The Dig

by John Preston

  I had uncovered a kidney-shaped object. This too was made of gold. It was approximately three inches in length with one straight edge. Three tiny rectangles protruded from the one straight edge. Each of these rectangles was the same distance apart.

  Stuart appeared beside me as I was staring at it. “What do you think, darling?” he asked. His voice was more businesslike now; the helplessness had disappeared completely.

  “Possibly a purse lid?” I suggested. “These pieces here look as if they might be hinges.”

  “They do, don’t they? Shall we have it out?”

  As soon as I had prised the purse lid free, I saw that it had been lying face-down. On the reverse side, it was decorated in a similar style to the pyramids, inlaid with garnets and pieces of millefiori glass. Once I had blown the remaining grains of sand away, I saw something else. There was a pattern there. Two birds had been etched into the gold. Their eyes had also been picked out with tiny garnets — smaller than pinheads. Both of the birds had their heads back and their claws extended.

  At that moment, I wanted to go away. More than anything else, I wanted to be back at the Bull. Lying in my bed and holding on to the sides in case it should race away with me. I wasn’t sure I could cope with any more. Not without falling into a swoon or disgracing myself in some way. However, it was not to be.

  “Darling …” said Stuart. “Look.”

  I followed his gaze. Under where I had found the purse lid — beneath a faint covering of sand — were lying a number of coins. About twenty as far as I could tell. It only needed a few strokes of Stuart’s brush to bring them back into the open. Some of the coins, I saw, had crosses on one side of them. Although discolored with age, they appeared quite undamaged.

  Sticking to a number of the coins were threads of fiber, presumably from the bag they had once been in. Without dislodging too many of the threads, we placed the coins on a plate, then passed them up to the top of the trench. Everyone stood ranged along the bank. They all seemed lit up with excitement.

  When we had finished taking down the ground level by another two to three inches, Stuart moved to the square on his left. I just knelt and watched him working. Doing so, I had this strange sense that he too knew exactly what he was looking for. Almost as if he was coming back for something he had stowed earlier for safekeeping.

  The first thing I saw was what appeared to be gold worms, wriggling away. Then I realized this was a host of tiny, serpentine creatures, all entwined around one another. Next came three raised circles, like buttons. As Stuart continued brushing, whatever he was uncovering grew steadily bigger. At one end was a hole bisected by a single gold bar. At the foot of the gold bar was a fourth circle. Although this circle was not domed, it was engraved with the same writhing serpentine creatures as before.

  He kept going, working with the most minute movements. Somehow it felt appropriate that an object of such exquisite construction should be excavated by someone with such precision, such delicacy.

  “There,” he said. “I think that’s about it.”

  Now I could see instantly what he had found. It was a belt buckle. But larger and more ornate than any belt buckle I had ever seen before. It must have been close to six inches long and half that in width. Everything was made out of gold. The horizontal bar formed part of the clasp, while the domed studs must have originally fastened it to the belt.

  Without speaking — without needing to — the two of us lifted it up with our fingertips. The imprint of the serpentine pattern was clearly etched on the earth below. Still holding the buckle between us, we walked across to the foot of the ladder.

  When we reached it, Stuart pressed the buckle into my hand. “You take it.”

  I was about to protest, to say that Stuart should be the one who showed it to everyone else. After all, it was his discovery. But before I could do so, he looked at me with an almost apologetic expression and said, “Please, darling. I want you to.”

  Mrs. Pretty’s nephew arrived that afternoon. He rode a heavily laden bicycle and weaved his way unsteadily down the gravel path towards the mounds. Piled up behind his saddle were several cylindrical-shaped bags, while two long black tubes were suspended on either side of the back wheel.

  His appearance was as chaotic as his bicycle. He had on yellow oilskin trousers and what appeared to be an old golfing jacket. On his head, worn back to front, was a baggy checked cap. He looked just like an Irish tinker.

  However, he seemed to know what he was doing. From one of the tubes he took the component parts of a tripod and screwed them together. Kicking out the legs of the tripod, he attached the camera to the platform on the top. Then he ducked down beneath the hood. For the next hour and a half, he took various photographs of the pieces of jewelry, as well as several more of the interior of the ship.

  At seven o’clock, we stopped work. I think all of us, Phillips included, felt that to venture any further was somehow inappropriate, even indecent. The tarpaulins were stretched across the ship and secured. Due to the urgency of sending the discoveries down to the British Museum, there was no time to wait for proper containers. Instead, they were packed into sweet bags provided by Robert and then into seed boxes that Mr. Jacobs fetched from the kitchen garden.

  While this was happening, Phillips came over and said to Stuart, “A word, if I may.”

  “Of course, CW.”

  “In private,” said Phillips, with a glance at me.

  The two of them walked down to the far end of the ship. From where I was standing they appeared to be having an animated conversation. At least Phillips kept thrusting out his right arm, presumably to lend emphasis to whatever he was saying. Stuart, however, remained quite impassive, not reacting in any way.

