The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  He slung his suitcase on his bed, unzipped it and pulled out the bottle of excruciatingly expensive red wine he’d bought as a house-warming present. He slowly made his way back downstairs, formulating a suitably grovelling apology and a promise to take on all her domestic chores for the rest of his natural life.

  * * *

  After a surprisingly amenable first night at his new home, during which Alan discovered that he and Harriet held two very important values in common – a passion for red wine and an innate inability to hold onto a grudge just for the sake of it – Alan returned to PFC in good spirits. He then spent all day making practical arrangements for the forthcoming dig: phoning diggers, contractors, plant operators, Portaloo hire, etc. He also had to be certain there were supplies of stationery, pencils, survey tapes and a good reliable dumpy level. Later on they could fix the trenches with GPS, but there was no need to have it with them all the time, as they could perfectly well use the existing geophysics grid. They were all essential, but not the sort of jobs he enjoyed much, so he was glad to get away at the end of the day. He was less pleased at the prospect of his duty-dinner that lay ahead. However, he’d been a circuit digger long enough to know that keeping the local community informed and involved was a vital part of any successful excavation.

  It had been dark for two hours when he swung Brutus into a tree-lined avenue. Even in the headlights’ glare he could see they were mature limes with trunks congested with young growth, which had recently been cut from the trees nearest the house. Their fresh, white scars were bright in his headlights’ glare. Scoby Hall was an impressive, seven-bay Palladian mansion, whose colonnaded double front doors were approached by a sweeping flight of steps. He parked alongside Alistair’s green Range Rover and walked up to the front doors. As he pulled on the heavy chain, he listened for a bell somewhere deep inside, but could hear nothing. Presumably, he thought, it rings below stairs, in the butler’s pantry. There were tall, thin windows on both sides of the front doors and Alan saw Alistair scuttle across the wide front hall to let him in. He was slightly disappointed there was no butler. Alistair had taken off his tweeds and was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt. The front doors hadn’t been locked.

  Alan stepped inside and looked around him. He was amazed by the pictures, the gilded plasterwork and fine marble floors. And what was more, they seemed to be in good condition. Somebody cared about this place.

  Once inside, Alistair took him through to the kitchen where they sat down to a high tea of butcher’s sausages, dry-cured bacon (from the estate) and scrambled eggs, which was prepared by a rotund and very smiley middle-aged lady, who was introduced as Mrs Fowler. Alan suspected she might once have been Alistair’s nanny.

  Alistair took two huge mouthfuls of eggs.

  ‘Claire thinks I eat too much fat, so this is our naughty treat when she’s away, isn’t it?’

  He looked across to Mrs Fowler who was regarding him with a broad and not very conspiratorial smile. She addressed her reply to Alan.

  ‘I can’t see it does Mr Alistair any harm, can you, sir?’

  ‘I agree,’ Alan replied, when he had finished chewing a forkful of sausage, ‘no harm at all. No, nothing but good.’

  After the meal they took a flask of coffee up to the drawing room, where Alistair explained that his wife was away in London being a consultant headhunter – ‘she usually hunts heads three days a week’ – and the two children had returned to boarding school. So here he was, on his own, and feeling just a little lonely, Alan suspected. He was certainly in no rush to see his guest leave.

  While they chatted about this and that, Alan’s gaze was arrested by a remarkable full length portrait of a late Victorian country gentleman with a bushy beard, standing with legs slightly astride and grasping a shotgun, as if he intended to use it. The intensity of the man’s stare was striking.

  ‘That’s AAC, of course…’

  ‘Ah,’ Alan cut in, ‘I remember. The man commemorated in the east window.’

  ‘Yes, him. It’s by Grinterhalter.’

  In the late nineteenth century the German artist was Court Painter and Alan knew enough to realise that he must have charged his sitter a fat fee.

  ‘It’s very good indeed. What eyes. They’re remarkable.’

