Craig took two steps out of the shadows and began his opening PTC. He was calm and smiling.
‘Welcome to Fursey Abbey and Test Pit Challenge’s first live broadcast. We’re all incredibly excited here because we just don’t know what’s waiting to be revealed. This is going to be a real-life voyage of discovery for everyone. We’ve got two trenches open this evening. The first one is being supervised by an old friend of Test Pit Challenge, Alan Cadbury—’
In his earpiece, Alan could hear another studio voice call out ‘Run Astons’. Astons are the name-tags that are shown on the bottom of the screen when a new face appears. So he knew the camera was close-up on him. He tried to look serious and responsible as he trowelled, and in the process neatly sliced a small sherd of pottery in half.
‘Evening, Alan!’
As rehearsed, Alan glanced into the lens of the camera beside the trench and gave a big smile – with just a hint of his trademark frown.
‘Nice to have you back,’ Craig’s voice continued. ‘And in Trench 2 it’s a new friend to this programme, Dr Tricia Neave, who is also our resident expert on Roman finds.’
Alan could imagine Tricia’s smile to the camera and the reaction of all men, old and young, everywhere. But Alan found he was starting to like her. True, she seemed to know nothing about excavation, but she was aware of it. And she did understand artefacts. He’d expected that she’d somehow dumb-down for television, which was something he detested, but to his surprise she didn’t. No, he thought, she was OK.
‘To discuss,’ Craig was still speaking, ‘the team’s discoveries, if there are any …’
This was a transparent attempt to build tension, which Alan didn’t think worked in rehearsal. And he was right. There was a miniscule pause, but no laughter from the audience in the studio. Craig rapidly carried on. ‘The studio panel is chaired by a very familiar face who has come out of retirement to watch the village where he was born and brought up make its first live appearance on television. He needs no introduction …’ By now the audience was applauding warmly. ‘ … Mr Michael Smiley!’
As the applause began to fade, and with the perfect timing born of experience, Michael delivered his familiar catchphrase. ‘Take cover folks, it’s Michael!’
But this time he said it with just the tiniest hint of irony, as if he was laughing ruefully at his past self; it was entirely appropriate to a man out of retirement. Alan was amazed at his professionalism and his powerful on-screen presence. Michael was a Smiley of the mill family and his presence had given a big boost to the show’s ratings. Alan wondered whether his appearance on-screen out of retirement had been entirely voluntary. Maybe the Cripps family had called in a few favours? It was just a thought, which Alan filed away.
The studio panel was a device dreamed up by Lew Weinstein, partly on the advice of their commissioning editor, who wanted to make sure that the show had academic credibility – to fulfil the channel’s public broadcaster remit. Alan had his doubts: it would adversely affect the programme’s flow and besides, didn’t they have a perfectly good artefacts person in Tricia?
He glanced up at the monitor being carried by an AP who was standing behind the fixed camera above the trench. She could see he was looking, and angled the set slightly downwards to give him a better view in the trench.
In his earpiece Michael Smiley was introducing Peter Flower and the two other members of the studio panel. Then Weinstein’s voice cut in. ‘Cue Camera 1. We’re coming back to you, Alan.’
This was Alan’s cue to resume trowelling. While he had been listening to his earpiece and musing about the past, Kaylee, who was trowelling alongside him and had started the broadcast level with him, was now a full metre further down the trench. This was embarrassing. He looked at where she was scraping and noticed that her trowel was just starting to cut into a deposit of blue-grey alluvial flood-clay. He frowned. That was unexpected.
He was still frowning, still trying to work out what the clay might mean, when Craig strode enthusiastically up to the edge of the trench. By now he should have been standing, ready to give the presenter, and viewers at home, a quick résumé of everything that had happened on-site: how they had removed a large area of flood-clay and found an intact Iron Age and Roman occupation surface, etc. etc. Then in the next scene, Tricia would say a few words on the metal finds and pottery. But Alan hadn’t heard Craig’s question. He was still frowning. What on earth did Kaylee’s alluvium mean?
