*
“What do we do now, Sid?” Sid and Emmie are back at the shop, Emmie preparing sandwiches for a late lunch.
“Wait and see, I suppose.”
“Wait and see for what? For me to be locked up and Sam carted off to the bin.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense, Em, and you know it. Just calm down while I get you a drink. Leave the sandwiches for a minute.” Emmie sits down, waits meekly while her erring husband pours her a large whisky from the bottle he’d brought round last night. Surely he hadn’t been so masterful in the old days. Australia had done him a world of good, no doubt of that. “To my way of thinking,” he goes on, as he pours himself a whisky and sits down beside her, “we should close the shop for a day or two until things have settled down a bit and before they get too complicated –”
“But they are complicated,” Emmie interrupts, a note of desperation in her voice, “you can’t change that.”
“Answer me just one question, Em. Do you or do you not want me back? Once you’ve answered that, apart from a bit of argy-bargy, everything else is straight forward.” Emmie takes a gulp of whisky, feels the warm, tingling liquor permeate her body, giving it life; hope. She thinks of Henry from the supermarket, big, randy, useless Henry; the years of loneliness; the smiling lady at the marriage bureau who promised so much and delivered so little; that faithless slob Jack Fulton; Sam’s look of bored distaste…
“Yes,” she says at last, “yes Sid, I think I do.”
Sid puts a tentative arm round her. “That’s my girl,” he says, kissing her long and lingeringly on the lips. “If that’s what you want, that’s what I want too, so that’s what we’ll have.” Emmie’s Scholl sandals click on the bare boards, as arms entwined they slowly climb the stairs to her bedroom.
*
“Five thirty p.m. We are now approaching the Roman level, having so far exhumed the complete skeletons of six babies, as well as numerous bones, mostly of animals, although there is a possibility that some of these are human. By the selection of artefacts so far found, the area was undoubtedly used as a site for rubbish in the Middle Ages, after which there seems to have been a gap and then again in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We will continue to dig into the Roman level until we either find what we are looking for or the weather breaks.” Ron flicks off the switch on his pocket stenorette, and after a doubtful look at the lowering skies, calls his motley helpers to order, following a twenty minute tea break. His audience, he notices grimly, is growing by the minute, and by the number of cars outside in the lane, set to grow even larger.
Meanwhile a harassed Sel, hurrying into his office bearing another plastic bag containing the mortal remains of yet another tiny victim, is waylaid – to his considerable annoyance: how did the bastard manage to get in? – by a young man from the local rag. They have in fact met before – over the fracas at The Trojan Horse.
“I wonder if I might have a word, Mr Woodhead?”
Sel carefully places the plastic bag on a tray with the other tiny bundles and covers it with a cloth. “Not now, dear boy, not now. As you can see, we are all rather busy.” He waves towards the half open window, through which can be seen, to the accompaniment of honking horns and angry shouts, a slow procession of motley vehicles crawling up the lane from the river, their imminent arrival at Brown End, owing to the considerable number of parked cars already outside the yard gates, inevitably resulting in a traffic jam of mammoth proportions. Sel, watches wild eyed; this is not the sort of publicity he had envisaged.
“Just a few words, Mr Woodhead, a taster…” the reporter pleads. He’ll never get a scoop like this again, not with The Trumpeter, he won’t. But Sel has spotted Clarrie and is already summoning her to his aid.
“Darling, here’s that nice reporter from The Trumpeter. He looks as if he’s in need of a drink. Can you put him in the picture. There’s a press conference tomorrow of course, but as he’s such a nice young man and local to boot, perhaps you could let him have a few snippets.” (Always make sure you stay on the right side of the Press, no matter how humble.) The young man, blushing, gets out his notebook. Clarrie, smiling serenely, takes over. Sel mops his brow in relief, as the strains of The Teddy Bears’ Picnic, emanating from the mouth of the pink polar bear on top of Bogg’s ice cream van, echo out across the valley.
“Number seven,” Ron intones from across the yard. “Possibly from the Saxon era. Remnants of cloth adhering to the abdomen, together with a small clay figure of the type normally used in the practice of witchcraft…” The dig continues.
