by John Preston
“I’m just passing on what I’ve been told,” said Grateley. “All of you are to stop work, with immediate effect.”
“What does this mean, Baz?” Will asked.
“I don’t know. Is Mrs. Pretty back yet?”
“I am afraid not,” said Grateley. “Nor do I know when she will return. I am assuming this evening. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave a number where we can reach her.”
“May I use the telephone?”
“I already told you, Basil. She can’t be contacted.”
“May I use the telephone?” I said again.
Grateley hesitated, far from taken with the idea. Then he said, “If you think you really need to.”
In the event all of us trooped in through the back door and down the corridor. The telephone was mounted on the wall by the kitchen door. I picked it up and dialed Maynard’s number. He answered after the second ring. I explained what had happened. However, it turned out Maynard knew about it already. He said that Reid Moir had had a conversation with Phillips earlier that day. Not that Maynard knew what the conversation had been about — only that Reid Moir was currently trying to reach the relevant person in the Ministry of Works.
“I think it’s this business with a roof, Basil,” he said.
“You’re telling me we’re having to stop for a — for a blasted roof? What ruddy fool came up with that idea?”
I knew I was shouting — I couldn’t help it.
“Apparently in exceptional circumstances the ministry can order the landowner to follow their instructions,” said Maynard. “I believe the ministry has been liaising closely with the British Museum. I also understand there may be other complications.”
“Complications? What other complications?”
“I don’t know yet, Basil. Everything is a little fraught here. As I say, I haven’t been able to speak to Reid Moir. I think all you can do is wait for Mrs. Pretty to come back and then discuss the matter with her.”
“So, you’re saying we really do have to stop?”
There was no reply, not at first. I thought we must have been disconnected. And then Maynard came through again. “I’m sorry, Basil. I don’t think you have any choice. I’ll do my best to keep you posted. Goodbye.”
There was a click as he put down the receiver. A moment or two later, I did the same.
My first instinct was to write to May and tell her what had happened. Except that I couldn’t face putting my thoughts into words. I couldn’t face talking to anyone either. After we’d replaced the tarpaulins, I decided to walk into Woodbridge. Just to give myself something to do.
There was hardly any traffic on the road. Only a few cars and a couple of carts — one of them carrying beet, the other piles of hurdles. A boy was spread-eagled on top of the hurdles, clinging on as the load swayed about underneath him. It took me about an hour to reach town. Once there, I headed for the dock and sat on a bench beside the tide mill. I thought that gazing at the river might settle my mind. But it didn’t do that at all — it just made me feel like jumping in.
Next, I walked along the High Street, trying to summon some interest in what I saw in the shop windows: the rows of shoes, the shelves of dry goods, the mounds of bric-a-brac behind screens of orange cellophane. The library was already shut so that was no good. I could have gone into a pub, I suppose, but I didn’t fancy that either.
And so I carried on aimlessly wandering. Up past the Bull Hotel and St Mary’s Church, then veering down the side streets to the right. When I reached the common on the edge of town, I doubled back, this time taking a different road. I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going — my thoughts were still tying themselves up in knots.
After a while, though, I made myself concentrate on my surroundings. I was walking past a terrace of low, brick-built houses that fronted directly onto the street. All the houses were blotched with white, dusty patches — the builder must have put too much lime in the bricks.
At the end of the terrace was a chapel. This was also made of brick, but it was a deeper, more ruddy color than the houses. The chapel was set back from the road. A strip of tarmac led through rows of gravestones to a set of double doors. One of these doors was open. Lights were on inside. A service was in progress.
Without thinking twice — hardly thinking once, really — I walked up the path and in through the door. Once inside, I saw that the chapel was more crowded than I’d expected. A few people turned round to see who this late arrival was, although not many. Most of them were staring at a small stage at the far end.
Mounted on the back wall was a portrait of the Savior. On one side of it were the words “Give Out Light” written in large gold letters, on the other side, “Give Out Love.” In front of “Give Out Light” was a frosted white bulb mounted on top of a barley-twist pole.
A woman was standing on the stage. Her gray hair was cut into a bob and she wore a long powder-blue dress. I found myself a seat near the back and close to the wall. There was a small shelf beside me with a decanter of water and two glasses on it.
Only as I sat down did I become aware that at least one person — and possibly more — was crying. Sobbing quietly to themselves. I should have left there and then, of course. The trouble was I would have risked making a spectacle of myself, and so I stayed put.
The woman in blue stood perfectly still. In front of her was a small lectern. One of her arms was held in front of her, bent at the elbow. She had the back of her hand turned towards her, as if she was reading the time. Draped over her wrist was what appeared to be a necklace, or a length of chain.
She was studying this intently.
“Ronald,” she said after a while. “Does anyone know a Ronald?”
There was silence, but a hopeful sort of silence, as if everybody was waiting for someone to fill it. The silence was broken by a dog barking — someone in the congregation must have brought one in. Then a man sitting two rows in front of me stuck his hand up.
“My father was called Donald,” he said.
