by John Preston
“It’s not what you think,” I said.
I felt Rory’s fingers stop moving.
“What isn’t?”
“It’s not what you think,” I said again. “With Stuart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Things between Stuart and me. They’re not …”
“Sshh.”
I turned around. Rory was holding his finger up to his lips.
“Just listen,” he said.
I heard nothing, not at first. And then the birdsong came from so close at hand that I almost jumped. There were long gurgling trills, punctuated by a series of harsh little clicks. Then the nightingale waited for a response. But there was nothing, only silence. After a few minutes, the singing started up again, both louder and more passionate than before. Bubbles of sound streamed up into the night sky.
The sound was sadder than anything I had ever heard before. Full of yearning and desperation and the proximity of regret. The hope that drove the song forward seemed entwined with the knowledge that it would never be answered. Yet despite that I couldn’t bear for it to end. I felt that as long as we stayed exactly where we were, then nothing need ever change. The earth would swallow us, just as it had done everything else. I wanted this more than anything.
But even then I knew it would never happen. I knew it before another torch beam cut through the darkness. It came towards us from the direction of the house. Behind the light, I could make out a black-clad figure.
“Good evening,” said a voice.
Neither of us spoke.
“My name is Police Constable Ling,” the voice continued. “And this is my colleague, Police Constable Grimsey.”
Another man had appeared beside him. He was also dressed in a uniform and a flat cap.
“We have been asked to keep an eye on the site by the owner,” said the first policeman. “In case of unauthorized visitors. May I have both your names please?”
I started laughing. At that moment, I felt an enormous sense of relief. Relief at not letting myself down, at not betraying everything that mattered to me. It was like a kind of exultation. I explained that I was one of the archaeologists working on the site and that Rory was Mrs. Pretty’s nephew. As I did so, I could hear the babble of my voice, the words tripping helplessly over one another.
“I see,” the policeman said when I had finished. “In which case we won’t disturb you any further.”
“In fact, I must be going,” I told him. “I have an early start in the morning.”
“Let me walk you to your car,” said Rory.
“There’s no need.”
“But it’s no trouble.”
In silence we walked back towards the house. Rory kept the torch beam trained on the path in front of my feet. When we reached the car, he opened the door and waited until the motor had caught.
“Goodnight, then.” He was standing with his hand held up to his cap.
“Goodnight,” I said.
I awoke from a deep sleep to see a man’s head hovering above mine. It was only a few inches away. As I gazed upwards, he bent forward and kissed me on the forehead. His breath smelled of Plasticine.
“Hello, darling.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I managed to catch the milk train. Sorry to wake you, but there have been developments.”
“What sort of developments?”
“Rather ominous developments, I’m afraid. The papers have got wind of everything.”
Stuart held up a newspaper. Slowly, the print unfurled before me. “Anglo-Saxon Ship-Burial,” I read. “Remarkable Find in East Anglia.”
“The Times has it as well,” he said, holding up another paper. This one was headlined, “Sunken Boat is British Tutankhamun.”
“Phillips isn’t in his room,” Stuart went on. “I assume he has already gone over to the site. I’ve been trying to call Sutton Hoo House but there’s no reply. Perhaps they’re not up yet, although they should be by now, I would have thought. I think the best thing for us to do is head off there straightaway.”
“May I have a few minutes to dress?”
“Of course, darling,” he said. “How inconsiderate of me. Why don’t I see you downstairs when you’re ready?”
I stared through the windscreen as we drove along around the bottom of the estuary. Nothing had changed. Beyond Melton, the road still ran straight for several hundred yards. The petrified oaks still jutted up out of the mud flats. The fields of sedge grass stretched away on the left. There was a white mist lying over the river, through which I could hear the muffled cries of the gulls.
Nothing had changed when we drove into Sutton Hoo House either. We headed straight out to the mounds.
Nobody was around. The tarpaulins were still fixed in place. I looked over at the woods beyond, but nothing stirred. We were about to turn round and go back when the two policemen I had seen the previous night emerged from the shepherd’s hut. Neither of them made any sign of recognition. They had no information beyond the fact that Mr. Brown had appeared first thing. Apparently he had sat on the top of the bank for a while, then gone away again.
Back at the house Grateley, the butler, answered the doorbell. Instead of lying flat, as usual, his hair rose in an oiled flap at the front. Mrs. Pretty had left word that she was not to be disturbed. He said that journalists had started calling at seven o’clock that morning. After an hour of this, she had ordered that the telephone should be disconnected.
At that moment Phillips appeared in the corridor behind Grateley. Instead of being furious, as I had expected, he seemed to be brimming with bonhomie. “Ah, Stuart,” he said. “There you are. I assume you’ve heard what has happened. It’s all Reid Moir’s fault, of course. I should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep his trap shut. No doubt he wants to make everything as awkward for us as possible. Well, if that’s the way he wants to play it, let him do his worst …
“The BM thinks I should hold a press conference. Personally I’m all against it. Anything I say is bound to be distorted. Some idiot has already telephoned this morning and asked if the boat is still seaworthy. Mrs. Pretty is understandably upset, poor lady. I have done my best to calm her, but she has gone back upstairs for the time being.”
