John Preston - The Dig

“This whole area around Sutton Hoo House has always been known as Little Egypt,” I told him. “No doubt on account of the mounds. There are a number of legends about them. People claim to have seen mysterious figures dancing in the moonlight. Even a white horse. I believe that local girls used to lie down on top of them in the hope of becoming pregnant.”

Mr. Brown glanced across at me, his eyebrows rising in two perfectly inverted Vs. “And have you ever seen any of these dancing figures yourself, Mrs. Pretty?” he asked.

“No,” I said, laughing. “Never.”

A coverlet of mist was clinging to the mounds. When we came closer to the largest of them, Mr. Brown made a little clicking sound with his tongue. “They’re bigger than I expected. Much bigger.”

He pointed upwards. “May I?”

“By all means.”

He ran up the side of the mound, elbows pumping away. When he reached the top, he stood looking round. Then he promptly disappeared. After a few seconds, I realized that he must have knelt down behind a clump of bracken. Then he straightened up and stamped on the ground — first with one foot, then the other. He stayed up on the mound for several more minutes. When he came back down he was shaking his head.

“What is it, Mr. Brown?”

“You have rabbits, Mrs. Pretty.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“Rabbits burrow,” he said. “They’re bad for excavations. Very bad. They disturb the soil.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize.”

“Oh yes, a real menace, rabbits are.”

After that we went round each mound in turn. Mr. Brown paced out measurements, making notes with a stub of pencil in an old diary. At one point a flock of geese went overhead, their necks extended, their wings thumping the air. As he lifted his head to follow them, I saw the sharpness of his profile against the sky.

By the time we had finished the dusk was thickening. Boats were still coming back up the river to Woodbridge, their lanterns lit and their motors chugging. On the slipway, voices were shouting to one another, although only these shreds of sound were audible, not the words.

Back in the sitting room, his hand reached for his jacket pocket. Then it stopped short, hovering above the flap.

“Do feel free to smoke, Mr. Brown.”

“It’s a pipe,” he said by way of warning.

“That’s all right. I don’t mind a pipe.”

He took the pipe out of his pocket, along with a pouch of tobacco. Once he had filled the bowl he lit the tobacco, then pushed it down with his thumb — the tip was completely black. A low, bubbling sound emerged from the interior of the pipe. When he sucked on it, something extraordinary happened: his entire face collapsed. The insides of his cheeks must have almost touched in the middle. When he exhaled, his face inflated again.

“Be a big job,” he said, shaking out the match.

“I could let you have one man,” I said, thinking of John Jacobs, the under-gardener. “Possibly two.”

“Two would be better. And scuppits.”

“Scuppits?”

“Shovels.”

“I think we could probably run to shovels.”

A cloud of blue smoke rose and settled above his head. “Mrs. Pretty,” he said, “I must be frank with you. These mounds of yours have almost certainly been robbed. Most of the ones around here were emptied in the seventeenth century. I wouldn’t want you getting your hopes up.”

“But would you be willing to try?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would… That’s assuming the details could be agreed.”

“The details, of course. You could lodge with the Lyonses. Mr. Lyons is my chauffeur and Mrs. Lyons is in charge of the kitchen. There is a spare bedroom in their quarters above the garage. As for money, would one pound, twelve shillings and sixpence a week be acceptable?”

He nodded, almost brusquely.

“I will arrange for you to be paid each week through the cashier at Footman Pretty’s store in Ipswich. Should you need money for incidental expenses, please let me know. If I am not here my butler, Mr. Grateley, can always pass on any messages. Now then, how long do you think you will need?”

“Four or five weeks should do it. Six at a push.”

“That long?”

“I’ll go as fast as I can, Mrs. Pretty. But you can’t rush something like this.”

“No, I understand. My only concern is that we might not have that much time.”

“Best not hang about, then.”

“No, indeed. When do you think you could start? Would next Monday be too soon?”

“I don’t believe it would, no.”

The door burst open and Robert ran in. He came towards my chair, then stopped in the middle of the carpet.

“Ugh! What’s that disgusting smell, Mama? Has the silage caught fire again?”

“Robbie,” I said, “this is Mr. Brown.”

Mr. Brown had stood up. His head came through the smoke cloud.

“This is my son, Robert,” I said, standing up myself.

I could sense Mr. Brown’s surprise as his eyes went back and forth, from one of us to the other. A flicker of puzzlement before propriety took over.

“Hello there, young man.”

Robert said nothing; he just kept staring up at him.

“Mr. Brown is an archaeologist,” I explained. “He is going to have a look inside the mounds.”

Robert turned back to face me.

“Inside the mounds? What for?”

My hands were on his shoulders. As he moved, I could feel the bones shifting beneath his skin.

“For treasure,” I said.

In Monday’s newspaper there was an advertisement below the Invalids column for something called tinned bread:

In response to widespread trade and public demand, the Ryvita company announces that their world-famous crispbread is being supplied in specially sealed tins — both airtight and gas-proof. The wholemeal nourishing form of daily bread, which is so highly commended by doctors and dentists, makes it an ideal item for emergency food storage.

As I was reading this, a movement caught my eye. I looked across the table and saw Robert struggling to eat his egg and bacon. The knife and fork looked enormous in his hands, great eating irons that seemed about to overbalance at any moment.

“Are you sure you can manage, darling?”

He carried on eating, too intent on what he was doing to reply. When he had finished, he put his knife and fork side by side before drawing the napkin carefully across his mouth. Afterwards, he peered at the napkin, drawing one edge between his fingers and inspecting the smear of egg yolk left on it.

“Please may I get down now?” he asked.

“If you are quite sure that you have finished.”

When he nodded, the underside of his chin was as white as the plate.

“What are you going to do this morning?”

He hesitated, then said, “I thought I would see if Mr. Brown was here.”

“Robbie, you’re not to get in Mr. Brown’s way. Do you understand?”

“But, Mama, can’t I just watch him?” His voice had risen and stretched.

“Later on you can. Later… This morning, however, I think you should leave him alone. Why don’t you go back upstairs and play with your trains? I could ask Mr. Lyons if he would like to join you.”

“I don’t want to play with Mr. Lyons — not again.”

“Now, Robbie, please. Don’t whine. What have I told you?”

“When is Miss Price coming back?”

“You already know the answer to that, darling. Miss Price is not coming back until the end of next week.”

Climbing down from his chair, Robert walked slowly and theatrically away from the table with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. A few moments after he had gone, Grateley came in through the swing door, trailing one leg behind him to make sure that the door did not bang shut. I moved the newspaper so that he could take my plate away.