  ‘Yes, you know how it is: some people say they follow you. To be quite frank, I don’t like it much myself. I know it’s very good and all that, but I can’t sit facing it. That stare gives me the willies. Claire agrees. She wants me to move it out into the hall and I think I just might.’

  By now they had risen to their feet and were standing facing the picture. Alistair pointed to a smaller portrait a few feet away to the right.

  ‘That’s his wife, Hermione. She almost certainly had consumption, which may have been one of the reasons they decided to move up to Lincolnshire, where the clean air was supposed to be good for the lungs. They had two children, including a son, my great-grandfather.’

  He gestured to another picture of a young gentleman.

  ‘He was far more prolific. Nine children: four daughters and five sons, all but one of whom were killed on the Somme.’

  Below Hermione’s portrait was a small pen-and-ink sketch of a young woman working at her embroidery. It was a very sensitive drawing and Alan leant forward to look at it more closely.

  ‘That’s Timothea,’ Alistair continued, ‘known in the family as Tiny. She had to be delivered by forceps, which sadly left her brain-damaged. But by all accounts she was a delightful person. She certainly had a special place in AAC’s affections. Look…’

  He took the picture down from the wall and handed it to Alan. On the back were two locks of hair: one very fine, auburn; the other darker and coarser, with a few grey strands. They were tied by silk ribbons and sewn to the mount with the inscription: ‘In fondest memory of Timothea, from her distraught father’. Alan was moved by this. He could imagine how he would feel in that situation.

  ‘I suppose it’s just a bit of Victorian sentimentality.’

  ‘No,’ Alan said pensively, ‘I don’t think it is… This is heartfelt.’

  ‘She only survived into her mid-thirties and lived in a flat here in the Park. We call it the Granny Flat now, not that a granny lives there anymore, but it comes in useful when Claire has important clients to impress.’

  By now they had finished their tea and Alan began to take his leave. But Alistair had more to say:

  ‘Look, as you can probably guess from this place, I’m not completely short of cash. I was in banking for eight years, but managed to get out before it all went tits up. And Claire still earns a tidy sum, hunting her heads. My real love in life is history. Not just the family stuff, but the bigger picture. Who we are, why we are, how we got here and all that. So if you’d let me, I’d love to come down to your dig and help out. I’m sure you must have odd jobs to give a keen volunteer like me? Things that nobody else wants to do?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind helping with finds, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Fine. Just the ticket. But look, I really don’t want to cause offence by saying this, but I’m determined it must be done properly. To high standards.’

  ‘No offence taken. PFC has an excellent reputation, and can assure you we will do the best we can with the resources made available – if that doesn’t sound too horribly corporate.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. But still, you get what I’m driving at?

  Alan nodded, he could tell that Alistair was passionate about his subject.

  Alistair continued, ‘So do you know if your people can afford expensive things like radiocarbon dates?’

  Alan was impressed. Alistair clearly knew his stuff.

  ‘That hasn’t been confirmed as yet, but rest assured I’m working on it.’

  ‘And have you done geophysics?’

  ‘Indeed we have, yes.’


  ‘And did you detect bodies?’

  ‘No, not bodies.’

  Alan was teasing him. And it worked: Alistair’s face fell.

  ‘Oh, I was rather hoping…’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, geophys can’t detect bodies. Radar can sometimes, but not ordinary geophys. But it can detect graves.’

  ‘And are there any?’

  ‘Yes, lots. And some of them look quite early.’

  ‘But we’ll need radiocarbon to prove that, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we probably will.’

  ‘Well,’ Alistair said, almost rubbing his hands with delight, ‘I promise, you can count on me for them.’

  ‘That’s very generous. Carbon dates don’t cost too much these days, but some of the other diagnostic tests can sometimes prove very expensive. A few cost hundreds, even thousands…’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Alistair sounded almost dismissive. ‘Go ahead. Run the clever tests, then send me the bills. I’m sure the estate accountants can find ways of writing them off against tax. They’re very good at that sort of thing, you know. I’ll contact our agent tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s extremely generous, Alistair. Are you sure you mean it?’