‘Alan, are you there? We’re live on television, you know!’ It was Craig.
Alan was brought to his senses by the sound of studio laughter which Weinstein had cleverly mixed into the broadcast feed. He sprung to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, Craig, but I think we might be about to find something important. But I should first tell you something about what we’ve been doing here so far,’ Alan continued; he knew he had to make amends.
Alan could see that Weinstein was instructing Craig, while he was appearing to listen to Alan. Before Alan could resume, Craig cut in, ‘No, Alan, that can wait. We’re far more interested in what you just found.’
Alan pointed down to where Kaylee was trowelling. Suddenly he realised that the explanation wasn’t going to be simple. He wished they had let him do a brief introduction. Sod it. But he pressed on, frowning intensely. ‘That bluish clay that Kaylee is revealing’ – a second camera appeared on the other side of the trench and focused down on Kaylee’s hands and her bright-purple nail varnish with glitter flashed across millions of British screens – ‘was laid down by a succession of seasonal freshwater floods which began in the later third century AD—’
‘So that’s well into Roman times?’ Craig added to help the viewer, but only succeeded in breaking Alan’s tenuous flow.
‘Er, yes. The mid-Roman period. It was probably due to the introduction of winter wheat …’ Oh, bloody hell, Alan thought as he listened to his own words coming back through the earpiece, I mustn’t be diverted. ‘Which meant that fields stood bare over winter, so topsoil got washed into the rivers—’
‘And ended up here in the fens?’ Again Craig was trying to be helpful, but Alan now had the bit between his teeth.
‘That’s right, as flood-clay. Alluvium we call it in the trade.’
‘So that’s Roman flood-clay is it?’ Craig’s question couldn’t conceal the fact that he was underwhelmed.
‘Probably not. If you look at the trench section here …’ He waited a moment while the camera moved up from Kaylee’s hands to the wall of the trench beside her. ‘You can see that Kaylee’s alluvium is slightly paler than the stuff around it and appears to be cutting down through it.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. But I’d guess it was early post-Roman. Maybe Dark Age or Saxon.’
Craig couldn’t understand why Alan was getting so excited and was about to say something along the lines of ‘So what?’ when Weinstein’s voice cut in. ‘That’s enough. Just give us the history of the site, Alan.’
It was as close as the ever-diplomatic Lew Weinstein ever got to a put-down.
* * *
Alan pulled the earpiece out and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He was only too aware that his first live broadcast had not started well. That interview had been farcical. But all his instincts told him that Kaylee’s sticky clay alluvium, which she was still doggedly exposing was important. There was something about the way it dipped down in section and had such a clean, sharp edge in both plan and section. That edge looked for all the world like a clear cut-line. He pulled out his trowel and began to scrape vigorously; he had to catch up with Kaylee.
Happily for the programme, Tricia’s piece in Trench 2 about the Roman finds had gone very well and Weinstein had allowed it to run on for an extra three minutes.
‘Put your earpiece back, Alan. Lew wants a word with you.’
Alan knew that Weinstein had seen people, even very experienced broadcasters, go to pieces on live television, so he
was aware that he wasn’t going to reprimand him. At least not now: encouragement would work better.
‘That was great, Alan.’
‘No it wasn’t, Lew. It was crap. And you know it. But I think you’ll find out why shortly. And this time, I promise I won’t screw up.’
Viewers caught a glimpse of Craig hurrying through the now quite heavy rain into the shelter over Trench 1.
‘So that patch of sticky clay has turned out to be something, Alan?’
‘Yes, Craig.’ A short pause. ‘And just as I suspected.’
Most people would have been smiling, but not Alan. This was too serious. Next, and quite unconsciously, he heightened the tension further by wiping sweat from his face with the back of his right hand which he had just grazed on some gravel pebbles during his session of rapid trowelling. He’d done it so many times before, he hadn’t noticed; grazed knuckles are part of a field archaeologist’s life. But the swathe of yellow clay and dark bloodstains right across one side of his face could not have been bettered by Hollywood. ‘Indiana Jones, eat your heart out’ an admiring Weinstein couldn’t help muttering through Alan’s earpiece. Alan had no idea what he was on about.
