John Preston - The Dig

“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.