by John Preston
Mr. Brown pointed at the pit. “Now, that might be the chamber there. Although I have to tell you it could just as easily be a dew pond, Mrs. Pretty. Sometimes it’s the devil to tell them apart.”
“Surely the solution is to dig down and find out,” I said.
Mr. Brown started to laugh. “Oh, that’s the solution all right. At least that’s what I would have said. However, Mr. Maynard and I were just having a discussion about the best way to proceed. He is in favor of our digging a third trench here —” He indicated the other side of the mound to the narrower of the two trenches. “Whereas my instinct under the circumstances is to make do with just the two.”
I turned round to Mr. Maynard. He was standing right behind me.
“The normal procedure is to dig three trenches,” he said doggedly. “That way one can be as sure as possible that nothing is missed. Mr. Reid Moir always insists on three — always.”
“I do appreciate that thoroughness is vital, Mr. Maynard,” I said. “And I can assure you that I would never countenance anything slapdash. Yet at the same time one also has to bear in mind that there is a certain amount of urgency about the excavation.”
“Urgency?” He gazed at me with his moist eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“We are at the mercy of factors beyond our control.”
Maynard blinked several times and then lowered his voice. “You are alluding to the international situation, madam?”
“Exactly.”
A lengthy pause followed, during which Mr. Maynard stood quite still. Slowly, as if by infinitesimal degrees, the small, faraway smile came over his face.
I glanced at Mr. Brown, who caught my eye. We waited a little longer. At last Mr. Maynard said, “I shall tell Mr. Reid Moir that two trenches would appear to be sufficient. Under the present circumstances.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Maynard. That is kind.”
The two of us walked back to the house. Robert came too. He was careful, I noticed, to keep a safe distance away. Every few paces, he jumped in the air and gave a piercing whoop. Then he ran on ahead and waited for Mr. Maynard and me to catch him up.
“A delightful boy,” said Maynard. “Quite charming … Do you have many grandchildren, Mrs. Pretty?”
“As a matter of fact, Robert is my son,” I told him.
For a pale-skinned man, Maynard changed color with remarkable speed. His entire face became crimson, even his ears.
“I — I really am most dreadfully sorry.”
“Please do not distress yourself, Mr. Maynard,” I said. “It is a perfectly understandable mistake to make.”
On Wednesday morning I made my weekly excursion to London. As usual, Lyons brought the Alvis round to the front door after breakfast. He was standing outside in his navy-blue uniform, the sun glinting off his buttons. Robert came to see me off. I was aware of how heavy my feet sounded on the gravel, crunching laboriously from step to step, and of how little noise his own feet made by comparison.
“Will you be able to amuse yourself while I am away?” I asked.
“Mr. Brown says that I can help with the digging.”
“Does he? Well, just be careful not to —”
“Not to what, Mama?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
After I had kissed him, he remained squinting up at me.
“Is there something wrong, darling?”
“Your hat.”
“What about it?”
He giggled. “It’s on crooked.”
I reached up to straighten it. “There, is that better?”
“Yes,” he said doubtfully.
On the way into Woodbridge it began to spit with rain. We became stuck behind a convoy of army trucks. Men in uniform sat in the back. They gazed out, their white faces fusing into a single, biddable mass as they swayed from side to side. The convoy was moving so slowly that I grew concerned that I should miss my train.
However, when we arrived at the station it turned out that the train had been canceled due to a points failure at Ipswich. As a result, it would be an hour before the next one. Rather than simply sit and wait, I decided to go for a walk around the town. I asked Lyons to stay where he was and told him that I would return shortly. I then set off up Market Street, towards the Bull Hotel.
Halfway up the hill, I stopped briefly in a shop doorway, then looked back down towards the estuary. Despite its being high tide, surprisingly few boats were on the water. Those that were drifted listlessly about, their jibs flapping. I had not gone much further when I became aware of a very disagreeable sensation. I began to suspect that I was being followed. At first, I assumed I must be imagining it and tried to push the thought to the back of my mind. But instead of going away, as I hoped it would, the suspicion steadily hardened.
Once again I stopped and looked back down the street. This time, however, I stayed where I was. Within a matter of seconds, Lyons came round the corner. He saw me immediately, although he tried his best to pretend that he had not. Nonetheless, he had no real choice but to continue walking in my direction. In an attempt to make himself appear more nonchalant, he began to whistle.
When he reached the doorway where I was standing, I stepped out in front of him.
“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 t
he 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.