Craig Larsson stepped closer to the edge of the trench and looked down. ‘Alan. We’re all on the edge of our seats.’
Alan couldn’t help smiling. Craig was a master of the inappropriate metaphor and besides, neither of them had even the slightest desire to sit down.
‘So, come on, tell us: what have you found, Alan?’ This was said with breathless enthusiasm.
Alan paused. This reply would need to be succinct, but the explanation wasn’t particularly straightforward. He frowned, while thumbing some clay from off his trowel blade. Of course, this built tension, but Alan was also giving two cameramen time to crawl along the trench side to get close-ups. And he knew his story would need good pictures.
As they got closer Alan resumed trowelling. ‘Can you hear the sound of the gravel I’m scraping?’
Ever the professional, Grump lowered the long microphone boom. And it worked. People at home could clearly hear the distinctive scrapes, pings and clipping sounds against the now rather persistent background noise of rain.
‘Yes, Alan, I can.’
Craig’s reply wasn’t very clear to Alan on his knees in the trench. But he pressed on. ‘We’re beginning to think that these gravel pebbles are the weathered upper part of a Roman track or roadway of some sort.’
‘Wow, that is exciting!’
But Craig had missed the point. This was just the lead-up. Alan ignored him. He rose to his feet and took a couple of steps towards Kaylee who was now over half way along the trench and still trowelling.
‘Craig, do you remember the clay that Kaylee had just revealed when you were here before?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, look at it now!’
The camera tilted down and pulled back to reveal Kaylee and Alan, who had just dropped down beside her. It also caught a glimpse of the two close-up cameramen who didn’t have time to get out of the way. But it didn’t matter. If anything, it was more real. Less managed.
Alan looked directly into the green bottle-glass of the camera lens. Before filming had begun, Frank had told him he could do certain very important replies straight to camera for added effect. Normally on Test Pit Challenge this would have been an absolute no-no. But not now. Not on a live show.
‘See the sharp edges of the clay against the gravelly soil of the possible Roman road?’
The lead close-up camera followed Alan’s trowel as he pointed this out. The third camera had pulled back, to give a more general view.
Craig was obviously admiring the way Alan was handling this. ‘Yes, Alan, that’s very clear.’ This was said quieter, less breathless. More supportive.
‘When you were here last I thought this might turn out to be a man-made pit, and I’m fairly sure it is.’
‘Yes, Alan, I think you’re right. It’s far too straight-sided and regular to be anything natural.’
At that point Weinstein’s voice came through their earpieces. ‘Thirty seconds till we roll the credits.’
‘Look at the width,’ Alan continued, now gathering pace. ‘Just over half a metre wide. We don’t know how long it is yet, but Kaylee’s already almost two metres from here—’
Alan’s words were interrupted by an excited shout from Kaylee.
‘I’ve just got to the end, Alan!’ She was trowelling and pulling the loose earth back with her bare hands.
The third camera did a superb crash close-up. An experienced eye could see the exposed clay edge, but most viewers were happy to accept Kaylee’s excited explanation.
Weinstein’s voice was now starting the end credits countdown in Alan’s earpiece. ‘Ten … nine …’
‘So what’s over half a metre wide, two metres long, with straight sides and sharp, neat corners?’ Alan’s question was rhetorical.
He paused.
Craig was frozen. Tension was building.
Meanwhile the quiet voice in their earpieces continued. ‘Three … two …’
Alan’s final words were to guarantee massive audiences for the next five episodes.
‘It’s a grave!’
Nine
Alan didn’t get a lot of sleep as it took him a couple of hours and several whiskies to kill the adrenalin. But eventually he drifted off into a restless slumber. The next day, instead of walking to work as he usually did, he decided to take the Fourtrak and park it out of the way somewhere in the park, down by the dig. That way, if the chance arose, he could sneak off and grab a few minutes’ sleep. But like so many of Alan’s plans, this one didn’t work out.
