Digging Deeper
You’re eighty-four, you old bat. How could anyone be more erroneously named? Mrs. Misery would be more like it. Her mouth turned down in a permanent half-circle. A smile would have cracked her face and let her jaw fall off.
“You don’t look a day over eighty-five.” Flick kept her voice loud, wondering if this morning’s problem would be a lump, cough, spot or worse.
“You might think it is, but I don’t.”
Flick wondered what she’d thought she’d said. Gertrude was deaf when she wanted to be.
“I can feel a draught.” Gertrude gave Flick an accusing look. Flick looked around but she’d closed the door. No matter where the woman sat, there was always a bloody draught and always Flick’s fault. There were no open windows, no open doors. The house was already like an oven with the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Oh dear, have you had a bad start to the day?” Flick cursed as she realized she’d asked a question. She pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and began to lift the silverware onto the table.
“I was up half the night coughing. The sleeping tablet didn’t work, so I read for a bit and then I took another half a tablet. Then I remembered I hadn’t taken my water tablet so I had to come all the way downstairs. The dogs heard the stair-lift and started to bark and that made me jump. I twisted something in my side and the pain is unbearable, I think part of my intestine is wrapped around my liver. I had such a job finding a comfortable way to lie in bed. It’s sickening. Everything happens to me.”
Flick began to apply the polish as Gertrude went on and on. When she’d first started as house-slave, Flick had encouraged her to talk because she thought she was lonely, but now Flick was perpetually bombarded with intricate details of every medical complaint Gertrude had ever had or thought she’d had, plus those of the rest of the family. Flick knew all about Henry’s constipation, Celia’s leaky waterworks and Giles’ warts. In addition, Gertrude’s continual whining criticism of all the work Flick did in the house had destroyed any interest in trying to engage her in conversation. That hadn’t stopped Gertrude, whose memory for unpleasant, mind-churning details of her bodily functions was boundless, though she seemed unable to remember she’d already told Flick the exact same thing the week before.
“And then I had explosive diarrhea,” Gertrude said in triumph. When she paused, Flick realized she was expected to say something. She forced out some noncommittal grunt hoping it sounded sympathetic.
“I blame that rubbish those caterers produced on Saturday night. Celia served up leftovers for lunch yesterday. It went right through me.”
Flick groaned. Celia didn’t pay her enough.
“You need to do that one again,” Gertrude said. “There’s a smudge on the blade.”
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There were other ways to put smudges on blades, Flick thought as she picked up the knife.
When Flick went into the drawing room to start dusting Lady C’s huge collection of porcelain animals, the talking medical encyclopedia followed, wheeling her walking frame at an impressive speed across the parquet floor. Gertrude had been in the middle of explaining her wayward blood pressure and Flick knew she wasn’t going to stop until she’d finished. As Gertrude morphed into her nasal drip story, Flick rearranged the Royal Doulton in a more interesting way.
“Felicity,” Celia called.
“We’re in here,” Gertrude screeched.
Celia stared in open-mouthed horror at her porcelain collection, her face changing from pink, to red and then deep purple. Flick wondered if she could make Celia pop.
“What have you done?” Celia gasped.
“Dusted them.”
“But you’ve moved them. They’re…doing things.”
“Doing what?” Flick tried to sound innocent.
“My ‘Prancing Arab Palomino’ looks as if it’s about to…to mount my ‘Watering Hole Leopard’. And look at the pigs.”
Flick turned to the compromising tableau she’d created and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.
“Sorry. Shall I rearrange them?” she asked.
“No, leave them. I’ll do it later. I need you to help me take tea down to the archaeologists.”
When they reached the kitchen Celia handed Flick the apron she’d worn on Saturday night.
“Put this on.”
Flick wore a short green skirt and a white top covered in pink elephants. She didn’t think she would pass for a maid, but she tied the apron round her waist without a word and followed Celia down the path to the far end of the estate. Flick struggled with a heavy tray of cups, saucers, milk, sugar and biscuits while Celia carried a large stainless steel jug.
* * * * *
Beck, Matt and Ross struggled to erect the tent in the sweltering heat. There was only the faintest of breezes. Beck had just received a text from Rich. They’d crossed the Italian border and it was raining. Almost enough to make Beck smile.
“Don’t put that end in there, for God’s sake,” Beck yelled. “Those two pieces don’t go together.”
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“I can’t get it out now,” Matt whined.
Beck swore under his breath. He’d have done it quicker on his own.
“Ross, keep your hand on it. Press harder.”
“I am. It’s hurting. I can’t push any harder.”
“Screw it in quickly,” Beck said.
“Like this?” Matt asked.
“Yes.” Beck gritted his teeth. “Faster, before I have to let go and it comes out again. Go on, screw faster or I’ll have—” Beck thought he heard a familiar snigger.
“Alexander darling, we’ve brought you some tea. I know you told me you can cater for yourselves but until you set everything up I thought you’d appreciate a little refreshment.”
“Thanks, Celia. That’s great,” Beck called from under the green canvas.
“Ohh tea,” someone yelled.
