Digging Deeper (8 page)

They managed to leave the house at 8:30, but Beck had to turn round twice, once for tablets for Dina’s headache and the second time for hayfever pills for Matt, though it didn’t escape Beck’s notice Matt also emerged with an iPod. Only Jane seemed to show anything remotely resembling enthusiasm. The guys all looked as though he was dragging them to the depths of hell. Dina’s enthusiasm was for entirely the wrong thing. She stayed much too close, staring into his eyes and hanging on his every word without listening to a bloody thing he said. His own pet leech in full makeup.

Celia stood waiting when Beck pulled up at the rear of the hall. He’d already scouted out the site, so he knew where they needed to stake out the plot, but he guessed Celia would want to inspect the group she’d allowed onto her land. She looked distinctly unhappy at the sight of what crawled from the vehicle.

All but one looked as though they’d spent the last three days sleeping rough at a pop festival. Dina was immaculate in brilliant white shorts and a white cropped top that exposed a line of tanned flesh. Beck had spotted knotted strands at the back of her neck, which led him to suspect she wore a bikini. She had a bulging backpack on her shoulder and brand new Timberland boots on her feet and if it hadn’t have been for her footwear, she could have been off for a day at the beach. The others, as instructed, wore old jeans, tatty t-shirts and well-used footwear. Jane was the only one with a hat. She also sported a t-shirt that read “Archaeologists do it in holes”. Beck liked her style.

Spending the first day of a dig with the majority of your workers nursing a hangover was not uncommon. In fact, Beck couldn’t think of an occasion when that hadn’t happened. So he’d devoted part of yesterday to explaining in precise detail what he wanted them to achieve by the end of the first day. He wasn’t being too ambitious. He had a lot of experience of first days and understood how desperate they were to dig a hole in the ground, but the correct preparation was essential. You had to treat each site as though you might uncover a treasure the British Museum would go ape-shit to own, otherwise you got sloppy and it was easy to lose or damage vital evidence.

Now they stood on the site, the five in front of him, Beck lowered his expectations. Matt had his eyes closed. Ross looked as though he was about to throw up. Pravit was throwing up and the walk from the Hall to the field, which was no distance at all, and had so exhausted Dina she dropped down on the grass. On top of a towel, Beck noticed.

“So, now that we’re here, give me your opinions on the benefits of vertical as opposed to horizontal digging,” Beck said.

And waited. The only one with their gaze anywhere other than the ground or in Dina’s case eyes closed, was Jane. She stared at him, desperate he ask her. Her hand twitched as though she’d like to shoot it up in the air. He knew she should be the last one to ask, just as he’d always been the last.

Beck turned to Matt. “What do you think?”

“Horizontal,” Matt muttered.

Probably because he needed to lie down. “Why is that?”

“We can cover more ground, so we know we’re digging in the right place,” Matt said.

“We’re looking for Roman artifacts. Anything interesting is probably going to be deeper,” Jane pointed out.

“Oh, yeah,” Matt said. “Vertical then.”

Beck forced back the snippy comment trying to slide though his gritted teeth and gave up.

“Right, after we’ve set up, you can spend the next couple of hours playing with the magnetometers and the other equipment. I want measurements of soil resistivity. Two of you work with probes and then compare your results. You can choose whether to mark the site off before or after you do the survey.”

He knew what he’d rather they did, but they had to find things out for themselves. The site needed to be laid out in accurate grids, turf removed with care, tent set up, diagrams drawn, jobs allocated, decisions made over where to start, and so forth. Beck was there to supervise and monitor but he didn’t need to watch them every moment of the day. He intended to get on with writing his book.

———

Flick drove to the back of Hartington Hall and parked next to a rusty minivan. She thought of Beck and sighed. Two minutes before nine. Celia was desperate for her to be late so she could give her a lecture about unreliability, fecklessness and Flick’s lack of moral fiber, spicing the criticism with a raft of other denigrating comments. Any excuse to insult her, but Flick was never late. She knocked as the clock inside struck the hour.

Henry opened the door and beamed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Pharzuph.”

“Ah, the angel of lust and fornication. Well chosen.”

