.

The woman in blue stood perfectly still. In front of her was a small lectern. One of her arms was held in front of her, bent at the elbow. She had the back of her hand turned towards her, as if she was reading the time. Draped over her wrist was what appeared to be a necklace, or a length of chain.

She was studying this intently.

“Ronald,” she said after a while. “Does anyone know a Ronald?”

There was silence, but a hopeful sort of silence, as if everybody was waiting for someone to fill it. The silence was broken by a dog barking — someone in the congregation must have brought one in. Then a man sitting two rows in front of me stuck his hand up.

“My father was called Donald,” he said.

“I didn’t say Donald,” said the woman sternly. “I said Ronald.”

The man lowered his hand.

“Ronald?” she said again, looking round. Still there were no takers. The woman didn’t appear to be in the least bothered. “I’ll try again,” she said, and fell to further contemplation of the chain.

Several more minutes went by. “Eric,” she said at last.

A few more hands went up now.

“Eric is a lovely-looking boy,” the woman said. “In his late teens, or early twenties, I should say.”

The hands remained in the air. White fingers straining upwards. “Where are you from, Eric?” asked the woman, leaning her head on one side.

The answer was not long in coming. “Eric says he is from Bucklesham.”

There were groans at this. All but two of the hands went down. “Eric passed over in France,” said the woman, “but he’s left a father behind him. And a mother too? No, not a mother. Sorry. She’s already with him. What’s the name of your father, Eric?” Again her head dipped down on one side. “Eric says that his father’s name is Doug.”

I heard a gasp. One of the two hands went down. The other stayed up for a few moments longer. Then this too was lowered. It belonged to a man who was sitting by himself near the front. Although it wasn’t in the least cold in the church — it was quite close, in fact — he wore an overcoat. He also had a muffler wound round his neck.

“It’s you, dear, isn’t it?” said the woman in blue.

The man nodded. Then he said something I couldn’t hear. The woman came down a set of steps from the stage and addressed him directly. “Eric is fine, you know. They both are. Eric and Mum. Eric says he loves you very much and that you mustn’t worry about either of them.”

“I hope I will be able to join them soon,” said the man in a matter-of-fact voice.

“You’ll go when you’re good and ready, dear,” said the woman. “And not before. The last thing they want is for anyone to go over before their time. Is that clear?”

Again the man nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Let me see … Eric is such a handsome boy. I can see he has your eyes. Such an honest face too. But he’s got a scar on one of his hands. All the way up his arm. Is that from the war?”

“No. It’s from when he was a boy. He fell onto some broken glass.”

“Yes, I thought it didn’t look recent. You know what your Eric is saying to me? He’s saying, ‘I wish he’d laugh more.’ Because you used to laugh a lot, didn’t you?”