  They were disturbed — as we all were — by the sound of Mrs. Pretty clapping her hands. She beckoned us forward. Phillips and Stuart were the last to come back, their heads still bent together. When we had gathered in a semicircle, Mrs. Pretty announced that she would like Mr. Brown to carry the seed boxes back to Sutton Hoo House.

  “Brown?” said Phillips, looking up sharply.

  “Mr. Brown,” she confirmed.

  Phillips half-dropped one shoulder in acknowledgment. It was at this point that Mr. Spooner suggested that no one should carry that much gold about without proper protection. I had no idea if he meant this seriously, but Mrs. Pretty evidently thought so.

  “A very good point,” she said.

  Running off to the stables, Mr. Spooner returned with a shotgun. After he had loaded both barrels, we set off. Mr. Brown led the way, walking towards the setting sun with three seed boxes resting on his outstretched arms. Alongside him was Mr. Spooner, shotgun at the ready in case brigands suddenly sprang out of the bushes. Then came Mrs. Pretty and Robert, with Mrs. Pretty’s nephew wheeling his bicycle in his yellow oilskin trousers. The rest of us brought up the rear.

  The next morning I awoke to find Stuart sitting on the side of my bed. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and rubbed my eyes.

  “I’m afraid I am going to have to leave you for a day or two, darling,” he said.

  “Leave me? What do you mean?”

  “I have to go to London. To make arrangements with the British Museum. It’s Phillips’s idea. I’ve been turning it over in my head all night, but I can see that he’s right. He believes the sooner the treasure is in the BM, the better. Everything we have found so far, along with anything we may find in the future. Plainly that’s the place for it, although he anticipates Reid Moir trying to create trouble and claiming it belongs in Ipswich.”

  “But surely any finds belong to Mrs. Pretty.”

  “Ah, well, that’s another question altogether.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “No doubt there will have to be an inquest of some sort to decide just where it is going to end up. But in the meantime, it’s imperative that the finds should be properly examined and catalogued. Phillips has decided that while I am away, he will wor
k with you in the burial chamber. Frank Grimes should be here in a day or two, although there’s still been no word from Ward-Perkins or Crawford. Do you mind awfully? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  ‘When were you thinking of leaving?”

  “Well,” he said, “there’s a train at a quarter to eight.”

  It was only then that I noticed his suitcase standing fastened and strapped by the door.

  “You’d better be going.”

  Stuart stayed where he was, looking down at me. “I am sorry, darling.” He bent forward and kissed me on the cheek. “You will be all right with the car, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  After he had gone, I remained in bed for a few minutes, flattening the sheet across my stomach, before getting up and dressing.

  Driving down towards the estuary, everything looked smaller and more compact than before — the buildings, the streets, even the people. As if they had already shrunk into themselves to try to fend off assault. Beyond Melton and before the fork to Sutton, the road runs straight for several hundred yards. On the left-hand side are fields of sedge grass. On the right, mud flats with a few petrified oaks jutting out of them.

  When I reached this stretch, I took my hands off the steering wheel. I did so quite without premeditation or thought to the consequences. The car drifted towards the center of the road, but stuck to its course.

  As it gained speed, it seemed to be straining to take to the air, the stubby black bonnet rising like a prow before me. A cyclist went by in the opposite direction, his head down, unaware of any danger. Still I let the car carry me wherever it wished. I felt no fear, only a sense of being untethered, of hanging suspended between one realm and another. Sometimes I feel that the dead are more alive than the living, and that this life is just a preparation for another one, long gone by.

  Just before the fork in the road, I grabbed hold of the steering wheel and swung it around. With a lurch of the chassis, the car rounded the bend, then began climbing the hill that leads to Sutton Hoo House.

  Before we went any further with the excavation, Phillips wanted everything we had already found to be properly packaged up in order to be sent down to London. We needed something that was both soft and durable to pack the finds in. Newspaper did not afford enough protection, while straw and strips of burlap were too abrasive. I didn’t like to mention it at first — I thought Phillips might scoff at the idea — but when I suggested that the moss in the wood might prove ideal, he agreed it was worth a try.

  I volunteered to go to the wood and collect some. As soon as I’d done so, Robert jumped up and said he wanted to come too. After asking me if I minded, Mrs. Pretty said that he could. As we set off, Robert slipped his hand into mine. He did so as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt the small bunch of his fingers, wrapped in my own.

  The moment we stepped into the wood, the air grew cooler. The sunlight, filtered through the leaves, bathed everything in soft green light. We made our way down the slope to where Robert said the moss was at its thickest. This turned out to be at its bottom edge, where the trees were more thinly spaced than they were up above.

  One of the men — Mr. Spooner — had kindly lent me a pruning knife. It was with surprising ease, as well as an enormous sense of satisfaction, that I was able to hack at the moss, tearing it up by its roots and lifting it out in large squares. These squares, I found, could then be rolled up, or even folded over.

  Robert helped me, stacking up the moss into piles. It wasn’t long before the two of us had laid waste a large area, turning it from green to brown. As we were working away, Robert told me that he had spent the night with the treasure underneath his bed. His mother had allowed him to keep it there on the understanding that he must not, under any circumstances, open the boxes — a condition he had managed to abide by, but only with the greatest difficulty.

