John Preston - The Dig

Before I could say anything else, Mrs. Pretty held up her hand. “I have no intention of rebuking you for your enthusiasm, Mr. Brown. Quite the contrary. In fact, I want to make it plain from the outset that no one here has anything but the highest praise for the way you have conducted the excavation.”

Reid Moir nodded. So too, I saw, did Charles Phillips. It was at this point that I began to grow alarmed.

“Nonetheless,” she went on, “we must, all of us, take into account that this is a far bigger project than we could ever have imagined.”

Mrs. Pretty paused, apparently to catch her breath. But before she could do so, Phillips stepped in. “You mustn’t take this personally, Brown,” he said.

“Take what personally, Mr. Phillips?”

“Mmm? What I am about to say. First of all, I would like to second Mrs. Pretty’s opinion of your abilities. You have done a first-rate job here. Your knowledge of Suffolk soil is second to none. Frankly, I doubt if anyone could have done any better. However, as Mrs. Pretty has already pointed out, this is now a very important dig, among the most important ever undertaken in this country. One that simply cannot be left in the hands of a somewhat ad hoc team from what, with the best will in the world, can only be described as a small provincial museum. Especially at this critical juncture. Therefore, with the full agreement of Mrs. Pretty and, of course, with Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard’s consent, I have assumed full control of the excavation. I will be working with a number of people from the British Museum. All of them top people in their fields. We in turn will be liaising closely with the Ministry of Works.”

Even then his words took a few moments to sink in.

“You’re replacing me?” I said.

“That is not how I would choose to put it, Brown. I very much hope that you will feel able to carry on. Albeit in a more subordinate role.”

I looked across at Reid Moir. He gazed back at me. I’ve seen livelier-looking stares on a fishmonger’s slab. Then I looked at Mrs. Pretty. She was staring at the floor.

“When exactly are you taking over, Mr. Phillips?” I asked.

“Immediately. From today.”

There was still a kind of swirl inside my head. Spinning everything round and round and then tossing it away.

“I see…” I said. “In which case, I’d like to assure you that I’ll do anything I can to help. In — in whatever way you see fit.”

Phillips turned to the others.

“You see? I told you that I did not anticipate any difficulties. Nonetheless, I am grateful for your attitude, Brown. Very grateful.”

“Was there anything else?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so, unless…”

He glanced across at Mrs. Pretty, but she didn’t react. “No, I think we have said everything that needed to be said.”

Grateley was waiting outside the door to lead me away. As we were passing the kitchen, Robert ran out. He stopped when he saw me. I started towards him, intending to give him a pat on the head. That was all. But as I did so, he flinched and ran back through the door.

After breakfast Stuart went for his morning walk. I sat in the lounge and read the newspaper. Several of the other guests were also there, sitting half-buried in their tatty chairs, staring out with veiled, incurious eyes. They barely moved even when the maid came in with the carpet sweeper. Part of me wanted to pull them to their feet, the women as well as the men, and spin them round, twirl them out of themselves. This thought, though, was immediately succeeded by a sense of guilt. What a troublesome nature I have and how hastily I rush to judge people.

Some judgments, however, cannot be avoided. The matter of the hotel, for instance. When Stuart was a child he had come here on holiday with his parents. Ever since, he had dreamed of coming back. But the place is not what it was. That much was obvious on our first night as we sat in the dining room, struggling to read grease-speckled menus by the light of a flickering chandelier.

“I’m afraid they have rather let the place go, darling,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

Soon afterwards, in an attempt to drive the silence away, a woman began to play the harp. She sat in the corner, plucking away at the strings with thick, inexpressive fingers. We both ordered the pork for our main course. The meat was so tough I had to use my knife like a saw. As we were chewing away, we caught one another’s eye and started laughing. We both buried our faces in our napkins until our convulsions had passed.

Now I looked up to see that a boy had come into the lounge. He was wearing a brown uniform and swinging a silver dish.

“Piggott,” he called out.

A rustle of disapproval passed through the other guests. They did not care to be disturbed by any noise apart from the dinner gong.

“Piggott!” called out the boy again.

The ridiculous thing is I didn’t recognize my own name. Not at first. The boy was about to go out again when I lifted my hand and said, “Here.”

“Mrs. Piggott?” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it either.

“Yes.”

He held out the dish. It was much clouded by fingerprints. A brown envelope was lying there.

“Telegram for you.”

The words “S. Piggott Esq.” were typed on the envelope. I picked it up, wondering who could have died or suffered some terrible accident. Telegrams always meant bad news; everybody knew that. Meanwhile, the other guests were staring at me from the depths of their chairs. All plainly suspecting me of being an impostor, yet willing me to open the envelope just the same.

I sat and waited for Stuart to come back, forcing myself to concentrate on the newspaper. But I could only manage it for a few more minutes before I jumped to my feet and ran from the room — doubtless provoking another rustle of disapproval.

Outside it was raining. I stood beneath the awning and tried to see if I could catch sight of him. Rows of little Regency houses stretched in either direction, all painted in shades of cream, all with wrought-iron balconies facing towards the sea. Cliffs the color of ox blood towered behind them. A few pedestrians were walking along the front, their heads down, their shoulders hunched.

Stuart, however, was not among them. I kept turning in one direction and then the other, all the time feeling a tide of panic rising inside me. At last I saw him. His mackintosh was stained with rain and his hair plastered over the dome of his head. He was only a few yards away when he looked up.

“Hello, darling! What are you doing out here?”

I didn’t say anything; I just handed him the telegram. He didn’t open the envelope until he had first taken off his coat, shaken it out and then hung it in the lobby. As he was reading, he pushed his bottom lip forward. Water ran down his face and collected there.

Then he began to laugh.

“What is it?”

He gave the telegram to me.

MAJOR FIND IN SUFFOLK STOP SHIP-BURIAL EVEN BIGGER THAN OSEBERG STOP COME AT ONCE STOP BRING WIFE STOP REGARDS PHILLIPS STOP

“I suppose I had better wire him back,” said Stuart.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“Why, that it’s impossible, of course. Typical Phillips, issuing lordly commands and expecting everyone immediately to drop whatever they’re doing.”

The panic must have churned me up. I was so relieved nothing was wrong that I didn’t want the moment to pass.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” I asked.

“Darling… we’re on our honeymoon. There can be no question of our going. You’re not seriously suggesting that we should, are you?”