*
“Our Beatrice has certainly picked a lovely spot to work in.” Tris and Sylvia, having unpacked and showered, on the assumption that Beatrice wouldn’t be ringing until evening, and having walked the couple of miles to Kimbleford to stretch their legs after the drive from London, are standing on the bridge looking down into the river. Tris O’Hara, otherwise known as Father Joseph, and Sylvia have been friends since childhood, and despite Tris, at the age of twenty-five, having joined the Catholic priesthood and Sylvia’s rather rigid agnosticism, remain so. They have, after all, very similar aims in life, and she helps him out in a hundred different ways.
“Something a bit spooky about our pub, though, don’t you think? I’m sure its haunted. I know the building’s modern, but there does seem a rather odd atmosphere.”
“Now you know better than to ask me that. Gosh, look, Syl, a heron – there on that stone in the river.” Syl looks.
“I can’t see it,” she says…
*
Meanwhile Sel and his wife, taking a brief respite from the day’s events, are consuming a quick mug of tea in the kitchen. Clarrie has already seen off the young reporter, but with such charm and efficiency that although in reality he’s none the wiser as to what’s really going on at Brown End, he remains under the happy impression that he is, and Baby No. 7 seeming to be the last, at least for the time being, Sel himself is taking a breather before the next crisis.
“Do you know, my love, this is one of the very few occasions in my life when I get the feeling I’m not wholly in control of events; indeed feel they are, in some extraordinary way, in control of me. Do you think we should call the police?”
“Do you good,” Clarrie says. “It’ll shake you up a bit. And don’t worry about the police, someone’s already called Traffic Control.” Sel places his mug on the draining board and puts an arm round his wife. In silence they watch the line of angry motorists snaking up the lane from the bridge.
“Do you know what I think?” Sel asks.
“I never know what you think, darling, you know that.”
“I think that tiresome Roman bitch must have had a sense of humour. I bet she’s laughing her head off in Hell or Hades or wherever Romans go to when they’re dead.”
“She probably is…”
“So it’s tea break time, is it, you skivers!” Philippa looks radiant. This is, after all, her day. Books, TV documentaries, serial rights flow ahead in one, long, continuous stream, revitalising her, it has to be said, waning career for the foreseeable future and beyond. “I’ve just spoken to Izzy,” there being no tea left in the pot, she helps herself to the last of the diggers’ ginger biscuits, “and he says he thinks Sam should be alright to join us downstairs, he’s getting a bit restive in his bedroom, and has now returned to normality and seems perfectly focused. The news that his wife committed bigamy and isn’t his wife at all has, according to Izzy, apparently induced a state of euphoria, and so long as he’s prevented from joining the dig, he should be fine.”
“And Beatrice?”
“Still asleep.”
“Let’s hope she remains so, at least while this circus continues…” Clarrie looks at her so-called friend with distaste. She’s revelling in it, she thinks, she’s bloody revelling in it.
*
“Prof – Prof can you come?” It’s past eight o’clock, and although the stifling air under the ash trees is a
little fresher, and a faint breeze seems to be getting up, the spiralling clouds overhead remain ominously dark, when Ron looks up to find an excited youth in a baseball cap hurrying towards him.
“What now?” Tired to the point of exhaustion, he tries to keep the note of exasperation out of his voice; he can’t take much more.
“Hazel says to tell you she’s found something,” the youth informs him in a hoarse whisper; the diggers have been instructed to keep their voices down and any ‘finds’ are to be handled as unobtrusively as possible so as not to arouse the already over excited onlookers. “Can you come…?”
Is this it? Oh God let’s hope so. Heart beating, mouth dry, Ron hurries over to where Hazel, a pretty red head and much the best of the students, is sitting back on her heels in the trench nearest the foot of Tavey’s tree, looking dazed; beside her a small, unadorned, lead casket. “I’ve cleaned a little of the mud off, Prof, and look,” she whispers, as Ron climbs into the trench and squats down beside her. They look. Ron puts out a hesitant hand and very gently scrapes away the powdering of earth from the crudely scratched letters on the side of the casket. Reads.