Matt and Ross left before Beck could tell them not to.
“Pour it out, Felicity,” Celia said.
When Beck heard her name, he let go of the pole he held and came out from under the sagging awning. The tent collapsed behind him.
Flick kept her eyes away from Beck. She didn’t need any more pangs of lust disabling her. She hadn’t been sure if they’d want tea, it was so hot, but everyone took a cup including Celia. The plate of biscuits disappeared in seconds. Flick realized Celia intended to stand and chat for a while and wondered whether she was supposed to go back. When she saw Beck edge away from Celia and move in her direction, she wished she’d been quicker. She stepped to one side, hoping he was heading for someone else, but he stopped next to her.
She cursed her traitorous heart for bounding like an excited puppy.
“I thought you’d lost your job,” Beck said in a quiet voice.
“Lady C fires me almost every week.”
“I didn’t say anything to Celia about you and Giles.”
Flick morphed into a pissed-off hyena. Hackles up, she growled her response. “He was drunk. I was trying to push him away not drag him into bed. Anyway that’s not why I was fired.”
Beck winced. “I didn’t want you to think I’d said something to Celia. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”
Flick looked at him in surprise.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“Yes.” YesYesYesYes.
“So why were you fired?”
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“Skirt too short. Top too tight. Mouth too big.”
As Flick watched him laugh, she caught sight of the blonde from the supermarket racing up to plant herself between them.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said in a simpering voice. “Mrs. Hartington is lucky to have good staff. My mother finds domestic help very hard to come by. Have you worked here since you left school?”
“Dina!” Beck snapped.
&nbs
p; “Promise to say nothing,” Flick said, in an accent she hoped sounded EastEuropean. “I taken from home in Transylvania when I eleven and sold to that woman and husband. I am slave. She treat me so cruel but her husband he love me, you know what I mean?”
Dina looked alarmed.
“Perhaps I come work for your mother? Your father rich?”
Dina backed away and Beck turned red in a struggle not to laugh.
“What a lovely girl,” Flick said to him, back in her usual accent. “More tea?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“You’re very honored, you know,” Flick whispered. “These are the second-best cups.”
“Not the best?”
“Those never leave the house. They’re reserved for paid-up members of the Conservative Party or for Prince Charles if he should ever drop in. Though probably not if he’s accompanied by Camilla.”
“Didn’t you get a drink?” Beck asked.
“I only allowed chipped mug,” Flick said back in her odd accent. Beck laughed.
“So tell me, why is Princess Dina glaring at me?” Flick asked. He looked toward the blonde who smiled a little too late.
“She appears to have a crush on me.”
“It must be wonderful to have such a beautiful stick insect as a pet.”
Flick looked at Dina and tried to imagine her and Beck together. Then shook the image from her head. She glanced at the field behind her. Ribbons of tape stretched in all directions and the tent lay in a crumbled heap.
“So how’s it going?” Flick tried to appear interested and intelligent, instead of incandescent with lust.
“Awful, not a straight line in sight, but it’s no worse than I expected,” Beck said.
“It might help if they all started from the same point. They’re never going to meet in the middle.”
“I know. They think they measured so accurately that they will.”
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Flick smiled. “So you’re going to let them carry on and then make them do it all over again?”
“Yep.”
“Isn’t that a bit cruel?”
He shrugged. “It’s the only way they’ll learn.”
“You’re into S&M then?”
“I could be.”
His response was so quick, Flick’s face went hot.
“Felicity, stop bothering Professor Beckett and take everything back to the house,”
Celia said. “He has important work to do and I’m not paying you to chat.”
“Yes, I have a prancing horse to dust,” Flick said. “Can I stop by later and see how you’re getting on?”
“Please do and bring more biscuits.” He gave her a warm smile and Flick fell deeper.
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Barbara Elsborg
Chapter Eight
Flick didn’t get a chance to go back to the dig. Lady C kept her working with a never-ending list of jobs because the Hall had to be perfect for the wedding. Celia breezed in as she finished cleaning the windows in the conservatory.
“Did your radar detect I was about to exhale?” Flick muttered.
“Felicity, I need you to take the dogs for a walk before you leave. Henry called to say he’s gone to a meeting in Leeds and won’t be back until late.”
“Okay.”
It wasn’t really okay. Flick struggled with all animals, not just sheep. It was as though they took one look and were determined to demonstrate their superior position in the evolutionary scale. She never reached out to pat puppies or tickle cats because any such action resulted in her next having to reach for the antiseptic. She’d always looked on dogs in particular as sets of sharp teeth mounted on four legs. Or three legs in the case of Butch, the dog who’d stood patiently on the stand at Otley show, wagging his stubby tail as a long line of youngsters queued to stroke him, only to bite sevenyear-old Flick the moment she came within reach. The Hartington dogs were two young and willful Irish Wolfhounds called Paris and Hilton—named by Giles without either of his parents realizing where he’d had the inspiration. They were the size of small horses and had tails that raised bruises when they wagged in her vicinity. Flick walked the other way whenever she saw them bounding toward her.