“What do you think we should do about the actual dig?” asked Stuart.
“Nothing,” said Phillips promptly. “We can’t possibly continue in this sort of atmosphere. Not with all this nonsense going on. I gather there’s a convoy of journalists on their way here now. The whole place will be crawling with them in a few hours’ time. My intention is to let everything calm down for several days and then finish excavating the chamber. Assuming we’re not at war, that is.”
“And what would you like us to do?”
“Ah, I’ve been thinking about that. Why don’t you come back outside for a moment?”
Once there, Phillips lowered his voice — as much, it seemed, out of a love of subterfuge as anything else. “Crawford has finally made contact and hopes to be here tomorrow. Plenderleith and Hutchinson have also offered to help. There’s even a good chance that Munro will come. Under the circumstances, I thought you two might like to take this opportunity to slip away.”
“Slip away?” said Stuart.
“That’s right. After all, you two are supposed to be on your honeymoon. I should go off and make the most of it while you still can. As I say, there isn’t going to be much happening here for the next few days. I suspect we are probably close to the bottom of the chamber already. I doubt if there can be much more left to come. It’s conceivable we may still find a body, although, as you know, I have always had my doubts on that score.”
“When were you thinking we might leave, CW?”
“No time like the present, is there? Not strictly true in archaeological terms, of course, but there’s something to be said for it just the same. If you go now, you should escape all these wretched journalists.”
“What do you think, darlin
g?” said Stuart. “Darling …” he said again.
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose we could just potter up the coast and take pot luck.”
“I assumed you would be keen on the idea,” said Phillips, sounding offended. “Grateful even.”
“We are pleased, naturally we are. At the same time it’s bound to be rather a wrench.”
“Yes, yes, but soon all this will be a happy memory. One to put alongside many others, I have no doubt.”
“Shouldn’t we say goodbye first?”
“You can say goodbye. Right now.”
“Not to you, CW. I meant to the others.”
“As I mentioned earlier, Mrs. Pretty is unavailable at the moment,” explained Phillips patiently. “If you have any messages for anyone else, I will be only too happy to pass them on. Was there anything in particular you would like me to say? No? In which case I shall convey a general salutation from you both.”
“If you’re really sure …”
“Perfectly sure.”
Phillips came across the gravel towards us, making shooing motions with his hands. “Now, off with the pair of you before I change my mind.”
We drove back to the Bull. Stuart stayed downstairs while I went up to our room to pack. It didn’t take long. After I had handed in the key, Stuart carried our suitcases and strapped them onto the back of the car. We made better progress than expected. By midday, we were already halfway to Norwich.
Edith Pretty
13–14 AUGUST 1939
All day Spooner and Jacobs trudge back and forth across the lawn, emptying watering cans on the flower beds. According to Spooner, the river level is so low that several of the fishermen have begun anchoring their boats as far down as Bardsey. At breakfast, to try to encourage some semblance of a breeze, we have taken to opening the windows wide, as well as the door. Yet it makes no difference: the air just sits there, unstirrably thick.
Last night, a full-scale blackout exercise was held in London. A report appeared in today’s newspaper:
It was curious to see Piccadilly Circus, Coventry Street and Leicester Square, which are normally blazing with lights until well into the early hours, in more than semi-darkness. All-night restaurants and cafés were open as usual. However, blinds covered their windows and all bulbs had to be properly screened. Inside, ghostly figures sat eating and drinking in a mysterious half-light.
I put down the newspaper. Robert was still eating his breakfast. The knife and fork no longer appeared so unwieldy in his hands; he manages them now without any sign of awkwardness. I could tell that he knew I was watching him, but he would not look up. Instead, he lowered his head a little closer to the plate and carried on eating. He has been like this ever since the excavation ended. Doubtless he blames me for work having stopped. With no one to play with and nothing to distract him, his days pass in a brown study of frustration and inactivity.
“Robbie,” I said, “how would you like to have your portrait painted?”
At this, he did look up in surprise. “What for?”
“So that I can remember you as you are now.”
“Won’t you be able to do that anyway?”
“Of course I will. But sometimes it helps to have a reminder.”
“What about a photograph?”
“A portrait is different from a photograph.”
“How is it different?”
“Because it has artistic worth. I have already spoken to a very nice man, a Mr. Visser, who lives in Ipswich.”
“Could I wear what I wanted?”
“I would have thought so. Within reason.”
“Would I have to sit still for a long time?”
“I’m afraid you would. Although I am sure you could have regular breaks. Would you like that, Robbie?”
He thought about it and then said, “I don’t mind. If that’s what you want. Please may I get down now, Mama?”
“Of course. If you are quite sure you have finished.”
After Grateley had cleared everything away, I went into the kitchen to see Mrs. Lyons. There was a saucepan simmering on the range, its lid rattling, and some crescents of diced celery lying on the chopping board. The kitchen, however, was empty.