Petrus… Vale in Pace
Oh cripes! And there’s more. Underneath the writing, to the left, barely discernible, the real clincher: someone has scratched that enigmatic, and to many archaeologists, almost magic, emblem of the early Christian Church, the Chi-Rho symbol. So someone had cared enough after all to try and give the poor little devil a proper send off. For a moment the two of them, the archaeologist, worldly-wise and cynical and the young student, full of hope and enthusiasm, kneel in silence in front of the casket. Neither are religious; both, without having to say so, are aware a gesture of respect is called for. And both know that for as long as they live they will never forget this moment.
“I’m sorry, Head, but the crowd senses something’s up. I doubt if I can keep them at bay much longer.” Reality kicks in in the form of the vicar down on his knees beside the trench: he’s seen the casket.
“You’ve found something – is it –?”
“We think so.”
“Oh, goodness me!”
The other diggers also sense something’s up; begin to gather round. Hazel jumps to her feet, Ron remains kneeling beside the casket. Everything all of a sudden seems to have gone a bit hazy; the vicar doesn’t look quite like the vicar. Fatter, younger. Why is he wearing his surplice and why is he smiling? There’s a silver cross…
Hazel, aware of his bewilderment, takes over. “I think we’d better get this one back to the house as quickly as possible, Vicar. The Prof can examine it there, we don’t want to damage anything. If you could just keep everyone distracted for a few more minutes.”
“I’ll try, but it won’t be easy – they’ve waited a long time for this.”
Ron pulls himself together, gets to his feet; the mist seems to be clearing now. He wishes there is more time to interpret what has just happened to him, but there isn’t. “Get them to sing a hymn or something, Vicar, and tell them I’ll be issuing a statement very shortly, that might stall them for a bit.”
“Will do.” The vicar hurries away, and Sel, bearing a brightly coloured tartan car rug, fairly gibbering with excitement, takes his place beside the trench. News travels fast.
“We can cover it with this, Ron, the gate’s open,” he hisses, “and we’d better get our skates on; Josh and his boys are doing their best, but we won’t keep them back for much longer.”
There’s a hush both outside and inside as the casket, under its somewhat garish covering, is carried across the yard, through the back door and into the kitchen where it’s laid reverently down on the large, scrubbed table in the centre of the room. Someone prudently locks the door into the yard, from whence a rather ragged rendering of Abide with Me can be heard. The vicar, it seems, is doing his stuff.
This is it. Behind him people murmur. A lot of pushing and shoving seems to be going on. Philippa, no doubt desperate to be in on the act, is blowing down the back of his neck. Ignoring her and them, and thanking God for Hazel standing sentinel beside him, he very gently slides the lid from the casket. It comes off easily; in the long years of incarceration the hinges have broken apart and a dusting of earth has penetrated the box. Not much though; the tiny skeleton inside appears to be in pristine condition. Remnants of cloth adhere to the leg bones of the baby, some sort of shroud perhaps and, wonder of wonders, around its tiny neck has been fastened a minute golden torque in the shape of a serpent. Whoever it was who so carefully laid the child to rest had, it seems, hedged their bets: tribute made, not only to the Christian God, but to the pagan predecessors.
Chapter 14
“Beattie, love, how are you feeling?” Beatrice opens her eyes to find Sylvia, of all people, seated beside her. The curtains have been drawn back and there’s a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits on the bedside table.
“Bloody awful, if you really want to know. It’s probably a stupid question but how did you come to be here? I thought it would be that ghastly Dr Moss, that’s why I kept my eyes shut, then I smelled your perfume.”
“Is he so ghastly?”
“Pretty grim, yes. He keeps filling me with dope, Syl. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Anyway how do you come to be here? Surely Sel didn’t ring you, did he. Because if he did I –”
“Your letter.” Syl, already primed not to mention the dig or any of the day’s events, chooses her words with care, “I was worried. So Tris and I popped down for a day or two. I rang Mr Woodhead and he said you were asleep but would call back. Then Mrs W. rang and suggested we came over. And… well here we are.”
“You’re staying at Brown End?”