  ‘Of course. So what happens next?’

  Alan pulled out his diary.

  ‘Right,’ he said turning the pages, ‘we’re machining on Monday and Tuesday. I don’t want people around then, as you wouldn’t be insured with the digger there and everything. But from Wednesday you’d be very welcome to join us. Wear a stout pair of boots and something waterproof.’

  Alan couldn’t believe his luck: a rich volunteer with time and money on his hands. At last they’d be able to do some proper research. Things were looking up.

  Twelve

  Alan had been a fully qualified digger driver for about ten years and normally he liked to do all the delicate work himself. And nothing is more delicate than working in a churchyard. He’d done it many times and was aware that it’s possible to drive an excavator disrespectfully, with a loud blaring radio and spoil heaps dumped anywhere, regardless of graves and tombstones. But he prided himself on doing such jobs in a manner that could only be described as reverential. In churchyards he always worked at half revs and never shook the bucket to dislodge a lump of stuck clay; instead he would shift it quietly, with a spade.

  The reason he wasn’t driving the machine was that PFC had entered into a long-term agreement with AK Plant, the company who gave them, so Paul insisted, very preferential all-in rates. And those rates included ‘an experienced and fully qualified operator’. So Alan was to act as ‘banksman’ – the man who stands outside and looks behind the bucket, the driver’s only blind spot. After eight hours on site, Alan knew that the banksman’s job could be demanding, but in many respects it was the most important on the dig: let the bucket scoop two inches too low and something vital could be removed and lost forever. So you could never afford to let your concentration slip. Not for one minute.

  When Alan arrived at St Guthlic’s, the digger driver was just finishing the routine morning grease-up. He was a young man, probably in his early thirties, Alan reckoned, but there was something odd about the way he stood, as if his legs had been shortened by disease when a child. Alan shook his hand and made a remark about the weather they were to expect, but it got no response. Instead, the driver pointed at himself with the single word:

  ‘Kadir.’

  At which he nodded and smiled. Maybe Alan failed to conceal his astonishment, because he then added, ‘Very good driver. Very, very.’

  Alan’s heart sank. That was all he bloody well needed: a complex site and a digger driver who didn’t speak English.

  Then a splash from a puddle in the car park signalled the arrival of Paul. Alan smiled at the driver and said ‘Me, Alan’ in an attempt to mend relations. Then he hurried across to Paul, to vent his frustration and anger.

  As they walked back to the digger Paul explained that he had especially asked for Kadir, as he was by a long way AK Plant’s best driver.

  ‘Fine,’ Alan broke in, ‘but if he doesn’t bloody speak English, he could be the best digger driver in the world. It makes no fucking difference!’

  He couldn’t believe Paul’s complacency which had to be all about saving money. Put simply, AK Plant did a good deal for their clients.

  By now they had reached the digger and to Alan’s amazement Paul greeted Kadir in Turkish. He could see from the driver’s frown of concentration that he wasn’t fluent, maybe even a bit halting and hesitant, but he could make himself understood. He then explained to Alan how he was to use signs to show precisely what he wanted done, while Kadir looked on, nodding in appreciation.

  To Alan’s astonishment Paul’s suggestion worked very well indeed, and yes, Kadir, was a brilliant driver. Not only could he work precisely, and to within millimetres, but he could also differentiate between soil colours and could manoeuvre the machine superbly, by just using the front and back buckets – something that Alan found almost impossible, and very dangerous; several times he had nearly turned the digger over. So disaster had been averted; but still, he did think Paul should have alerted him in advance.

