* * *
Alan started to apologise about his earlier outburst, when Harriet stopped him.
‘I agree, Alan, she was far more stupid than I’d expected and to be honest I rather doubt if she’d even prove capable of bones washing. But even so, if we’re to work together successfully we must consult each other. Nothing is straightforward at Priory Farm. There are wheels within wheels here and you’ve got a lot to learn. OK?’
By now she was smiling. Alan nodded. He’d been forgiven.
‘OK, Harry,’ was all he said.
Alan was never much good at budgets and accounts, so he was relieved when Harriet volunteered to do an initial breakdown of her costs. Then they could have a discussion, and whatever was left over would be his to spend on the excavations.
Planning the layout of the Guthlic’s trenches proved relatively straightforward: they would have to hand-excavate anything along the line of the toilets’ foul water pipe, plus the entire footprint of the septic tank. The County Curator, the person who oversaw all commercial archaeological work in Lincolnshire, allowed them to remove the topsoil by machine, but all grave fillings and other archaeological layers had to be hand-sieved through 15mm mesh. Alan knew from bitter experience that this would slow things down seriously, especially if the weather was wet. Nothing was worse than trying to force sticky, wet, clay soil through a clogged-up sieve in wintertime. In fact, before all this business with Ali, that had been his abiding memory of Flax Hole. The wet sieves were the rolling sort, both of them mounted on heavy-duty steel tanks, fixed to stout wooden frames. The sieves themselves were pushed to and fro on trollies that ran on rails, welded to the tank tops. It was a messy business, with water slopping out at either end of the tank, as the trollies were pushed to and fro. And then they had to be emptied every couple of hours through a wide flexible pipe that drained into two big soakaways, one for each sieve tank. Not surprisingly, the wet sieve area was always awash with mud.
After they’d pored over the maps and plans, Alan asked Harriet whether she’d like to join him when he recced the site next week. But it turned out she still had pressing deadlines, which had to be met before the dig began. She also knew St Guthlic’s quite well, as she only lived a few miles from it. For some reason Alan then asked whether she had ever gone there to worship.
‘Good grief, no,’ she replied, ‘I’m not religious. Not even slightly. Why – are you?’
‘No, not at all. Feels like a cop-out to me, placing your moral framework in the hands of some imaginary higher power.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
Alan was much relieved. He couldn’t have coped if she’d turned out to be religious. Then, after a brief chat about finds storage, Harriet showed Alan the room that would be his office for the next few weeks. It was currently being occupied by Paul’s principal project officer, who was working on tenders for new work – not that PFC needs it, Alan thought, as he looked around him. The entire building was a hive of activity.
Next they returned to Harriet’s office, which was considerably larger than the one Paul had allocated Alan. The dominant feature was a long back wall, fitted from floor to ceiling with slotted shelving, on which were dozens of boxes marked with a site code ‘CH’, followed by the last two digits of the year.
‘CH?’ Alan asked out of interest, ‘where’s that? Cambridge Hotel, Cumberland House?’
She stopped him before the suggestions became sillier.
‘No, Çatol Huyut.’
Everyone in archaeology knew about Çatol Huyut, an extraordinary site in western Anatolia, not far from Izmir. Everything was there, from early farming, to Classical Greek, Roman, Byzantium and finally the Ottoman Turks. It was the history of south-western Europe and western Asia in a nutshell.
Alan couldn’t conceal his admiration:
‘Which particular bones are you doing?’
‘All of them.’
‘What, everyone from Bronze Age to Ottoman?’
‘Yes. It was part of the deal when I got my core funding from the Anatolian Foundation. They want to be able to compare between periods. And I don’t blame them. It’s the only way to work, nowadays.’
‘And I suppose it’s important for PFC too.’ Alan was thinking aloud. ‘It must be a big, prestigious project for them. Are there any British grants?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘The usual ones, the ERC, the Academy, the ARC.’
‘Blimey.’ Alan was impressed.
‘Yes,’ Harriet continued, ‘Paul’s certainly very keen on it. And he’s helpful, too. Very helpful, in fact.’
They chatted for a few minutes, then Alan became aware she wanted to get on. She accompanied him out of her office. As soon as they were outside, Alan asked:
‘So we’ll do a recce next Tuesday. It’s a shame you can’t be there, Harry.’
He wondered whether she’d change her mind, but she shook her head.
‘No, I’m sorry, but much as I’d love to, I’ll be busy all that week and probably into the next as well. I’ve got a book deadline looming.’
Alan was impressed. He could see that Harriet, unlike him, was one of those people who could juggle multiple projects and still keep track of the facts. No wonder she had such a prolific reputation.
‘What’s it about?’
‘The rural population. I’m covering the Vikings, but only just. My main interest is rather earlier.’
‘What, Early and Middle Saxon?’
‘Yes. After the earlier ninth century, things get rather muddled.’
‘I should say so: raids, longships, rape-and-pillage.’
She gave him a quizzical, schoolmistressy look.
‘Quite, Alan. I think we’ve moved on from that. But I’m still worried by the fact that Early Saxon times are still dominated by a few written accounts.’
