John Preston - The Dig

At that moment, I wanted to go away. More than anything else, I wanted to be back at the Bull. Lying in my bed and holding on to the sides in case it should race away with me. I wasn’t sure I could cope with any more. Not without falling into a swoon or disgracing myself in some way. However, it was not to be.

“Darling…” said Stuart. “Look.”

I followed his gaze. Under where I had found the purse lid — beneath a faint covering of sand — were lying a number of coins. About twenty as far as I could tell. It only needed a few strokes of Stuart’s brush to bring them back into the open. Some of the coins, I saw, had crosses on one side of them. Although discolored with age, they appeared quite undamaged.

Sticking to a number of the coins were threads of fiber, presumably from the bag they had once been in. Without dislodging too many of the threads, we placed the coins on a plate, then passed them up to the top of the trench. Everyone stood ranged along the bank. They all seemed lit up with excitement.

When we had finished taking down the ground level by another two to three inches, Stuart moved to the square on his left. I just knelt and watched him working. Doing so, I had this strange sense that he too knew exactly what he was looking for. Almost as if he was coming back for something he had stowed earlier for safekeeping.

The first thing I saw was what appeared to be gold worms, wriggling away. Then I realized this was a host of tiny, serpentine creatures, all entwined around one another. Next came three raised circles, like buttons. As Stuart continued brushing, whatever he was uncovering grew steadily bigger. At one end was a hole bisected by a single gold bar. At the foot of the gold bar was a fourth circle. Although this circle was not domed, it was engraved with the same writhing serpentine creatures as before.

He kept going, working with the most minute movements. Somehow it felt appropriate that an object of such exquisite construction should be excavated by someone with such precision, such delicacy.

“There,” he said. “I think that’s about it.”

Now I could see instantly what he had found. It was a belt buckle. But larger and more ornate than any belt buckle I had ever seen before. It must have been close to six inches long and half that in width. Everything was made out of gold. The horizontal bar formed part of the clasp, while the domed studs must have originally fastened it to the belt.

Without speaking — without needing to — the two of us lifted it up with our fingertips. The imprint of the serpentine pattern was clearly etched on the earth below. Still holding the buckle between us, we walked across to the foot of the ladder.

When we reached it, Stuart pressed the buckle into my hand. “You take it.”

I was about to protest, to say that Stuart should be the one who showed it to everyone else. After all, it was his discovery. But before I could do so, he looked at me with an almost apologetic expression and said, “Please, darling. I want you to.”

Mrs. Pretty’s nephew arrived that afternoon. He rode a heavily laden bicycle and weaved his way unsteadily down the gravel path towards the mounds. Piled up behind his saddle were several cylindrical-shaped bags, while two long black tubes were suspended on either side of the back wheel.

His appearance was as chaotic as his bicycle. He had on yellow oilskin trousers and what appeared to be an old golfing jacket. On his head, worn back to front, was a baggy checked cap. He looked just like an Irish tinker.

However, he seemed to know what he was doing. From one of the tubes he took the component parts of a tripod and screwed them together. Kicking out the legs of the tripod, he attached the camera to the platform on the top. Then he ducked down beneath the hood. For the next hour and a half, he took various photographs of the pieces of jewelry, as well as several more of the interior of the ship.

At seven o’clock, we stopped work. I think all of us, Phillips included, felt that to venture any further was somehow inappropriate, even indecent. The tarpaulins were stretched across the ship and secured. Due to the urgency of sending the discoveries down to the British Museum, there was no time to wait for proper containers. Instead, they were packed into sweet bags provided by Robert and then into seed boxes that Mr. Jacobs fetched from the kitchen garden.

While this was happening, Phillips came over and said to Stuart, “A word, if I may.”

“Of course, CW.”

“In private,” said Phillips, with a glance at me.

The two of them walked down to the far end of the ship. From where I was standing they appeared to be having an animated conversation. At least Phillips kept thrusting out his right arm, presumably to lend emphasis to whatever he was saying. Stuart, however, remained quite impassive, not reacting in any way.

They were disturbed — as we all were — by the sound of Mrs. Pretty clapping her hands. She beckoned us forward. Phillips and Stuart were the last to come back, their heads still bent together. When we had gathered in a semicircle, Mrs. Pretty announced that she would like Mr. Brown to carry the seed boxes back to Sutton Hoo House.

“Brown?” said Phillips, looking up sharply.

“Mr. Brown,” she confirmed.

Phillips half-dropped one shoulder in acknowledgment. It was at this point that Mr. Spooner suggested that no one should carry that much gold about without proper protection. I had no idea if he meant this seriously, but Mrs. Pretty evidently thought so.

“A very good point,” she said.

Running off to the stables, Mr. Spooner returned with a shotgun. After he had loaded both barrels, we set off. Mr. Brown led the way, walking towards the setting sun with three seed boxes resting on his outstretched arms. Alongside him was Mr. Spooner, shotgun at the ready in case brigands suddenly sprang out of the bushes. Then came Mrs. Pretty and Robert, with Mrs. Pretty’s nephew wheeling his bicycle in his yellow oilskin trousers. The rest of us brought up the rear.

The next morning I awoke to find Stuart sitting on the side of my bed. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and rubbed my eyes.

“I’m afraid I am going to have to leave you for a day or two, darling,” he said.

“Leave me? What do you mean?”

“I have to go to London. To make arrangements with the British Museum. It’s Phillips’s idea. I’ve been turning it over in my head all night, but I can see that he’s right. He believes the sooner the treasure is in the BM, the better. Everything we have found so far, along with anything we may find in the future. Plainly that’s the place for it, although he anticipates Reid Moir trying to create trouble and claiming it belongs in Ipswich.”

“But surely any finds belong to Mrs. Pretty.”

“Ah, well, that’s another question altogether.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “No doubt there will have to be an inquest of some sort to decide just where it is going to end up. But in the meantime, it’s imperative that the finds should be properly examined and catalogued. Phillips has decided that while I am away, he will work with you in the burial chamber. Frank Grimes should be here in a day or two, although there’s still been no word from Ward-Perkins or Crawford. Do you mind awfully? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

‘When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Well,” he said, “there’s a train at a quarter to eight.”

It was only then that I noticed his suitcase standing fastened and strapped by the door.

“You’d better be going.”

Stuart stayed where he was, looking down at me. “I am sorry, darling.” He bent forward and kissed me on the cheek. “You will be all right with the car, won’t you?”