Flick scowled. “Damn it, Henry, do you spend all day checking the devil’s family tree?”

She’d scoured the Internet for the names of unusual devils, but not yet caught him out. He was a very clever man. She had no idea why he’d married such a horrible woman.

“You mustn’t keep writing me love letters,” Flick teased as he handed her the familiar sheet of scented paper covered in Celia’s flowery writing.

“You’re not going to love me when you see what she wants you to do.”

Flick ran her eyes down the list of jobs their regular help declined. Handwashing a week’s worth of crystal glassware, polishing the silver and dusting the Royal Doulton figurines and animals. In Flick’s house everything went into the washing machine or dishwasher, including the ornaments. It made life much easier, though so far she’d melted a salad spinner, warped a spatula into an art exhibit and had a bit of an accident with Stef’s Armani jumper. While Flick worked she was also expected to look after Lady C’s mother, Gertrude. In many ways the worst job of all.

Top of the list was the silver. Flick groaned. Her least favorite chores, in part because Celia insisted her mother counted each piece Flick cleaned, presumably so she couldn’t help herself to a candlestick or two. Flick had long since given up being offended by Lady C, but spending time with her poisonous mother was like being attached to a machine that drained all your energy until you lost the will to live.

“When did the archaeologists arrive?” Flick asked.

“Just before you. Celia is out there telling them how to dig a hole.”

Flick thought about Beck, felt a shot of desire sweep through her and squashed it by smiling at Henry. If she didn’t want more of Beck’s black looks, the best thing she could do was avoid him.

Gertrude was already in the dining room, sitting with a tray of tea and toast. As usual the
Times
newspaper lay open on the table in front of her. Flick had never seen her read a word of it.

“How are you, Mrs. Merriman?” she asked in a loud voice.

“I’m ninety-two years old. How do you think I am?” Gertrude said.

You’re eighty-four, you old bat.
How could anyone be more erroneously named? Mrs. Misery would be more like it. Her mouth turned down in a permanent half-circle. A smile would have cracked her face and let her jaw fall off.

“You don’t look a day over eighty-five.” Flick kept her voice loud, wondering if this morning’s problem would be a lump, cough, spot or worse.

“You might think it is, but I don’t.”

Flick wondered what she’d thought she’d said. Gertrude was deaf when she wanted to be.

“I can feel a draught.” Gertrude gave Flick an accusing look.

Flick looked around but she’d closed the door. No matter where the woman sat, there was always a bloody draught and always Flick’s fault. There were no open windows, no open doors. The house was already like an oven with the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Oh dear, have you had a bad start to the day?” Flick cursed as she realized she’d asked a question. She pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and began to lift the silverware onto the table.

“I was up half the night coughing. The sleeping tablet didn’t work, so I read for a bit and then I took another half a tablet. Then I remembered I hadn’t taken my water tablet so I had to come all the way downstairs. The dogs heard the stair-lift and started to bark and that made me jump. I twisted something in my side and the pain is unbearable, I think part of my intestine is wrapped around my liver. I had such a job finding a comfortable way to lie in bed. It’s sickening. Everything happens to me.”

Flick began to apply the polish as Gertrude went on and on. When she’d first started as house-slave, Flick had encouraged her to talk because she thought she was lonely, but now Flick was perpetually bombarded with intricate details of every medical complaint Gertrude had ever had or thought she’d had, plus those of the rest of the family. Flick knew all about Henry’s constipation, Celia’s leaky waterworks and Giles’ warts. In addition, Gertrude’s continual whining criticism of all the work Flick did in the house had destroyed any interest in trying to engage her in conversation. That hadn’t stopped Gertrude, whose memory for unpleasant, mind-churning details of her bodily functions was boundless, though she seemed unable to remember she’d already told Flick the exact same thing the week before.

“And then I had explosive diarrhea,” Gertrude said in triumph.

When she paused, Flick realized she was expected to say something. She forced out some noncommittal grunt hoping it sounded sympathetic.

“I blame that rubbish those caterers produced on Saturday night. Celia served up leftovers for lunch yesterday. It went right through me.”

Flick groaned. Celia didn’t pay her enough.