Alan needed to redeem himself:
‘Bede, Gildas, and the early Welsh sources?’
‘Precisely,’ she was warming to her topic, ‘but we still lack a comprehensive review of the solid archaeological evidence for population change.’
‘And most of that presumably, is bones?’
‘Yes, it is. The book’s called Anglo-Saxon England and the Mediterranean World.’
Alan was very impressed.
‘And who’s going to publish it?’
‘I signed a contract six months ago with Humber and Potomac.’
‘Harry, that’s wonderful, congratulations!’
Alan was genuinely pleased for her. They were big and very prestigious publishers, based in London and Boston, Massachusetts.
‘Yes, they even gave me a small advance too. But the deadline is next Christmas, January at the latest, and I’m starting to get a bit panicky.’
‘Too much other work?’
‘Yes, that’s a problem. But there’s just so much data. So much to write about. I’ve got to cut it back by at least a hundred thousand words.’
‘And even the most idiotic of interns would have eased the load, right?’
‘Well, as I said, that’s probably debatable.’
Alan could tell she was trying to downplay the situation. It made him even more keen to put things right.
‘Tell you what, consider me your replacement idiot.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Whatever you need. Cataloguing. Data analysis. Proofreading. I could even draft a chapter or two if that would help.’
Her reply was sharp and unexpected
‘I’m sure I can cope, thank you very much.’
Alan could have kicked himself. Why didn’t he think more about what he was saying? She had clearly taken his genuine offer of help as an attack on her ability as an archaeologist. He was beginning to understand how she had gained such a fearsome reputation.
Then he got it. Of course, how could h
e have been so clumsy?
‘Harry, this is your field. I’d never presume or ask for co-authorship.’
Harriet fixed him with her gaze. She didn’t seem convinced.
‘Seriously, I’m a thirty-nine-year-old circuit digger. Do I look like I have grand academic ambitions? I didn’t even finish my PhD.’
Harriet looked genuinely shocked.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because my external examiner tried to force me to misinterpret key information in order to fit his own egotistical theories. So I quit.’
This obviously struck a chord with Harriet. Her whole body language shifted in an instant: from defensive to sympathetic. Alan pressed on, it was important that she understood exactly where he was coming from.
‘I’m not Paul, Harry. I don’t care about the prestige or the politics. I just care about the work. About getting to the truth of things.’
Harriet looked away for a moment. When she turned back to him Alan could see that she was blinking back a tear.
‘You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, Alan, you must think me such an ungrateful cow.’
‘Not at all. I’m sure that there are lots of people out there who would jump at the chance to take credit for your work. I’m just not one of them.’
‘I can see that.’
There was a brief pause, then Harriet pulled out a sheaf of papers from the pile on her desk.
‘If you can make a start on the post-Roman chapter, I’d be so very grateful. The thing is, I can’t get to grips with the new ideas on Saxon Shore forts. Can you check I’ve got them right, as they must affect early migrations. I don’t know, but maybe they encouraged, not deterred movement?’
Alan was listening closely. He nodded.
‘I agree. It’s certainly not straightforward – and people were moving around much more than we suspected, even twenty years ago. Leave it with me.’
Alan was about to shake Harriet’s hand. But she would have none of it. Instead she kissed him on both cheeks.
‘If we’re going to be co-directors we can’t begin our relationship with a handshake.’
She was smiling broadly.
As he walked across the car park to the Land Rover, Alan reflected on his eventful day. Apart from the incident with Sheelah, he thought he’d done pretty well. He’d managed not to rise to Paul’s slightly patronising attitude. To be honest, although he’d never be so stupid as to say it directly, part of him felt sorry for the man. Paul looked stressed. He looked old. If that was what you got for running a successful consultancy business then Paul was welcome to it. Alan also realised that if Paul was under so much pressure then he’d have to choose his moment carefully if he wanted to bring up Flax Hole. This might be trickier than he thought.
Putting the Ali business to one side for a moment, Alan’s gut instinct told him that his initial worries may have been misplaced. No, he thought, I’m going to enjoy my stay at Priory Farm with PFC. The St Guthlic’s site was also looking good, and although he didn’t want to get ahead of himself, the potential for discovering something very important about Anglo-Saxon origins was there: the early name of the church, its superb and remarkably high status tower and those intriguing graves at its foot, were all exciting Alan’s instincts. And Harriet was not at all what he expected. She wasn’t hostile, or anti-men as her detractors would have it. In fact she appeared remarkably forgiving. She was also smart and she spoke her mind – both qualities that Alan rated very highly indeed.
He had just climbed behind the wheel and was attaching his seat belt, when he felt his mobile vibrate in his trouser pocket. Somehow he managed to retrieve it without hitting the red button. He didn’t recognise the number on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Cadbury?’
‘That’s right.’
‘March Fire Brigade, Chief Officer Clark here. I’m afraid we’ve bad news for you, sir. Your bungalow is on fire.’
