John Preston - The Dig

Stuart and I, however, made rapid progress. Once we had divided the ship into squares, we started cleaning down the south side of the burial area. During the morning Mrs. Pretty and her son, Robert, came out to see how we were getting along. Once again, Phillips performed the introductions. Mrs. Pretty seemed much too old to be the mother of such a young son. The boy, Robert, twisted shyly away while he was being introduced and then ran off towards the spoil heaps as soon as Phillips had finished.

That afternoon, Stuart started to make a proper map of the site, while I carried on as before. At seven o’clock we finished for the day and drove back to the Bull. As I was muddy from the dig, I decided to take advantage of the fact that the bathroom was free.

The water hiccuped and spat from the hot tap as the bathroom filled with steam. Standing on the cork mat, I tested the water with my foot. It was hotter than I had expected — so hot my toes instinctively clenched — although not too hot to tolerate. First I swung one leg in and then the other. The bath was wonderfully big; you could have fitted two people in it with no trouble at all.

As I lowered myself down, I could feel the line between hot and cold sliding up my body, from my calves up to my hips. Warming my blood by horizontal degrees. Once I was fully immersed, I lay back, gasping as the water closed over my chest, seeing the steam part with the force of my breath. I could feel the heat against my eyeballs, passing down my throat.

Enveloped in steam, shiny with soap, I spread my hands and let my arms float out on either side of me. As I did so, my thoughts also started to lighten and float. I found myself thinking about the flat in Great Ormond Street which I had moved into at the start of my second year at the university. Apart from the Georgian windows and a black marble fireplace, there was nothing particularly special about it. Pipes shrieked whenever the water was turned on, while strips of wallpaper fell from the walls like plane trees shedding their bark. The furnishings — Lloyd Loom chairs, pine table, mahogany tallboy — were a utilitarian jumble, while at night mice ran about beneath the floorboards.

Yet it was the first place where I had ever felt truly at home, able to be myself. From a secondhand shop in Theobalds Road, I bought an old EMG gramophone with a brass horn and a box of needles. For an extra five shillings, the man offered to sell me a case of records. Some of the records were hopelessly scratched, while others were missing their labels. A few, however, were in a perfectly playable condition. One was Max Bruch’s First Violin Concerto.

I had never heard it before, but from the moment it began I was filled with a kind of ecstatic familiarity. The music seemed to reach down deep inside me, touching me and transforming me. Dressed only in my underclothes, I began to dance around the flat. Not knowing what I was doing, but making my own steps. Improvising as best as I could. Flinging out my legs and throwing back my head. Catching glimpses of my reflection in the long mirror as I spun past. My body no longer lumpish and ungainly, but sleek and graceful. Soaring and then tumbling in this rhapsodic state of bliss.

Lying now in the bath, I started to sway gently in time to the music in my head. At first, the water threatened to slop over the sides, but as it balanced on the lip of the bath it grew suddenly viscous and slid back down the porcelain. Cupping my hands, I lifted them up and let the water trickle down over my head and shoulders.

As I was doing so, the bathroom door opened.

Immediately, I covered myself up as best I could. Through the steam I could see a face — a man’s face. Then a muffled voice said, “I’m frightfully sorry.” The door closed. It took me a few moments to realize that the man had been Stuart. Stepping out of the bath, I quickly toweled myself dry.

When I returned to the bedroom, Stuart was sitting in the armchair with a book open in his lap. He didn’t say anything when I came in. It was while I was brushing my hair that he said quietly, “I could have been anyone, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You forgot to lock the door.”

“I know… I didn’t think.”

“Of course, it doesn’t matter — seeing how it was me. But it might not have been me. That’s the point. You will be more careful in future, won’t you, darling?”

“I promise you it won’t happen again,” I said.

He smiled at me over the top of his spectacles, then returned to his book.

As we were on our way out of the hotel the next morning, the receptionist gave us a note from Charles Phillips. It said that he had gone to Cambridge and would not be back until sometime in the afternoon.

Stuart and I started where we had left off. He carried on making a map of the site, while I continued troweling and sieving in the southern corner of the burial chamber. The clouds soon parted and lifted. By the time Mrs. Pretty and Robert came out, the sun was shining more fiercely than it had done all summer. I wished I had packed a hat — my skin turns an off-puttingly dark shade of brown in the sun.

At eleven o’clock, Mrs. Pretty’s butler brought out a tray with two jugs of lemon barley water on it and some glasses. We all broke off and drank our fill. No one said very much. I know that I am apt to misread people’s moods, but it seemed to me to be an eager, expectant sort of silence. A sense of anticipation that everyone shared, but no one wished to acknowledge out loud.

When we had finished, I set to again. The crust of earth felt quite solid beneath my feet. Dust rose all round, caking my hands and stiffening my hair. Normally, there is something not simply absorbing about narrowing one’s focus to such a small area, but also soothing. Your world has shrunk to a few square inches of earth and nothing else matters. Nothing else can be allowed to matter.

Now, though, I found that my concentration had been affected. I wanted to blame it on the sunlight, while knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t the sunlight at all. My hands continued working away, but my mind did not feel connected to them. Instead, it kept wandering off on its own, always towards the same place. There was one image I couldn’t dislodge, no matter how hard I tried. It had been swimming around in my mind all night, looming before me whenever I tried to convince myself that I was on the verge of sleep.

All the time I saw Stuart’s face looking round the bathroom door. Except that now the steam had parted and I could see his expression quite clearly. Shocked, but not just shocked — something more than that. I told myself that I must be mistaken, that I was working myself into a state over nothing. Only this didn’t work either. The more I told myself, the less convincing it became.

Stuart is such a fine man: wise, kind and even-tempered. I feel so very lucky — so blessed — to have found him. It is an added blessing that we have shared interests to bind us together. This, I am convinced, is the key to an enduring relationship.

Yet I know that I must be doing something wrong. That I must be disappointing Stuart in some critical way. I cannot tell if it is my troublesome nature, or my appearance, or both. I so want to make myself attractive to him that it’s having quite the opposite effect. I am driving him away. But I have no idea how to make anything better, or who to turn to for advice.

As my hands kept on troweling, my eyes started to mist over. Angrily, I wiped the moisture away. It was only then that I saw what was lying in front of me. My first thought was that I must have dropped something. Or that someone else must have done. It looked so bright, so raw. So absurdly new.

I reached out and my fingers touched a small, hard object. At the same time I heard myself saying, “Oh,” in a faraway voice. Then I picked it up. Lying in the palm of my hand was a gold pyramid. It was flattened on top and decorated with what appeared to be tiny pieces of garnet and lapis lazuli. In the center of the flattened top was a square made up of even tinier blue and white chequered glass.