I found Mrs. Lyons in the larder. She was sitting on a milking stool with the undersides of her arms resting on the tiled slab. On the back of her neck was a damp tea towel. She started to stand up as soon as she saw me and only sank back down after some persuading.
“I’ve been coming in here quite a lot recently, I’m afraid, ma’am. It’s the coolest room in the house.”
It was indeed wonderfully cool; so cool I wished I could join her. Instead, we discussed arrangements for Thursday afternoon. We decided in the end that she should make two cakes — one with chocolate cream filling and the other with jam — as well as scones and brandy snaps. I was about to leave when she told me that Mr. Trim, the butcher in Woodbridge, had had a change of heart and decided that he would be able to take our rabbits after all.
Afterwards, I went through into the sitting room. Grateley had closed the curtains to shut out the sunlight. At eleven o’clock, Spooner came to the back door. As it was my wedding anniversary, I had asked him to pick me a bunch of flowers. He was standing on the step holding a sorry-looking bunch of dahlias and pinks. Already they had started to wilt. Before I could say anything, Spooner started to apologize, explaining that these were the best he had been able to find.
During the afternoon, when the heat was a little less fierce, Lyons drove me to the churchyard. He waited outside while I lifted the latch and went through the gate. No one else was there. Dead stalks crackled underfoot. Everything was pale and washed out. Even the stones looked as if they had been bleached.
Frank’s grave is unmarked, apart from a wooden cross. I have not bothered with a headstone as we are to be buried in a double plot. Placing the bunch of flowers by the foot of the cross, I stood there for a few minutes, asking for his guidance in what lay ahead. The sun was like a hand pressing against my back. I could see my shadow falling along the length of the grave. When I returned, Lyons was sitting in the car. He had his jacket undone and was fanning himself with his cap.
When I rang for Ellen on the following morning, she did not appear. I rang again. Still nothing happened. Eventually Grateley knocked on my bedroom door. Looking flustered, he said that he had not seen her since the previous evening.
“Do you think she might be unwell?”
“I cannot say, ma’am.”
“It is most unlike her not to send word.”
Grateley agreed that this was most unlike her and said that he would make inquiries. After I had finished dressing, I went down to breakfast. I was sitting there alone, still wondering what could have happened to Ellen, when Grateley came in again. This time he brought an envelope. He held it in front of him with his arms extended, as if he thought it might explode at any moment. My name was written in capital letters on the outside. I did not recognize the handwriting. Inside, was a single sheet of lined paper.
Dear Madam,
Please forgive me. I am afraid I am having to leave your employ with immediate effect due to personal reasons. I am very sorry to be leaving like this. However, circumstances make it impossible for me to serve out my period of notice. I hope only that you will not think too ill of me.
Yours truly
Ellen Spence
I folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. Grateley was still standing by the sideboard, waiting for a response.
“Thank you, Grateley,” I said. “That will be all.”
On the way to the village hall in Sutton, we passed Mr. Brown. I had offered him a lift earlier, but he insisted that he was quite happy going on his bicycle. He sat ramrod straight on the saddle with his pipe stuck between his teeth. Lyons sounded the horn as we went by. Mr. Brown took one hand off the handlebars and lifted it in greeting.
There had been some dispute beforehand about the venue for the in
quest. A number of people — Mr. Reid Moir among them — argued that it should be held in the town hall in Woodbridge. However, the coroner, Mr. Vuillamy, decided that the proximity of Sutton village hall overruled any concerns about its size. Matters were further complicated when, much to my dismay, the BBC announced that they intended to broadcast excerpts from the inquest on the National Programme. By then, though, it was too late for any change.
Beside the village hall a field of mangolds had been set aside for a car park. When we arrived people had already congregated outside. As I had expected, a number of press photographers were also there. Mercifully, none of them knew who I was. However, when poor Mr. Vuillamy arrived a battery of flashbulbs exploded in his face. It was not until I saw him step back in surprise that I realized just how much I had been dreading this inquest — both because of the publicity it would bring and because of its expected outcome.
Inside the hall an oilcloth had been laid on top of the billiard table, with the tennis table placed on top of that — thereby making a serviceable if none too stable surface for the coroner and chief constable to sit behind. A jury of fourteen local men had been appointed beforehand. They comprised Mr. Abbott, the Sutton village blacksmith, and his son, Percy, landlord of the Plough Inn; three farmers; two retired army officers; John Mann, the Melton grocer; Mr. Peecock, the land agent; Mr. Bett, the secretary of the Woodbridge Golf Club; the headmaster of the Sutton village school; Mr. Houchell, a haulage contractor; Major Carruthers, the manager of the Midland Bank in Woodbridge; and General Charles Tanner.
Mr. Vuillamy took his place behind the makeshift table with the chief constable on his left. The jury sat directly in front of him, with members of the public crammed into what available space there was behind. Those of us who were being called to give evidence sat at the side. A seat had been reserved for me between Mr. Phillips and Mr. Reid Moir.