John Preston - The Dig

Afterwards I had planned to go back upstairs. But it wasn’t yet ten o’clock and I had no wish to sleep, or read — still less to listen to the wireless. Unable to think of anything else to do, I went back outside. Although it was dark, the air was still warm. Estuary smells drifted up the hill: a mix of gutted fish and baked mud. Several dogs ran about in a proprietorial fashion, as though darkness had conferred a kind of ownership upon them. On the market square pub doors were open. Puddles of light spilled onto the road.

As I walked along the pavement up to the Shire Hall, three men came out of one of the pubs. Judging by the disjointed way they moved, all three of them had had too much to drink.

They walked towards me. When they were a few feet away they stopped, blocking the pavement. I could see the men quite clearly now, could see how young they were.

“Fancy a nightcap, darling?” said one.

The other two began to laugh. Encouraged by their response, the first man went on, “Seems a shame for a lovely girl like you to be all on her own. Haven’t you got a sweetheart to cuddle?”

I had stopped now. I couldn’t go past them without stepping into the road.

“Why don’t you let one of us oblige?” the man said, his confidence growing. “There’s always Jackie here. He can be a bit daft when he’s had a few, but he’s very gentle. So I’ve heard, anyway.”

I wanted to tell him not to be so stupid, to stand aside and let me pass. But I could feel myself flushing, turning bright red. Even the roots of my hair felt as if they were on fire.

“Or there’s Vincent,” he said. “He’s a right terror, though, when he fixes his mind on something. Aren’t you, Vince? Or there’s me, of course. Now, which of us lucky lads would you prefer?”

I felt paralyzed with embarrassment. Rooted to the spot. As though I’d been pegged out for people to laugh and jeer at. Turning around, I began to walk away, my arms crossed over my chest. From behind, I could hear the men’s laughter — no longer embarrassed, but more full-throated than before. The laughter followed me all the way back to the hotel.

When I opened the door to my room, I saw a telegram lying on the floor.

CHAOS HERE STOP EVERYTHING TAKING LONGER THAN EXPECTED STOP BACK SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP ALL LOVE STUART STOP

Frank Grimes turned up the next day. He was a rabbity-looking man in a neatly pressed navy-blue boiler suit, who bowed at me formally, like a Chinese mandarin. Phillips said that he and I should work together. I imagined that Grimes’s arrival meant that Phillips would go back to supervising operations from outside the ship. However, this did not happen.

During the morning Grimes uncovered a tangled mass of purplish metal. It was roughly circular, almost spherical in shape. He lifted it out, took it up the ladder and laid it on the grass. It looked even more bizarre sitting there than it had done in the trench, like a battered collection of old cooking utensils.

From the top of the bank, I saw that harvesting had started in the field next door. Two horses were pulling a reaping machine through the ripened barley. Its blades rotated slowly as it kicked up a cloud of dust and chaff. Every few yards the horses would stop for some blockage to be cleared or for a stone to be shifted. Then the man sitting on the reaper would set the horses going again with a flick of the reins.

For some reason Phillips’s mood had changed for the worse. He could hardly bring himself to wish me good morning and seemed no more communicative with anyone else. In the afternoon, I went looking for him, intending to ask what he wanted Mr. Grimes and myself to do next. After finishing one side of the chamber, I thought it best to check with him before proceeding further.

I found him at the bottom of the bank. He was standing with his hands on his hips, shouting at Mrs. Pretty’s nephew.

“Haven’t I told you before that you can’t simply wander around taking your photographs as you see fit! Sticking your equipment into the soil and leaving great footprints everywhere!”

This struck me as being unfair. However scruffily dressed he might be, Mrs. Pretty’s nephew had taken care to be as discreet as possible, always asking people if he was getting in their way before taking a photograph. As for leaving footprints, this seemed unlikely as he wore plimsolls. Battered black plimsolls it was true, but plimsolls none the less.

“I will not deny that it is useful to have a photographic record of the excavation,” Phillips went on at a similar volume to before. “I will not deny that. But in future, I must insist you ask my permission before taking any pictures. Have I made myself understood?”

Mrs. Pretty’s nephew held his head on one side and his cheeks sucked in, revealing the blades of his cheekbones. He looked oddly studious, as if he had never come across anyone quite like Phillips before and didn’t want to waste the opportunity of examining him at close quarters. Briefly, his eyes flickered over Phillips’s shoulder to where I was standing and then back again.

Phillips, meanwhile, had not finished yet. If anything, he appeared to be gearing up for another assault. Before he could do so, I stepped forward and said, “I wonder if I might have a word, Mr. Phillips.”

He didn’t bother to turn around. “Not now. Just wait until I have finished.” Once again, he prepared to continue.

“Where would you like me to wait?” I asked. “Here? Or shall I go back to the chamber and wait there?”

At this, he did spin round, doing so with surprising agility. “Wait wherever you like, for heaven’s sake! Oh… never mind. I’m through here anyway.”

He walked off, brushing past me as he did so. I suppose I might have followed, but there didn’t seem much point. When he had gone, Mrs. Pretty’s nephew turned his attention to me. There was a slight twitch on one side of his mouth. I couldn’t tell if this was a nervous reaction or suppressed laughter.

“I should keep your distance, if I were you,” he said. “I’m in the doghouse.”

“So I gather.”

“What’s got into Phillips?”

“I don’t know. He seems to be having a bad day.”

“You can say that again.”

He rubbed his hand back and forth through his hair several times, as if trying to eradicate the memory of Phillips. Then he stopped and gave a rueful grin. “Oh, well, I dare say it’ll blow over. I know these are not exactly ideal circumstances, but we’ve never really met. I’m Rory — Rory Lomax.”

“Peggy Piggott.”

We shook hands.

“I’m just staying here for a few days,” he said.

“I know… I’ve seen your tent,” I added stupidly.

He was rather taken aback by this, even embarrassed. “Ah, yes, well, I’m not really camping out, you know. I mean, I am, but I can always take a bath in the house. And they do my laundry for me. So I’m a bit of a fraud really.” He paused, as if to consider this idea further. “Mind you, there’s nothing to beat sleeping out of doors. Not at this time of year at any rate. Lying in my tent and listening to the nightingales.”

“Nightingales?” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“Well, most of them have gone by now, of course. There are still some around, though. Why? Haven’t you heard them?”

“Only on the wireless,” I said.

He was thoroughly confused now. “On the wireless?” he repeated dazedly.

“It really doesn’t matter…”

As we were standing there, Grateley, the butler, came over and asked if we would like some lemonade.

“What do you say?” said Rory Lomax. “I could do with some.”

After we had taken a couple of glasses from the tray, he suggested we sit down for a moment. I could see no reason to go back to work immediately — not with Phillips in this sort of mood — so we went off and sat in the deep velvety shadows beneath the yew trees.