“No, at a local pub a few miles away – The Trojan Horse.” At the mention of The Trojan Beatrice’s face darkens. “Have I said something wrong?” (Oh God, things were going so well and now I’ve put my foot in it – trust me.)
However, after a tense moment her worries turn out to be groundless. Beatrice’s face clears; she takes Syl’s hand and squeezes it. “No, of course not, silly. It’s just it was at the Trojan I apparently had one of my so-called fits, that’s all. Over now. Not to worry.”
Moving on rapidly, Syl remarks on her friend’s palatial bedroom, not to mention the out of this world bathroom; “Like something from a movie,” she says, “and what about that pink mirror?” This makes Beatrice giggle, which seems a good sign.
“I know – it could make a seventy year old look young, couldn’t it? Clarrie says a lot of actresses have one in their bathroom, they’re thought to be good for the morale.”
“They would be. Yours took at least ten years off me. I think I’ll have to get one fitted for the flat.”
But Beatrice isn’t listening: “When are they going to let me out of here, Syl? I’m beginning to feel I’m in prison; every time I make a move someone gives me a pill or jabs a needle into me. You don’t know what it’s like, honestly…”
Feeling inadequate, Syl pats her hand. (Please God don’t let me make another boob.) “Very soon, love, it’s just… Look would you like to have a word with Tris? He’s downstairs, and the two of you always get on so well…” her voice trails off as it’s obvious Beatrice has again ceased to listen. Sitting up, she’s noticed the line of cars out of the window, and to Sylvia’s considerable unease is watching, with what appears to be mounting anger, the slow stream of traffic, directed by a policeman on a motorbike, as it crawls over the bridge and up the steep hill towards the Grove. The natives of this part of rural Suffolk, happy participants in an event which will inevitably go down in the annals of Kimbleford and its surrounding villages as the most breathtakingly exciting occurrence ever to have taken place in those quiet parishes, at least in living memory, are making for home.
“What’s going on Syl?” Syl looks wildly round for inspiration; finds none. “They’ve been watching the dig, haven’t they.” Beatrice glares at her friend accusingly, her eyes both angry an
d frightened. “And now they’re going home so it must be finished. What did they find?” Syl’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. “Tell me, you fool. What did they find?”
Half out of bed now, she seizes the horrified Syl and, nose to nose, starts shaking her, at which point the bedroom door burst open, to reveal the excited figures of Izzy Moss and Tris, who prudently perhaps, in the light of subsequent events, have been listening outside in the passage and now rush to the rescue.
Izzy strides over to the bed. “You know what they found, you foolish girl,” he thunders, taking Beatrice by the arms and pushing her quite roughly back on to the bed.
“Get out of my chamber, old man, and don’t interfere in my affairs again or you will pay for it,” shrieks Tavey, now back with a vengeance, and to prove her point, she picks up the small antique candlestick on the bedside table and hurls it at Izzy’s bald head.
Dodging the missile with practised ease, he addresses his fulminating patient. “For that, Octavia, you will be whipped,” he hisses, hypodermic at the ready. Syl and Tris watch in horror as with the speed of light the needle is inserted into their friend’s arm, and after a brief struggle, she falls back on her pillows, unconscious.
Through the open window the jaunty strains of The Teddy Bears’ Picnic can still be heard from across the valley, as the last of the line of cars disappears over the brow of the hill. Out of a leaden sky the first heavy drops of rain begin to fall.
*
Not far off midnight now. Sam sits in the conservatory smoking a cigarette and watching lightning flicker over the drenched landscape, an empty coffee cup beside him. There’s a smell of wet grass and rotting vegetation in the air and the scent from the tobacco plants planted by Clarrie in the ragged bed under the monkey puzzle tree makes his nose – he’s prone to hay fever – twitch. In the room behind him the rest of the party, high on excitement and brandy, are still discussing the day’s momentous events. He’s unable to make out what they’re saying owing to the rain rattling on the glass roof above his head. He’s not sure he wants to anyway, somehow the euphoria engendered by the news he and Em are not after all married has evaporated, and seemingly unable to be of any practical assistance to Beatrice, he feels not only useless, but filled with a dull foreboding.
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