“I didn’t say Donald,” said the woman sternly. “I said Ronald.”
The man lowered his hand.
“Ronald?” she said again, looking round. Still there were no takers. The woman didn’t appear to be in the least bothered. “I’ll try again,” she said, and fell to further contemplation of the chain.
Several more minutes went by. “Eric,” she said at last.
A few more hands went up now.
“Eric is a lovely-looking boy,” the woman said. “In his late teens, or early twenties, I should say.”
The hands remained in the air. White fingers straining upwards. “Where are you from, Eric?” asked the woman, leaning her head on one side.
The answer was not long in coming. “Eric says he is from Bucklesham.”
There were groans at this. All but two of the hands went down. “Eric passed over in France,” said the woman, “but he’s left a father behind him. And a mother too? No, not a mother. Sorry. She’s already with him. What’s the name of your father, Eric?” Again her head dipped down on one side. “Eric says that his father’s name is Doug.”
I heard a gasp. One of the two hands went down. The other stayed up for a few moments longer. Then this too was lowered. It belonged to a man who was sitting by himself near the front. Although it wasn’t in the least cold in the church — it was quite close, in fact — he wore an overcoat. He also had a muffler wound round his neck.
“It’s you, dear, isn’t it?” said the woman in blue.
The man nodded. Then he said something I couldn’t hear. The woman came down a set of steps from the stage and addressed him directly. “Eric is fine, you know. They both are. Eric and Mum. Eric says he loves you very much and that you mustn’t worry about either of them.”
“I hope I will be able to join them soon,” said the man in a matter-of-fact voice.
“You’ll go when you’re good and ready, dear,” said the woman. “And not before. The last thing
they want is for anyone to go over before their time. Is that clear?”
Again the man nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Let me see … Eric is such a handsome boy. I can see he has your eyes. Such an honest face too. But he’s got a scar on one of his hands. All the way up his arm. Is that from the war?”
“No. It’s from when he was a boy. He fell onto some broken glass.”
“Yes, I thought it didn’t look recent. You know what your Eric is saying to me? He’s saying, ‘I wish he’d laugh more.’ Because you used to laugh a lot, didn’t you?”
The man made no reply to this.
“See if you can do what Eric says, dear. Try to laugh a bit more. Because it’s not all doom and gloom out there, you know. Now then, shall we see who else is trying to get through?”
Next she got a Bernard, swiftly followed by an Eileen. “I feel a lot of fluid here,” said the woman clutching her stomach. “Was that her problem? Tummy troubles?”
So it went on with this chorus of weeping rising and falling, along with occasional interruptions from the dog. “Can anyone take a Brian for me? A tall gentleman. Something in his buttonhole. I think it’s a carnation. They won’t come if someone won’t accept them, you know.”
A woman’s hand duly went up.
“You, dear? I asked Brian if he had a message and he said no. He doesn’t have anything particular to say. He just wanted to say hello.”
“Yes,” said the woman. “He never was a talkative one.”
By now I felt that I had no business here, sitting in on other people’s grief. I got to my feet, intending to slip out through the still-open door. But I’d only taken a couple of steps when I became aware that something had changed. It must have been the quality of the silence.
I looked up. The woman in blue was again descending from the stage. Now she was walking down the aisle in a purposeful sort of way. She had a somewhat rolling gait. I watched her come closer, not sure what to do.
When she reached me, she touched my shoulder. “Are you familiar with an Emily?” she asked.
“No,” I said, relieved. “I don’t believe I am.”
“A friend of your mother’s? Possibly your grandmother’s? A woman of about fifty years of age? Very light on her feet and a nice sense of humor?”
For the sake of being polite, I pretended to think about it. However, the moment couldn’t be put off for long. “It means nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
She tapped her fingertips against her cheek as if she was ticking herself off. “I see green fields. Yes … green fields which you left for a more important position. Now does that make any sense?”
Everyone had turned to face me. They had twisted round on their chairs, their faces large and curious.
“Possibly,” I said.
“And sand. Sand and green fields. Tell me, is somebody holding you up in your business?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Yes,” she said. “I thought so.”
She touched me again. This time her eyelids fluttered as if her eyes had rolled back in her head. When she next spoke she did so with absolute conviction. “My message to you is plain: you must assert yourself. Do you understand me?”
Again I nodded.
“Good. Don’t let anyone hold you back in your endeavors. Sometimes you just have to carry on regardless.”
She turned and walked back to the lectern. After that a man came on and said that he wanted to speak for all of us in thanking Miss Florence Thompson for a remarkable example of mediumship. He was sure this had brought a great deal of comfort to everyone.
A murmur of agreement ran through the congregation. Once it had died away, he asked us to stand up and turn to Hymn 308 in our hymnals. From one side of the stage came the sounds of an organ. Very slow and dirge-like, as if whoever was playing it had their hands stuck in treacle. Above a low curtain a pile of blond hair — presumably belonging to the organist — could be seen swaying from side to side.