“Keep them on their leads and don’t interfere with the dig,” Celia said as Flick tiptoed into their yard.
Flick had no intention of letting them run free because she knew full well they wouldn’t come back when she called, but even attaching their leads proved a challenge. She was afraid of them despite Henry’s constant reassurance that they were as soft as him. The dogs had been lying quietly in the yard but transformed to hyperactive maniacs the moment they saw the familiar strips of leather. As Flick tussled with Paris’
collar, Hilton pushed her head up her skirt. Flick clamped her knees together and tried to ignore the snuffling nose pressing between her thighs. What was it with these creatures?
Several minutes later, soaked with perspiration and dog slobber, Flick had both animals in harness, raring to go. She took a lead in each hand and hoped they both wanted to go in the same direction otherwise she wasn’t going to stay in one piece for long.
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Flick had not intended to go toward the dig but the dogs had other ideas. She tried digging her heels into the ground but only succeeded in performing a few yards of grass skiing as each dog tried to race ahead of the other. She shouted and they took it for encouragement so she shut up. It was definitely a case of them taking her for the walk and not the other way round.
As she came within sight of the large green tent, Flick felt a moment of concern. She didn’t want Beck to think she was desperately interested in him, even though she was both desperate and interested. She tugged hard to pull the dogs back, but one leash slipped from her grasp. Hilton sprang free with Paris doubling her efforts to follow. Flick yelled at Hilton and the dog clearly translated her shouts into, “go faster toward that interesting maze”, sending Paris the same message. Flick found herself heading straight toward the lines of yellow tape.
Beck emerged from the tent as Hilton tore through the site. Paris broke free to follow her but not before dragging Flick first to her knees, then her stomach as the lead slithered through her fingers. Flick lay prone on the ground watching as Beck grabbed Paris and someone else grabbed Hilton. The dogs had tape wrapped all over them and looked as though they’d crossed several finishing lines. Both hooligans sat wagging their tails while they were unwrapped and meekly walked to heel as they were led away from the dig. Then a shadow fell over her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Beck stood with his arms crossed, a glare on his face.
“Sorry.” Flick sat up and unwrapped a piece of tape from her ankle. Blood trickled from a cut on her knee and she clamped her hand over it. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold them. They—”
“We’ve lost almost an entire day’s work.”
Beck looked magnificent when he was angry. He seemed taller and darker, but maybe that was because she sat on the ground and he loomed over her like the Grim Reaper. Since her knees went weak whenever she was near him, perhaps sitting down was a good thing. God, if she fancied someone who shouted at her, she must have it bad.
“Sorry,” she repeated. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Just get those damn dogs out of here.”
Flick stood up and walked over to a girl holding both leads in one hand. Making it look easy. Aarrrgh. Once Flick had the leads she pulled but the dogs refused to move. She pleaded, shouted, tried to bribe them with promises of forbidden treats like peeing on Lady C’s lawn or a whole packet of doggy chocolate buttons, but they ignored her. She could feel several pairs of eyes watching, not least from inside the house, where no doubt Gertrude had viewed the entire proceedings through her binoculars. Finally, to Flick’s intense relief, Paris decided to move and Hilton followed.
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“I wonder if she cut herself
on something interesting,” Jane said. “Can I start in that square?”
“Cut?” Beck watched Flick’s retreating back.
“She cut her knee. You didn’t notice the blood?”
No, he hadn’t. He’d been too angry. Shit.
“What sort of dogs were they?” Dina emerged from behind the tent. “They were huge. You’re so brave, Beck.”
As Beck watched, the dogs abruptly changed direction and dragged Flick away from the house toward the woods. He’d been too hasty. Again. She hadn’t deliberately wrecked the site.
“Can we redo it tomorrow?” Dina asked.
“It ought to be finished today.” Beck thought it was a good thing Isobel hadn’t arrived. She’d hardly be impressed they’d only managed to erect the tent. But when he heard the murmurings of discontent from the troops, Beck capitulated.
“Sod it, get all the equipment locked up and we’ll go to the pub.”
Beck left them to it and went after Flick. As he neared the bottom end of the wood where she’d entered, he saw her running out of the top, both dogs chasing her. At least they were heading for the house and not the dig, though there was nothing left to wreck except the tent. Beck turned back and went to get the last of his gear.
* * * * *
“Down, Paris. Down, Hilton,” Giles commanded as the dogs bounded toward him across the gravel.
Both dogs dropped as if they’d been shot. Flick wanted to shoot them. Then Giles. She bent over gasping, trying to get her breath back.
He grinned. “Been for a run?”
“Sod off, Giles,” Flick panted.
“What happened to your leg?”
Flick looked down. A trail of blood ran from her knee to her ankle. “Nothing.”
“Come inside and let me rub you down with a wet towel.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Can’t I persuade you to come for that drink?”
“No. You’d have a better time with these two bitches.”
Flick handed Giles the leads and walked off.
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Chapter Nine
Flick poked her head out of the kitchen when she heard the door slam and saw Kirsten stamp upstairs.
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