  The machining had gone well, but they had overrun slightly. The weather, too, had held. It was now late on Wednesday morning. They had just finished the last of the mechanical work and the digger was heading across the graveyard back to the car park. Alan paused and looked around him. The trowelling-down of the machined surface along the line of the foul-water trench was now well advanced, and the dark outlines of some ten graves could clearly be seen on the clean, stripped ground surface.

  Never one to miss an opportunity to pick up a trowel, Alan jumped into the main trench and joined the three people trowelling the surface. One of them was Alistair whose technique rather reminded him of DCI Lane all those years ago. That morning Alan had been trying to push all thoughts of Lane to the back of his mind. He knew he mustn’t be diverted from the task at hand, but he was also very concerned that Lane hadn’t returned the call he made that first night at Harriet’s. He was acutely conscious, too, that he ought to have spoken to him, if just to reassure him that he was doing fine, after the fire. But he was still nervous about being subject to Lane’s forensic questioning. He resolved to do it once he’d seen Ali, once he’d got some answers, perhaps.

  In the meantime, Alan focused on Alistair. He could see that the professional diggers had done what he’d asked them to do and had quietly taught Alistair the arts and subtleties of trowelling – that most difficult and fundamental of archaeological skills. He also knew they would have contacted him very quickly, had their pupil not been any good. But Alistair was a natural, and his trowelling was both fast and clean.

  He knelt down next to Alistair, who moved over slightly and for a few minutes they worked, in rhythm, together. Alan had always loved trowelling and he began with enthusiasm. Then he found his mind wandering back, once again, to Ali, Lane and Harriet and the trowel in his hand became less firm and decisive. He was suddenly aware that Alistair was trying to engage him in conversation. He hadn’t heard a word.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alistair, I was miles away. Can you say that again?’

  ‘I saw those graves in the geophys plot,’ Alistair began.

  ‘What, the ones at the foot of the tower?’

  ‘Yes, them. Somebody said they’ll be important when we get to them. That sounded rather intriguing.’

  ‘I know, with luck we’ll start them next week. There’s something about the way they don’t respect the precise shape and orientation of the tower that I find fascinating.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that too, but I thought no more about it.’

  ‘Of course one can never be certain, but when you get such seeming misalignments they often indicate that the two features cannot be contemporary.’

  ‘But t
he tower’s still standing, and it was built in the late tenth century…’

  ‘Which can only mean,’ Alan explained, ‘that the graves are earlier. I would guess they could be Middle Saxon, even earlier. And of course that’s very important as they would then pre-date the Viking invasions and could potentially give us important new information about the origin of the earliest English population.’

  By this point Alistair had laid his trowel aside and was staring wide-eyed at Alan. There was a short pause. Then, very quietly, Alistair spoke.

  ‘As I said, Alan, if you need any financial help, just ask. This sounds absolutely fascinating.’

  Once again, Alan couldn’t believe his luck: a wealthy volunteer who instinctively knew how to excavate. Then he found his mind drifting yet again back to Ali and the bungalow. The same doubts. The same fears. He took his bucket to the spoil heap, emptied it, then returned to the trowel-line. Alistair hadn’t noticed him get up – he was so deep in concentration. Dammit, Alan thought, this is stupid. I’m in a trench, doing what I love, with people I respect. Mind over matter.

  And this time it worked: the rhythm of the trowelling, the peace, the occasional slight comment, ‘blimey, that was a big worm’, calmed and focused his mind on the job at hand. For about an hour there was quiet, as everyone concentrated on their work. Then the archaeologist working at the southern end of the trench, close to the sexton’s shed, called across to Alan. Her shout was loud, urgent. Alan almost jumped out of his skin. What the hell? He got out of the trench and walked rapidly to where she was standing and waving one arm.

  He had more or less expected the first real action would be from here, where there’d been some modern disturbance – lumps of cement, tiles and brick rubble, probably dumped there when the estate builders were constructing the fine sexton’s shed. In fact ‘shed’ wasn’t the right way to describe what was in effect a small garage-sized brick and mortar building.