First she ran through one verse to reacquaint us with the tune. And then in we all came:
“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on;
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on …”
I don’t know how long it took me to walk back to Sutton Hoo House. A lot less time than it took me to walk into Woodbridge, that’s for sure. As I turned into the driveway, my watch was showing just after seven thirty. Apart from a few dabs of cloud, the sky was still bright. With a bit of luck, I reckoned there should be another hour and a half of daylight left. Mrs. Pretty’s car was parked outside the back door. She must have come back from wherever she’d been to while I was in Woodbridge.
At the mounds, everything was just as we’d left it. That was a relief. I lit a pipe and climbed down the ladder. After I’d reached the bottom I took the ladder away from the side of the trench and laid it flat on the ground. I’m not sure why — it wasn’t as if there was much chance of anyone else coming along. Even so, I wanted to make sure I was left alone.
When I unrolled the tarpaulins, the square of discolored earth showed up just as clearly as it had done before. I knelt down and set to, scraping and brushing. I didn’t have to wait long. Two feet away from where I had found the coin, I came across a greenish band. It looked like the remains of a piece of copper. And then came another green band. Duller than the first — even after I’d brushed it down — but about the same width and length as before. Bronze hoops, I thought. That’s what these will be. Bronze hoops from a barrel.
The light was starting to go now. When I looked at my watch it was already past nine o’clock. I couldn’t believe it. I calculated how much time I’d waste going back and fetching a torch, and then decided that I’d just have to make do.
Sweat ran down my face, dripping onto the ground. I can’t say how much later it was when I came across the piece of wood. To begin with, I assumed this must be the barrel. Or the remains of it at any rate. However, the wood was both larger and flatter than I would have expected. But if it wasn’t a barrel, then what was it? There was another possibility, of course — it could be one of the collapsed roof timbers from the burial chamber.
I kept on brushing for a while. And then I decided to stop, just for a moment, before I went on. As soon as I’d put the brush down, I saw it. There was a small hole in the top left-hand corner of the piece of wood — hardly larger than the coin I had found earlier. While I was staring at it, wondering what to do next, I became aware of a presence nearby. A movement in the corner of my eye.
To begin with, I tried to ignore it — I didn’t much care who it was, or what. And then came a whispered voice: “Mr. Brown.”
I looked up. Robert was crouched on one of the terraces. He had slippers on and was wearing his dressing gown.
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw the glow of your pipe. What have you found?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I come and have a look?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Please, Mr. Brown.”
“Not now, boy!” I said, much more loudly than I meant to. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Just go back to bed and leave me be.”
Aware that I’d spoken harshly, but too intent on what I was doing to make amends, I carried on as before. By the time I looked up again, Robert had gone. The light was fast disappearing now, the last few glimmers fading away. Maybe if there’d been more time, I wouldn’t have done what I did next. I don’t know. Probably that’s just an excuse. The truth is I couldn’t stop myself. At the same time, I was hardly even aware of what I was doing.
I pushed my finger into the hole. As I did so, I had the strangest feeling — it felt as if it was passing from one element to another. After a few minutes — I’ve no idea how long — I withdrew my finger. Then came the great wash of sadness, knocking me back.
Walking to the house, the swea
t was cold against my skin. Above the rooftop the moon was so pale it was almost white. I rang the bell. Grateley stood in the doorway with the light bouncing off the walls behind him.
“Do you know what time it is, Basil?”
“Even so, I need to see her.”
He paused to consider this. Then he gave me a look. “I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to wait until morning.”
The next morning I did something I hadn’t done in weeks — I overslept. By the time I woke up it had gone six and it was close to half past by the time I started work. I spent the next two hours working my way round the piece of wood. It was slow going as the wood kept flaking. Even so, it was absorbing enough to stop me from thinking about anything else.
At a quarter to nine I rang the bell, assuming that Mrs. Pretty would be up. Once again Grateley answered the door. Once again he told me that Mrs. Pretty was not available. I asked if she was feeling poorly again. No, he said. Not as far as he knew.
I couldn’t understand what was going on — it didn’t seem to make any sense. Still, there was nothing to be done, nothing I could think of anyway. So I went back and carried on as before. At eleven o’clock Grateley appeared at the mouth of the trench. He didn’t make any comment on the fact I was working. He just announced that Mrs. Pretty would see me now. We walked in silence back to the house.
As we were standing in the corridor, he said quietly, “Hands, Basil.”
“What about them?”
“They could use a scrub.”
After I’d washed in the pantry, he led me through into the hallway. The door to the sitting room was shut. I could hear voices inside. The moment Grateley knocked, the voices stopped.
The first person I saw was Charles Phillips — the man in the bow tie. He was standing by the fireplace with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. I looked around. Maynard and Reid Moir were behind the sofa. Although Reid Moir stood perfectly still, something about the way he was holding himself suggested he was writhing about inside.
Mrs. Pretty was in the middle of the floor. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Brown,” she said. “You know Mr. Reid Moir and Mr. Maynard, of course. Have you met Charles Phillips before?”