The other three men climbed out of the pit and dusted themselves down. Still nobody had spoken. I thought it best that we should leave. I indicated as much to Lyons and also to Robert, who seemed to understand — certainly he made no protest. Lyons picked up the wicker chair and, in the same order as before, the three of us walked away.
Two letters arrived in the post the next morning. The first was from Mr. Reid Moir, asking how the excavation was going. Unfortunately, there was little to report. Further digging beneath the butcher’s tray had revealed nothing. Mr. Brown had advised that there was no point in continuing. We therefore decided that he should start on another mound. I left the choice of which up to him and resolved to stay away from the excavation until he had something to report.
The second letter was from Miss Price, telling me that she would not now be returning to Sutton Hoo House to continue working as Robert’s governess/companion. She apologized profusely for this, but said that she felt she should remain with her family in the West Country.
It was a letter I had been both half-expecting and dreading. Looking up, I met Robert’s inquiring gaze. I said nothing, hoping that he had not recognized Miss Price’s handwriting. After breakfast, I sat in the sitting room and wondered, inconclusively, what to do.
I have no recollection of falling asleep, or even of feeling particularly tired. The next thing I knew, however, I had awakened to a clamor of voices. Beneath the voices there was another deeper, darker sound, like the growling of bassoons. Through the French window I saw Grateley running across the lawn. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him outdoors before. The sunlight seemed to exaggerate his cadaverousness, causing him to skip agitatedly about in his tail coat.
My surprise was compounded by the fact that Ellen was running beside him. The two of them were moving in tandem. As they ran along together, Grateley’s hand appeared to slide down her back.
When I rang the bell there was no response. Again I rang the bell, jangling it impatiently from side to side. Finally Mrs. Lyons came in. Her hair was white with flour.
“What is happening?” I asked her. “Has Mr. Brown found something? Why was I not informed?”
“Ma’am … I believe there has been an accident.”
“An accident? What kind of accident?”
“An accident with the excavation.”
I stood up, fetched my coat from the hallway and hurried outside. As I came close to the mounds, I could see immediately what had happened. A trench had been driven into the second mound, just as it had into the first. However, the whole of one side of this trench had collapsed. A shelf of mud had slid down, covering everything below it. In front of me I could see Jacobs, Spooner, Grateley and Ellen. All of them were kneeling down and digging away at the earth with their hands. Even then, it took me a moment or two to realize that there was no sign of Mr. Brown.
“Are you sure you are looking in the right place?�
�� I called out.
“Not sure, no,” said Jacobs, tossing clods over his shoulder. “Mr. Brown was the only one inside when it happened. But we think it was here.”
I knelt down beside them, plunging my hands into the damp earth. Although there were shovels close by, no one dared use them for fear of causing further injuries. Several more minutes went by, with all of us scrabbling away. Still there was no sign of him. Scooping up another handful of earth, I glanced at my wrist watch and tried to calculate how long Mr. Brown had been buried for.
And then came a shout from Spooner: “There’s something here!”
I looked up to see that Spooner was holding Mr. Brown’s cap. We all moved in a circle around the spot where he had found it and continued digging away.
A few minutes later Jacobs found Mr. Brown’s hand. It was sticking out of the earth, his fingers bent and splayed, his cuff still buttoned at the wrist. The men took hold of his wrist and pulled. As they did so, Mr. Brown slid out of the ground towards them. There was mud in his eye sockets and in his nostrils. His skin had a yellowish tinge.
Spooner pinched the mud away. Meanwhile, Jacobs put an ear to his chest. Mr. Brown was not breathing. His chest was quite still. Jacobs sat astride him and began pumping away. Still nothing happened. Jacobs leaned forward, putting his mouth over Mr. Brown’s and trying to force air into his lungs. He waited a few seconds and tried again.
In desperation, he began to pound Mr. Brown with his fists, hitting him so hard I feared he might break his ribs.
“Come on, Basil!” he shouted. “Come back!”
Still there was no response. Beside me, Ellen started to cry. Jacobs rocked back onto his heels. Just as he did so, a shiver passed all the way along Mr. Brown’s body. He started to shake; his back was bucking, his legs jerking up and down. He gave a long, hacking cough and sucked noisily for air.
I felt such a sense of relief that it made my head spin. Meanwhile, Grateley had fetched some water. He held a tin cup to Mr. Brown’s lips, tipping it up. The cup rattled against his teeth. Most of the water ran out of the side of his mouth. Some, though, he managed to swallow.