John Preston - The Dig

“Mr. Lyons…”

“Ah!” he said. “Hello there, ma’am.”

For several moments we stood and regarded one another. I have known Lyons for more than thirty years. He started off working for my father, and when Frank and I moved down to Suffolk, he and his wife came too. In that time, we have developed something of an understanding.

“Mr. Lyons, were you by any chance following me?”

Lyons is a naturally gruff man; it does not suit him to look embarrassed. He tilted his face towards the ground until the black peak of his cap was facing me like a great inane smile.

“I do appreciate your concern for my welfare,” I said. “But I assure you that I can easily manage on my own. Now, will you go and wait by the car, as we arranged? I will not be long — twenty minutes at the most. If I have not returned by then, you have my permission to come and look for me. Does that sound reasonable?”

He agreed that it did sound reasonable and walked off down the hill. Continuing past the Bull and the war memorial, I reached the gate of St. Mary’s Church. There was a car parked opposite. Although the car was empty, the wiper had been left turned on. It was beating across the windscreen, giving out a dry, squeaking sound. The rubber shuddered against the glass as it went back and forth.

A path lined on both sides by silver limes led to the church door. The door was standing open. Inside, it was much cooler, the rich sweet smell of the blossom replaced by a more ecclesiastical one: old book bindings and wood polish. There was nobody else in the church.

I sat in one of the pews and knelt down, tufts of wiry wool jabbing into my knees. In a niche on one side of the pulpit were three carved figures: the Virgin Mary in the middle, with two faceless saints on either side, their hands clasped over their chests as they both turned stiffly towards her.

I put my hands together, just as I had done as a child, hoping that I might feel once again the same certainties, the same calm surety, that I had felt then. I prayed — for peace, of course, and also for Robert. I know that he is bored. I also suspect that he may be lonely. There are scarcely any children of his own age for him to play with, either on the estate or in the village. My efforts to attract children from Bromeswell and Melton to come to Sutton Hoo House have not been successful. Their parents, I suspect, do not care for the idea.

When I had finished praying for Robert, I prayed for guidance, as well as for some sense, however faint, of a reciprocal fingertip brushing mine. But today, even more than usual, my prayers struggled to stay aloft: clumsy, flightless things, seeking an uncertain destination.

Coming out, I saw that the car was no longer there, although the sound of its shuddering wiper seemed to remain, like a distant echo. Lyons was waiting outside the station, as we had agreed. No doubt he is curious as to what I do on my weekly excursions, although I think it unlikely that he, or indeed anyone else, would be able to guess the real reason for them.

When the train arrived, he helped me on board and found me a seat. Due to the earlier cancelation, it was unusually crowded. Lyons stood on the platform with his arms by his sides, waiting until the train had drawn away.

We must have made an odd-looking procession. First came Lyons, carrying a wicker chair. Then Robert and finally myself. The chair was set up on top of the mound so I could look down into the excavation. Robert sat at my feet, with Lyons squatting on the ground alongside him. It was much colder than it had been the day before, although the clouds were high and almost motionless. I wore my thickest winter overcoat buttoned to my neck, as well as a pair of sheepskin gloves.

By the time we arrived, the men had already started digging. So far, though, they had found nothing apart from a cluster of rabbit skeletons, with the bones all entwined together like a giant bird’s nest. Robert hardly moved as he gazed down at the men digging away. Never before have I seen him so rapt, so absorbed in anything. Any concern I had felt about him being a nuisance had been replaced by gratitude that at last he had something to keep him occupied.

The first indication that Mr. Brown might have made a discovery was when I saw him crouch down and put his face very close to the ground. Taking his pastry brush out of his back pocket, he began sweeping. His face appeared leaner, more pointed than ever. As he swept away, I found myself feeling a quickening sense of excitement. A spark of hope had been ignited within me and already it was too late to quench it.

I half-pushed myself up on the arms of the wicker chair. “What is it, Mr. Brown?”

“There’s something here,” he said, his voice muffled. “Something, although Chri — heaven only knows what.”

The three of us craned eagerly forward. Mr. Brown kept on brushing for several more minutes. Then he sat back. “Here,” he said.

His index finger was outstretched. “Can you see? It’s a piece of wood. There are blackened patches on it. Something appears to have been burned on top. Probably grave-robbers, lighting a fire to keep warm.”

From where I was sitting, I could just make out the ripple of the grain amid the slick of yellow mud. Robert was leaning so far out that I had to hold on to his hand to make sure he didn’t fall into the pit.

“Be careful, darling.”

“But I want to have a look.”

He kept trying to pull away. It was as much as I could do to keep hold of him.

‘Just try to be patient. I know that it’s not easy.”

For the next hour Mr. Brown continued brushing at the earth with his pastry brush. By the time he had finished, the piece of wood had been uncovered and its dimensions measured and written down in an old exercise book that he carried with him.

Mr. Brown said that at first he thought it might be a coffin lid. However, he was puzzled by the rounded corners as well as by the upturned edges. It was Spooner, a slaughterman on the Fielding estate at Bardsey before he came to Sutton Hoo House, who said that the upturned edges reminded him of a butcher’s tray. Mr. Brown decided to try to lift the piece of wood, to see what lay underneath. He asked Spooner, Jacobs and also Lyons to help. Each of them would take a corner.

First, Mr. Brown did what he could to prise it free, running a knife blade around the underside. Next, the men practiced with two of the planks, holding them side by side, keeping them balanced and properly supported. Once they had done this to Mr. Brown’s satisfaction, they gathered in the pit.

“Right, lads. On a count of three.”

The first attempt was unsuccessful. So too was the second, as well as the third. The men heaved and groaned, their legs straining, and yet nothing happened. The dampness of the earth seemed to suck at the wood, loath to let it go. But on the fourth attempt, after an even louder exhortation than before from Mr. Brown, it finally came free.

“That’s it… There we go… Now, up she comes.”

We watched enthralled as the piece of wood was hoisted slowly into the air. From where I was sitting, it appeared to be perfectly symmetrical. I had my arms around Robert’s waist. Now he felt slack against me, like a sack of sand.

The men were still kneeling, just about to stand up, when Mr. Brown shouted suddenly, “Down! Down! Put it down!”

As quickly as they could, the men lowered it back down to the ground. But already it was too late. With no sound at all, the wood separated into two pieces along its length. And then one of them broke across the middle. This time there was a damp, apologetic crack. All three pieces fell to the ground.

Afterwards, the four men stayed on their knees, facing one another. None of them spoke. Mr. Brown was the first to move. He climbed out of the pit and headed off in the direction of Top Hat Wood. I could see how angry he was with himself, and how disappointed too. His hands were balled into fists. He held them by his side with his elbows jutting out. Then he began to pace around in a series of tight little circles.