“You need to do that one again,” Gertrude said. “There’s a smudge on the blade.”

There were other ways to put smudges on blades, Flick thought as she picked up the knife.

When Flick went into the drawing room to start dusting Lady C’s huge collection of porcelain animals, the talking medical encyclopedia followed, wheeling her walking frame at an impressive speed across the parquet floor. Gertrude had been in the middle of explaining her wayward blood pressure and Flick knew she wasn’t going to stop until she’d finished. As Gertrude morphed into her nasal drip story, Flick rearranged the Royal Doulton in a more interesting way.

“Felicity,” Celia called.

“We’re in here,” Gertrude screeched.

Celia stared in open-mouthed horror at her porcelain collection, her face changing from pink, to red and then deep purple. Flick wondered if she could make Celia pop.

“What have you done?” Celia gasped.

“Dusted them.”

“But you’ve moved them. They’re…doing things.”

“Doing what?” Flick tried to sound innocent.

“My ‘Prancing Arab Palomino’ looks as if it’s about to…to mount my ‘Watering Hole Leopard’. And look at the pigs.”

Flick turned to the compromising tableau she’d created and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.

“Sorry. Shall I rearrange them?” she asked.

“No, leave them. I’ll do it later. I need you to help me take tea down to the archaeologists.”

When they reached the kitchen Celia handed Flick the apron she’d worn on Saturday night.

“Put this on.”

Flick wore a short green skirt and a white top covered in pink elephants. She didn’t think she would pass for a maid, but she tied the apron round her waist without a word and followed Celia down the path to the far end of the estate. Flick struggled with a heavy tray of cups, saucers, milk, sugar and biscuits while Celia carried a large stainless steel jug.

———

Beck, Matt and Ross struggled to erect the tent in the sweltering heat. There was only the faintest of breezes. Beck had just received a text from Rich. They’d crossed the Italian border and it was raining. Almost enough to make Beck smile.

“Don’t put that end in there, for God’s sake,” Beck yelled. “Those two pieces don’t go together.”

“I can’t get it out now,” Matt whined.

Beck swore under his breath. He’d have done it quicker on his own.

“Ross, keep your hand on it. Press harder.”

“I am. It’s hurting. I can’t push any harder.”

“Screw it in quickly,” Beck said.

“Like this?” Matt asked.

“Yes.” Beck gritted his teeth. “Faster, before I have to let go and it comes out again. Go on, screw faster or I’ll have—” Beck thought he heard a familiar snigger.

“Alexander darling, we’ve brought you some tea. I know you told me you can cater for yourselves but until you set everything up I thought you’d appreciate a little refreshment.”

“Thanks, Celia. That’s great,” Beck called from under the green canvas.

“Ohh tea,” someone yelled.

Matt and Ross left before Beck could tell them not to.

“Pour it out, Felicity,” Celia said.

When Beck heard her name, he let go of the pole he held and came out from under the sagging awning. The tent collapsed behind him.

Flick kept her eyes away from Beck. She didn’t need any more pangs of lust disabling her. She hadn’t been sure if they’d want tea, it was so hot, but everyone took a cup including Celia. The plate of biscuits disappeared in seconds. Flick realized Celia intended to stand and chat for a while and wondered whether she was supposed to go back. When she saw Beck edge away from Celia and move in her direction, she wished she’d been quicker. She stepped to one side, hoping he was heading for someone else, but he stopped next to her.

She cursed her traitorous heart for bounding like an excited puppy.

“I thought you’d lost your job,” Beck said in a quiet voice.

“Lady C fires me almost every week.”

“I didn’t say anything to Celia about you and Giles.”

Flick morphed into a pissed-off hyena. Hackles up, she growled her response. “He was drunk. I was trying to push him away not drag him into bed. Anyway that’s not why I was fired.”

Beck winced. “I didn’t want you to think I’d said something to Celia. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

Flick looked at him in surprise.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

“Yes.” YesYesYesYes.

“So why were you fired?”

“Skirt too short. Top too tight. Mouth too big.”

As Flick watched him laugh, she caught sight of the blonde from the supermarket racing up to plant herself between them.