Nine
Alan felt a rising surge of panic as he drove Brutus aggressively through what passed for rush hour traffic in the Fens: mud-splattered gang buses driven hard and fast, their passengers asleep or nodding-off in the back; tractors everywhere and small go-faster cars driven by young men with cropped heads and sticky-out ears. Two times he nearly smashed into gang buses that wouldn’t pull over, their teenage drivers scared of the deep water-filled dykes alongside them.
As he drove, he thought about the bungalow he once called home. He didn’t have many valuables. His laptop was nearly ten years old; his stereo system was a robust ghetto-blaster from his student days and what could only loosely be called his wardrobe were old jeans and second-hand shirts from local charity shops and could fit into a suitcase. But his library was another matter. Alan’s extensive reference books ranged from Teach Yourself Archaeology, which his father gave him on his eleventh birthday, to the latest green hardback volume of the Danebury project, on research at Windy Dido, Cholderton, Hampshire. Alan loved all the scientific work which is such an important part of modern prehistory. Science was bringing the Neolithic and Bronze Age to life in a way that would have been impossible, even when he was a student. No, the thought of those books and that knowledge going up in flames was unbearable.
Most of the slush and mud that had melted during the day had vanished from the better travelled roads, but as soon as he turned off the main Boston–Spalding route, he found the smaller lanes were still very treacherous. A frost was making things worse and as he turned into Tubney it started to snow. He had expected to see blue lights flashing, but there were none. The roof of his bungalow had completely fallen in, the windows were broken and the front door smashed. There were a few thin wisps of steamy smoke still coming from deep inside the building. Alan leapt out of Brutus and was striding over to the shell of the house when he was intercepted by a uniformed fire officer with a clipboard.
‘Are you Mr Cadbury?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’m Chief Officer Clark. I’m afraid I can’t let you inside, sir.’
‘You don’t understand. My books…’
Clark gently but firmly held Alan back.
‘The structure is unsound. We’ll be sending in a team to secure it and retrieve what they can first thing tomorrow. I’ll ensure that they prioritise the library.’
Alan looked up at this kindly bear of a man. He must have been in his sixties, at a guess. There was genuine sympathy and concern in his eyes.
Suddenly the enormity of the situation hit him. His home, which smelt like it oozed petrol from the walls, was – had been – a deathtrap. It would have taken the smallest electrical fault to set the fire off. If Paul hadn’t called the meeting today, if he hadn’t stayed on late chatting with Harriet. If whatever had caused this had happened on any other day, or in the middle of the night…
Alan felt his legs go weak.
Clark gently steadied him.
‘Looks like you could do with a drink, sir,’ he said as he guided Alan through the falling snow and into the Hat and Feathers.
As they entered the pub a couple of the regulars rose to their feet and patted Alan on the back. Four older men, who had remained at their table playing dominoes, raised their glasses to him.
They sat down at a round table in the bay window. Sandy the landlord came over and placed a large tumbler of whisky in front of Alan with a gentle, ‘It’s on the house.’ Alan took a sturdy gulp and felt the back of his throat burn.
Clark took out a pen and noted the time on his clipboard.
‘I’ll try to keep this as short and painless as possible.’
Alan managed a weak smile.
‘Firstly, the landlord here tells me that they can provide you with a room whilst you sort things out.’
To Alan’s surprise, he felt his eyes prick with tears. Such a simple act of kindness. Clark looked down at his cl
ipboard, allowing Alan a moment to compose himself before he asked his next question.
‘I must ask, do you have any urgent medical needs?’
‘I think the whisky’s taken care of that.’
Clark gave him a brief smile and pressed on.
‘So no prescription drugs went up in the fire?’
Alan hadn’t thought of that.
‘No.’
‘And was the house insured?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘That’s good, sir. You’ll need to inform your broker as soon as we’re finished.’
Alan nodded, and gestured to Clark to continue.
‘Now to the fire itself. We’ve isolated the cause to your electricity meter at the back of the property. A connection had worked loose and had ignited what looked like rodent nest-litter in the cavity, behind the plasterboard. It spread into the building through an enlarged cable feed access in the house wall. At that point flame damage was very extensive. Do you have any idea why that hole would have been enlarged?’
Alan had indeed noticed the hole because mice had used it to find their way into the house earlier, in the autumn.
‘I assume the previous occupants of the house had drilled it through, probably because they needed a three-phase supply for their business…’
‘Which they conducted on the premises?’
‘Yes. They were scrap-metal merchants.’
Alan could see Clark’s lips frame the words ‘Bloody Dids’, but no sound escaped.
‘So do you think they did some of their work dismantling, and that sort of thing, in the house?’
‘Without a doubt. The place stank of petrol and diesel when I took it over. And I could never get the smell out of the phone. It would probably still stink, if you could find it under all the rubble.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve been doing this job for over forty years and those travellers, they’re always causing problems. Start no end of fires.’
‘What, deliberately?’
‘No, usually by accident. Incompetence. Burning insulation off pinched cables, or setting cars and lorries alight when they’re cutting them up. Mark you, it’s not the real Gypsies who do it. They’re fine. Good people. No, it’s those travellers – Irish mostly.’
The Lifers' Club Page 9