Simon Clark - Humpty's bones

She managed a step in the right direction. One that would take her along the only shortcut to her aunt’s home. However, that single step brought another growl from the undergrowth. This changed in tone. The first growls had been the ‘mouth closed’ kind of muted growl, this had become a ‘jaws open’ snarl. She pictured an upper canine lip curling back to expose gleaming fangs. Another step along her chosen path brought a louder snarl, with an even greater emphasis on the warning note.

A feral dog? It’s possible in a place like this. But I’m not going to walk the long way round. I’m pushing on. A sudden movement in the shadows made her jump. ‘Damn.’ Immediately she felt a stab of annoyance at the way she’d flinched. I’m not the timid sort. I bite back. The snarls grew more menacing with every step she took. And still she hadn’t seen so much as a canine ear or a pooch whisker. What if it’s a bitch with a new litter of puppies under there? She’d only be protecting her babies. Eden recalled the way she upbraided landlords for renting rooms to students that had windows repaired with cardboard, or were so damp that fungus grew on bedroom walls. The notion of a bitch protecting vulnerable newborns made her pause. She felt a pang in her stomach that was a sense of affinity. If I disturb the mother then she might abandon her puppies. Or am I finding a reason for not going on — and for not admitting I’m scared?

Another loud snarl erupted from the bushes — most definitely the open mouth kind, with sharp teeth savagely glinting no doubt (although Eden hadn’t so much as glimpsed the animal). ‘Okay, okay, you win,’ she breathed. A moment later, she retraced her steps. ‘I suppose I have to take the long way to the house,’ she told herself with a sigh. On passing the station she noticed the sign again. ‘Dog Lands. After being turned back by a bad-tempered mutt, don’t you love the irony?’ She shook her head. ‘And the name of the house where you will be staying? Now, what do they call that, Miss Eden Page?’ A grim smile tugged her mouth. ‘Why, Miss Page, they call that house Dog Star.’ She hefted the heavy bag as its strap bit into her shoulder. ‘Dog Lands. Dog Star. A wild dog. It doesn’t get any better than this, does it?’ From those words, uttered half-humorously, to knowing that she had to take the longer road route to Dog Star House was only a hop and a skip to recollecting what the man on the train had said. ‘You should always respect omens… beware, beware, beware… ’ Eden was normally so level-headed and rational, yet all of a sudden the man’s words had all the resonance of a warning. One directed at her intention to throw herself on the mercy of a family member she hadn’t met in years.

Eden Page found her aunt. She was at the bottom of her garden, and under a large gazebo. Why she stood shoulder-deep in a hole beneath an awning in the rain, and why she picked lumps of mud from that chasm Eden didn’t know or care. The walk from the station had been punishing. The road that pierced the village was dead straight and encouraged vehicles to speed dangerously. Passing farm trucks had splashed her. The hold-all’s dead weight hurt her shoulder, she was sure a whopper of a bruise was blooming there from her skin.

‘Heather! You were supposed to collect me from the station. You promised!’ Eden threw the hold-all down onto the grass. ‘I kept calling! Why didn’t you answer the phone?’

‘Eden! Watch where you’re putting your feet. Those are fragile. I’ve just spent the last two hours getting them out in one piece.’

‘What?’

‘Move back from there. Further back. No, to your left. Oh! You’ve trod on one. Whatever you do, don’t do any more damage! No, stand still. Stop tramping round like a — oh!’ Heather slapped her hand down onto the rim of the pit in which she stood. ‘Eden! You stood on the tile, you — ’

Idiot girl? Don’t ever call me ‘you idiot girl’ again!

Her aunt finished the sentence, however with, ‘you’ll break the only complete tile I’ve found.’

Eden hadn’t seen her aunt in almost a decade. Back then, the woman hadn’t been slow to address her with that scathing, ‘you idiot girl’. Now events had moved on. Eighteen months ago, her aunt, Heather Laird, had inherited Dog Star House from her mother. Heather was an accountant; her only child served in the Merchant Navy; at fifty-three she possessed the same youthful vigour as the Page side of the family. Right at that moment Heather (always ‘Heather’ to Eden — never ‘Aunt’) stood in a hole up to her shoulders. Above her stood a portable gazebo shelter of the type that can be bought in garden centres. Raindrops hung and dripped from the sides in slow procession.

Grimly suggestive, the oblong slit in the earth in which Heather stood resembled an open grave. Heather’s body possessed a wiry toughness, her hair had been scraped back tight into a pony tail. Her hands were thick with dirt right up to the elbows. As Eden stood there glaring, Heather reached down into the hole and hoisted out a boulder the size of a water melon. The muscles in her arms protruded from her skin with perfect definition. Handling the rock confidently, she rolled it across the rough grass away from the pit’s side

Eden wasn’t for one moment going to let talk of cracked tiles brush aside her complaint. ‘Heather. Why didn’t you pick me up from the station? I’ve had to walk for the best part of an hour. I’m soaked.’

Heather cried out. ‘Ah! Here’s another one! My God, not just one… I don’t believe it. One, two, three, four. There must be another dozen. Here, hold out your hand. I’ll give you one at a time. Careful, careful! Put them in the plastic tray over there by the chair. Not the white tray, the green one. Gently, don’t drop it in. Do you see? Green tray for coins, white for potsherds. The big red bowl’s for bones.’

Eden looked from what appeared to be a small pebble that Heather had placed in her open hand to where the woman stood in the grave-shaped pit. A battery-powered lamp lit the bottom of it brilliantly. It was as if Heather stood in a bath of silver radiance. Rich, brown walls of earth gave way to a black floor littered with lumps of stone the size of shoe boxes. The rich soil odours were almost intoxicating.

Heather crouched to scrape dirt with a trowel. ‘I can’t wait for the rain to stop so I put this up.’ She pointed up at the canvas awning with her trowel. ‘The work must go on.’

‘Work? You mean this hole?’

‘Excavation. I’ve found the remains of a Roman outbuilding; the actual villa is over in that field; alas, the villa’s discovery is nothing to do with me — it was uncovered by the county archaeological unit a couple of years ago. Naturally I’m not allowed to touch that. English Heritage whacked it with a preservation order. If I so much as look at it I’ll be sued. But this is my land, so this is my Roman tool-shed, or stable, or whatever it is. I’ve spent the last three weeks excavating. And no bloody rain’s going to stop me.’

‘Or picking your niece up from the station?’

‘Sorry about that.’ Heather briefly glanced up as she scraped crumbs of earth from the bottom of the pit. ‘I only hope this damp won’t make the sides collapse.’

‘You said if I phoned from the station that you or Curtis would — ’

‘Yippee, another one. Heavy. At least three fused together. Big — could be early sestertii.’

‘Heather! I had to walk an hour… in the rain… with that bag. You don’t — ’

‘I said I’m sorry.’ Heather’s eyes flicked from the fused lump of coins to Eden standing above her. ‘But you didn’t confirm what day you were arriving. I thought it was tomorrow.’