John Preston - The Dig

“Try not to speak,” I told him.

However, his lips continued working away. “Rabbits,” he said eventually — the word seeming to topple out of the side of his mouth.

“Rabbits, Mr. Brown?”

“Rabbits,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I told you they were bad for excavation, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed, although I don’t believe this is the time to go through all that again.”

“It was my fault,” he continued. “I should have cut back terraces. I was trying to save time, you see. That way everything has less far to fall. The earth, it moves so quickly, though. I reckoned I was a goner there.”

Briefly his eyes clouded over. He shut them tight. A few moments later he opened them again. When they had regained focus, he looked carefully round the room and then at me, as if for the first time.

“You shouldn’t be doing this, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“This!”

“Believe me, Mr. Brown, I have dealt with far worse cases than yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was an auxiliary nurse during the war.”

“You were? How’s that, then?”

“I worked in a local hospital near my family home in Lancashire. Soldiers from France were sent back there. At least the ones who were fit to travel. Now, is there anyone you want me to notify, to tell them you are all right? Forgive me, I don’t even know if you are married.”

“I am married,” he said. “To May.”

“Would you like me to pass on a message to her? I could easily send a telegram.”

“No need.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want her hearing anything from anyone else and worrying unduly.”

He shook his head. “She’s not the worrying type.”

There was a blanket folded on one of the chairs that I occasionally used to cover my legs. I covered Mr. Brown with it. “Now I’d like you to remain here for as long as you want. If you wish to sleep, by all means do so. When you are ready to move, or if you would care for something to eat, just ring the bell. I’ll leave it by you, here.”

After placing the bell on the table beside him, I walked across to the door. But before I had a chance to open it, he started to say something else. Thinking he was about to start apologizing again, I asked, or rather told, him to stop.

“No, no.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Not that.”

“What is it?”

He paused, then said, “I hoped I might see something.”

“See something?”

“When I was buried.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought I might see something… A sign or something. Like the Angel of Mons… You know, something like that.”

“And did you?”

Again he shook his head. “There was nothing. Only darkness.”

When I went to say goodnight to Robert he was sitting up in bed. He had done some more drawings of the Matterhorn, I saw. Now they spilled over onto a second wall of his bedroom.

“Is Mr. Brown going to die, Mama?” he asked.

“No, Robbie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“I thought you liked Mr. Brown.”

“I do like him.”

“Would you like me to read you a story?”

He brightened immediately. “Yes, please.”

I picked up a copy of Tales of the Greek Heroes from the pile of books beside his bed and opened it at the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. I read how Orpheus loved his wife, Eurydice, so much that after she died from a snakebite he went down into the underworld to try to bring her back into the realm of the living.

“ ‘At the River Styx the dark old ferryman, Charon, was waiting with his boat. He was only allowed to ferry dead souls across that stream and they paid him one coin, called an “obol,” which was always placed ready in a dead person’s mouth. Normally, Charon would have refused to take this living passenger, but Orpheus played so sweetly for him on his harp that he relented. On the other side, Orpheus found himself in the gray, twilit land of the dead, where ghosts flitted about, moaning and gibbering.’ ”

“Mama…” said Robert.

“Yes, darling.”

“Does Mr. Brown always wear the same clothes?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think he ever changes his underthings?”

“I’m quite sure he does.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“Would you like me to read some more, Robbie, or are you going to go to sleep now?”

“I don’t mind.”

After I had closed the book, I lit the candle by his bed and turned off the light. Robert, however, remained sitting up in bed, with the candle burning beside him. Something about the way the shadows fell on his cheekbones made me imagine, just for a moment, that it was Frank gazing back at me. Gravely and with a hint of reproof. Then the shadows shifted and he instantly reverted to being a child.

“Mama…”

“Yes, darling.”

“Do you think Mr. Brown will find any treasure?”

“I really don’t know.”

“But you still hope he might?”

“I still hope so, yes.”

“I hope so too,” he said.

“Although we mustn’t depend upon it, you know.”

“I know that.”

“Goodnight, Robbie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Mama.”

I lay in bed and listened to the wireless. There was a talk on clothes through the centuries. This was followed by a dance by Wendy Toye entitled The Blue Madonna and set to the music of “Air on a G String.” When it was over, I turned out the light and lay there, hoping sleep would come. It did not; my mind would not let it.

After I had been lying for two or three hours, the house began to creak. The man we bought the house from, a Mr. Lomax, imported timber from the Far East, hence all the wood paneling. Whenever the temperature drops, the wood contracts. It sounds as if the entire house is twisting on its foundations. I lay there for a little longer, then put on my dressing gown and slippers and went across to the window.

When I drew back the curtain, the garden was white with moonlight. I could see all the way down to the river. The moon itself was reflected in the surface of the water. Even in the reflection, I was able to make out the dark smudges of the lunar seas.

I sat on the window seat, staring out. Trying to ward off thoughts that came towards me like flocks of angry birds. One memory in particular kept returning: Robert running across the grass with his arms stretched out and his cheeks full of air. And then my pushing him away. I know that I am failing him. The awareness sits there, like a weight on my shoulders, pressing down. Constantly reminding me that whatever capacity I once possessed for motherhood is disappearing.

All that seems left is this ever-widening gap between the scale of my devotion and my ability to succor him. To protect him. It feels as if I am standing on the brink of his world, forever on the threshold and yet unable to step across. Yearning to match his vigor, his boisterousness, but lacking either the imagination or the resources to do so on my own.

After a while I went to check on him. It was quite bright in the corridor; light was shining in through the oriel window. I stood outside Robert’s room, listening. I could hear his breathing. Slow and apparently untroubled.

With no purpose in mind, beyond a vague desire not to remain stationary, I started to walk down the corridor — away from my room. Everything was quiet now; the house had stopped creaking. The strip of carpet stretched out before me. Although I was wide awake, I had a strange feeling that I was sleepwalking. My slippered feet seemed to develop a rhythm of their own. I went through one doorway, then another.