He pulled up at the village shop to buy milk and a newspaper.
‘It’s a grave!’
Last night’s closing words greeted him as he opened the door. They were said, in unison, as if rehearsed, by three customers and by Kashmir, the proprietor’s wife, who usually took the morning shift at the counter. Alan was amazed. He didn’t think the show’s out-line had been that memorable. A bit lame, if anything. But one of the laughing customers, a young man in a set of John Deere overalls, who was paying Kashmir for two pork pies, a packet of crisps and a bottle of Coke, said he’d heard it twice on Radio 1 already this morning. Someone else said they’d just heard it on the television breakfast show. Alan smiled, but rather weakly: there was far more to last night than a catchphrase. Didn’t people realise how extraordinary the preservation of everything on that site was going to be?
‘Yes, Alan, my friend. You’re now famous.’ Kashmir was smiling broadly. ‘And so is little Fursey. Sanjit and I are hoping shop trade will improve rapidly. In future we will have to call you Mr Cadbury!’
Trade was one thing, but Alan wondered what effect such publicity would have on the Cripps family. Instead, he replied. ‘That’s fine by me, if I don’t have to pay in your shop, Kashmir.’
It wasn’t Alan’s best one-liner, but at least it got enough of a laugh for him to escape back to the Fourtrak, albeit empty-handed.
* * *
Alan first caught sight of the queue of people waiting to be admitted to the dig as he neared the end of the drive leading up to the old farmyard of what had once been Abbey Farm. It was quarter to nine, and already the temporary car park was almost a third full and he’d passed about a dozen visitors walking or cycling along the drive. He’d no idea that television could have such an immediate effect – and neither, it seemed had Candice, John or the Fursey Abbey staff who were all bustling around the yard getting ready for opening at ten. Candice and John seemed to be glued to their mobiles. Later Alan realised they were organising new and larger viewing platforms and hiring a marquee to be used as a temporary, and additional, shop and tea room. Alan could see they were going to make the most of the new trading opportunities.
He approached the end of the queue and slowed down to ease the Fourtrak over the ruined stub of a wall, which gave him access
to the open parkland between the dig site and the imposing Georgian bulk of Fursey Hall in the middle distance. As he did so, some people in the queue managed to catch sight of him and although the windows were still firmly up and the noisy heater was on at full blast, he could still hear voices call out, ‘It’s a grave, Alan!’.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Candice had heard the noise and was observing him from behind the admissions booth. Whoops, he thought, I’d better do some PR for her. So he eased the Fourtrak into reverse and wound his window down. Immediately the people fell silent.
Then one little child called out excitedly, ‘It’s a gwave!’
This got a laugh from the crowd – and Alan. He leant out of the window.
‘Sorry I can’t stay longer, folks. But as I think you’ve all gathered, there’s something that needs my attention in the dig. Enjoy your stay here – and don’t forget to tell your friends. See you later!’
This little speech earned a ripple of applause and some further, but more muted, calls of ‘It’s a grave!’. Alan wondered how long it would be before he detested that little catchphrase.
Alan wound the window up and started to move off, when he spotted John Cripps heading towards him. Again he lowered the glass.
‘Isn’t this wonderful, Alan? I’d no idea visitor numbers would increase quite so rapidly.’
Alan smiled. No, John, he thought, nowadays people don’t wait to read the review in The Times or Telegraph. They text, they tweet.
‘I’m glad we’ve been of some use.’ This was said slightly ironically, but it didn’t work.
‘And of course we’re all hoping the rapid rise will continue. And then be sustained. That’s the key thing.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
By now Alan was feeling more than a little irritated. And all because of a stupid catchphrase. He could see why Stan had been so suspicious of television. He felt slightly ashamed and could almost hear Stan say, ‘I told you so.’
The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 18