John Preston - The Dig

Again I nodded.

“Good. Don’t let anyone hold you back in your endeavors. Sometimes you just have to carry on regardless.”

She turned and walked back to the lectern. After that a man came on and said that he wanted to speak for all of us in thanking Miss Florence Thompson for a remarkable example of mediumship. He was sure this had brought a great deal of comfort to everyone.

A murmur of agreement ran through the congregation. Once it had died away, he asked us to stand up and turn to Hymn 308 in our hymnals. From one side of the stage came the sounds of an organ. Very slow and dirge-like, as if whoever was playing it had their hands stuck in treacle. Above a low curtain a pile of blond hair — presumably belonging to the organist — could be seen swaying from side to side.

First she ran through one verse to reacquaint us with the tune. And then in we all came:

I don’t know how long it took me to walk back to Sutton Hoo House. A lot less time than it took me to walk into Woodbridge, that’s for sure. As I turned into the driveway, my watch was showing just after seven thirty. Apart from a few dabs of cloud, the sky was still bright. With a bit of luck, I reckoned there should be another hour and a half of daylight left. Mrs. Pretty’s car was parked outside the back door. She must have come back from wherever she’d been to while I was in Woodbridge.

At the mounds, everything was just as we’d left it. That was a relief. I lit a pipe and climbed down the ladder. After I’d reached the bottom I took the ladder away from the side of the trench and laid it flat on the ground. I’m not sure why — it wasn’t as if there was much chance of anyone else coming along. Even so, I wanted to make sure I was left alone.

When I unrolled the tarpaulins, the square of discolored earth showed up just as clearly as it had done before. I knelt down and set to, scraping and brushing. I didn’t have to wait long. Two feet away from where I had found the coin, I came across a greenish band. It looked like the remains of a piece of copper. And then came another green band. Duller than the first — even after I’d brushed it down — but about the same width and length as before. Bronze hoops, I thought. That’s what these will be. Bronze hoops from a barrel.

The light was starting to go now. When I looked at my watch it was already past nine o’clock. I couldn’t believe it. I calculated how much time I’d waste going back and fetching a torch, and then decided that I’d just have to make do.

Sweat ran down my face, dripping onto the ground. I can’t say how much later it was when I came across the piece of wood. To begin with, I assumed this must be the barrel. Or the remains of it at any rate. However, the wood was both larger and flatter than I would have expected. But if it wasn’t a barrel, then what was it? There was another possibility, of course — it could be one of the collapsed roof timbers from the burial chamber.

I kept on brushing for a while. And then I decided to stop, just for a moment, before I went on. As soon as I’d put the brush down, I saw it. There was a small hole in the top left-hand corner of the piece of wood — hardly larger than the coin I had found earlier. While I was staring at it, wondering what to do next, I became aware of a presence nearby. A movement in the corner of my eye.

To begin with, I tried to ignore it — I didn’t much care who it was, or what. And then came a whispered voice: “Mr. Brown.”

I looked up. Robert was crouched on one of the terraces. He had slippers on and was wearing his dressing gown.

“What are you doing here?”

“I saw the glow of your pipe. What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

“Can I come and have a look?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Please, Mr. Brown.”

“Not now, boy!” I said, much more loudly than I meant to. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Just go back to bed and leave me be.”

Aware that I’d spoken harshly, but too intent on what I was doing to make amends, I carried on as before. By the time I looked up again, Robert had gone. The light was fast disappearing now, the last few glimmers fading away. Maybe if there’d been more time, I wouldn’t have done what I did next. I don’t know. Probably that’s just an excuse. The truth is I couldn’t stop myself. At the same time, I was hardly even aware of what I was doing.

I pushed my finger into the hole. As I did so, I had the strangest feeling — it felt as if it was passing from one element to another. After a few minutes — I’ve no idea how long — I withdrew my finger. Then came the great wash of sadness, knocking me back.

Walking to the house, the sweat was cold against my skin. Above the rooftop the moon was so pale it was almost white. I rang the bell. Grateley stood in the doorway with the light bouncing off the walls behind him.

“Do you know what time it is, Basil?”

“Even so, I need to see her.”

He paused to consider this. Then he gave me a look. “I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to wait until morning.”

The next morning I did something I hadn’t done in weeks — I overslept. By the time I woke up it had gone six and it was close to half past by the time I started work. I spent the next two hours working my way round the piece of wood. It was slow going as the wood kept flaking. Even so, it was absorbing enough to stop me from thinking about anything else.

At a quarter to nine I rang the bell, assuming that Mrs. Pretty would be up. Once again Grateley answered the door. Once again he told me that Mrs. Pretty was not available. I asked if she was feeling poorly again. No, he said. Not as far as he knew.

I couldn’t understand what was going on — it didn’t seem to make any sense. Still, there was nothing to be done, nothing I could think of anyway. So I went back and carried on as before. At eleven o’clock Grateley appeared at the mouth of the trench. He didn’t make any comment on the fact I was working. He just announced that Mrs. Pretty would see me now. We walked in silence back to the house.

As we were standing in the corridor, he said quietly, “Hands, Basil.”

“What about them?”

“They could use a scrub.”

After I’d washed in the pantry, he led me through into the hallway. The door to the sitting room was shut. I could hear voices inside. The moment Grateley knocked, the voices stopped.

The first person I saw was Charles Phillips — the man in the bow tie. He was standing by the fireplace with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. I looked around. Maynard and Reid Moir were behind the sofa. Although Reid Moir stood perfectly still, something about the way he was holding himself suggested he was writhing about inside.

Mrs. Pretty was in the middle of the floor. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Brown,” she said. “You know Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard, of course. Have you met Charles Phillips before?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“Now that we are all here, would everyone care to sit down?”

While there was a murmur of agreement at this, no one made any move to do so.

“Would you care to sit, Mr. Brown?” Mrs. Pretty asked.

“I’m fine where I am. Thank you very much, Mrs. Pretty.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Mrs. Pretty said, “I have asked you here to discuss a rather delicate matter, Mr. Brown.”

Already I’d decided to make a clean breast of it — there seemed no point doing anything else. Without further ado, I said, “I know that Mr. Phillips told me to stop digging. And I know that I had no business going back and carrying on last night—”