  “This is terribly exciting, isn’t it?” I said. “It’s just like something out of Treasure Island.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t read Treasure Island.”

  “I’m sure you’d like it. I certainly did, although it was supposed to be for boys. But then I always preferred boys’ books when I was your age. There are lots of pirates and fighting. And a big chest full of treasure.”

  “Is there a buried boat?”

  “No, but there’s a desert island and a man with a long beard. He’s called Ben Gunn.”

  Together we pulled up another square of moss. A host of black beetles ran about, trying to escape the sudden intrusion of daylight.

  “Is it worth a lot of money?” Robert asked.

  “Is what worth a lot of money?”

  “The treasure, of course.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “A great deal of money. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.”

  “How much money?”

  “Well, that might be quite difficult to work out. There’s nothing to compare it to, you see.”

  “More than a hundred pounds?”

  “Definitely more than a hundred pounds,” I told him.

  “More than a thousand?”

  “I would say definitely more than a thousand too.”

  He laughed uncertainly, as if he found this impossible to believe.

  “But it’s not just its value that’s important,” I went on. “What’s even more exciting is that it comes from a time when everyone thought that people had become very primitive. From the Dark Ages. That’s why they’re called the Dark Ages, you see. Because people were thought to have slid back into darkness. You know about the Romans, don’t you, Robert?”

  “They had centurions. And legionaries.”

  “Exactly. Well, after the Romans left Britain in around AD 400, it was thought that instead of going forward and becoming more clever, people went backwards. They practically became like cavemen again. But this proves they didn’t do that at all. If they were capable of making jewelry like the pieces we discovered, they must have been much more clever than anyone ever dreamed of. So, it’s very exciting indeed. One of the most exciting things that could ever have happened, in fact.”

  “And is it ours?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Does it belong to Mummy and me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “And I’m afraid I don’t know how they decide that either.”

  “But it was found on Mummy’s land, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, then, it must belong to us.”

  “Yes …” I said. “Yes, it probably does. Why don’t we take some of this moss back? We must have cut more than enough by now.”

  Standing up, I saw an enormous silver object floating in the sky over Woodbridge. It was roughly cylindrical in shape. On one end were what looked like fins. The other end was pointing downwards. While I watched, a second silver object rose steadily yet clumsily into the air beside it. When this had reached the same height as the first, it stopped.

  Without my asking, Robert said, “Barrage balloons. Mr. Jacobs told me about them.”

  “What are they for?”

  “To stop enemy aircraft. They’re supposed to fly into them and then fall to the ground.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that the chances of this happening looked extremely unlikely, although I didn’t say so. I put my arm around Robert’s shoulders and together we stood watching as the two balloons swayed apart and then bumped into one another, partly crumpling as they did so.

  Picking up armfuls of cut moss, we began to climb back up the slope. As we did so, I felt suddenly as if the ground we were walking on was as thin and fragile as the crusted sand inside the boat. As if it might give way beneath our feet at any moment and the two of us would tumble into a black abyss.

  Halfway up the slope, we passed a small clearing. A khaki-colored bell tent had been pitched in it. The flap was tied back and the guy ropes fanned out all round. Inside, I could see a sleeping bag as well as some clothes scattered about. This, sai
d Robert, was where Mrs. Pretty’s nephew, Rory, was staying.

  “Isn’t he allowed indoors?” I asked, remembering what Phillips had said and wondering if Mrs. Pretty had some deep-seated aversion to houseguests.

  He started to laugh. “It’s not that, silly. He likes being here.”

  Apparently Mrs. Pretty’s nephew preferred sleeping out of doors. Somehow this seemed a very affected thing to want to do, although I didn’t say that either.

  Slowly, Phillips made his way down the ladder. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he suspected that he was being observed, before lowering himself onto another rung. At the bottom, he stepped off as lightly as he could, hitching his weight up as a woman might do with her skirts. Walking on the balls of his feet, he moved down the ship until he reached the near end of the burial chamber. Once there, he sank to his knees with a sigh.

  Without Stuart’s presence, the atmosphere had changed more than I would have thought possible. Everything was much more serious, more dour, than before. Even at break times there were no lighthearted moments. Scarcely anyone talked to one another; they just buckled down to their appointed tasks. Having finished moving the spoil heaps from one place to another, the men had now been put to work uncovering the last few rivets in the bow section.

  When this was finished, they were able to take the first complete measurements of the ship. It was just under ninety feet from one end to the other. The original ship, however, would have been even longer. The last six feet of the stern end is missing, sheared away. Phillips thought that medieval farmers must have been responsible. It was Mr. Brown who suggested the ship might have been deliberately put into the ground at an angle. He believes that the stern protruded above the mound like a great horn, thus ensuring it was clearly visible from the other side of the river. To my surprise, Phillips did not dismiss this theory out of hand, even conceding that it might have some validity to it.

  Silently, we continued throughout the afternoon. I was working at the opposite end of the chamber to Phillips. Once in a while, I would look up and see him bent over, his braces stretched and taut. The sun beat down even more fiercely than before.