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.’
John Cripps’s enthusiasm was undiminished by Alan’s muted response. ‘But we need to improve the visitor’s on-site experience. I think that’s crucial. In fact, absolutely key.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but you mustn’t forget that if you have more visitors they will need to be controlled. I don’t want them damaging the archaeology.’ Alan paused to let this sink in. ‘I’m really worried about the stripped surface around Trenches 1 and 2. I don’t think the folded tarpaulins we laid down are enough. There are simply too many people. We urgently need duckboards or a proper raised walkway.’
‘Of course, Alan.’ John had slipped into Dynamic Manager mode. ‘I’ll have it seen to right away.’
* * *
It was a clean, fresh early March morning. The previous day’s rain had long gone and high in the sky Alan could see the parallel vapour trails of jets heading east towards Holland and northern Europe. The first days of spring in the Fens were like nowhere else. There were no hills or tall buildings to cast their chilling shadows; all was open – and somehow above board. Straightforward – like the people, or rather most of them, Alan mused as he headed towards the temporary tea and coffee stall. He was desperate for a brew before he went down to the dig. He was handing over his 40p when Candice hurried up. She was plainly very excited, almost overwhelmed, at the size of the crowds.
‘Alan,’ she gushed. ‘You are a sweetie. Let me give you a kiss.’ Which she did, twice, and on both cheeks, to the evident delight of Doris in the tea stall.
‘Yes.’ Alan was slightly at a loss for words. ‘Yes, it did seem to go down quite well, didn’t it?’
This rhetorical question earned a reply. ‘Yes, it most certainly did. John’s thinking of changing our name from Abbey Farm to Itsagrave Farm.’
Despite his misgivings, Alan had to smile. Not at all bad for so early in the morning. But Candice hadn’t finished.
‘Obviously you were the star with that last appearance …’
Alan remembered ruefully that the first one hadn’t been too hot.
‘But John and I thought Tricia’s stuff on the Roman finds was first rate, too. In fact, you both made quite a double act. It really came off well. And of course the audience loved it.’
Alan was genuinely pleased, and was beginning to cheer up. He’d come to like Tricia. She certainly wasn’t the usual sort of young woman he met on the digging circuit, but he didn’t find her as self-centred and stuck-up as he’d feared. Yes, she obviously had an eye on a career in the media, but so what? They both knew that academia was becoming less attractive, with far too much focus on publication quantity rather than quality, and endless teaching and student ‘contact time’. The students, too, were now so bloody middle class, as archaeology fees were often quite high. To his surprise, Tricia was fairly left of centre in her political views and she, like he, was very worried about the widening gap in modern Britain between rich and poor.
‘John and I discussed it last night. We feel you’ve made such a big contribution to Fursey, we really do. And we’d like to say thank you in some way. So we wondered whether you’d both like to come to dinner next Sunday, when all the fuss has died down. We’ll invite a few close friends along. I think when this is finished we’ll all need a little celebration. Are you free?’
Alan was impressed. More to the point, this would be a superb chance to view the Crippses at home, off-guard, maybe even as a short-term member of the family.
‘And d’you want me to approach Tricia?’ he asked.
‘I’ve spoken to her already and she’s free that night. So I do hope you can come?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’d be delighted. That’s very kind. Very kind indeed.’
She was turning to leave, when she suddenly remembered something else. She looked back. ‘Oh yes, one other thing, Alan.’
Alan stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’
‘When I got back last night there was a message on the phone from Peter Flower. You won’t believe it, but on Friday, his selection as bursar by the master was confirmed by the college council. So it’s official.’
She seemed to think that Alan knew of Flower’s selection. But he didn’t. And anyhow, he was distinctly underwhelmed. He couldn’t sound enthusiastic, but he did his best.
‘So I imagine he’ll be with us on Sunday?’
‘Oh, you bet: Peter’s always up for a celebration.’
‘I bet he is.’
Alan made this sound genial and was smiling at Candice broadly, but all he could think of were those bottles in the hidden cupboard. Sure, they’d once held the finest malt whisky money could buy, but in reality it was a slow poison that had been deliberately and callously administered. Flower had become far more than just a nasty irritant from his past. Far, far more. Suddenly Alan’s anger abated. He knew he mustn’t let his loathing of Flower disrupt his hunt for Stan’s killer, or killers. And that dinner would in effect be a line-up of the principal suspects, who would all be off-guard, relaxed and feeling secure. He must find a way to disrupt their complacency and shake their security and he was beginning to realise how he could do just that.
* * *
For the rest of the morning, Alan, Kaylee and Jon, were on their hands and knees trowelling vigorously. The excitement of the previous evening had caused both Alan and Kaylee to scrape a bit too vigorously. The surfaces they’d left were not as clean and flat as they’d both have liked. And there was also a lot of loose earth lying around. Jon had been helping out in Trench 2 during the ‘live’ and was a bit surprised by what he saw when he returned.
‘Looks like a bomb’s gone off in here, folks.’
‘Yeah, I know it does, Jon,’ Alan replied. ‘But we both got a bit carried away. You know what it’s like.’
Alan could see from Jon’s expression that he didn’t appreciate ‘what it’s like’ at all. Although still in his late twenties he was very old school in his approach: methodical, tidy and fastidious. Which was fine for 95 per cent of the time, but it was that 5 per cent that made the difference between success and failure. The trick was to recognise when and where to use plodders like Jon – which was why Alan had moved him to Trench 2 the previous afternoon.
‘Morning everyone and a huge thank you for last night. You were terrific. You honestly were. All of you.’
It was Frank Jones. Frank hadn’t risen much in Alan’s estimation after the first ‘live’, but at least he hadn’t got in the way. Alan now realised that Frank owed much to Speed and Grump, who not only knew what they were doing inside out, but had also advised Weinstein on the best local stringers (self-employed cameramen and sound recordists) to employ. Sadly, it was not the first shoot he’d been on where the director was essentially a passenger. Between them, Weinstein, Speed and Alan took all the important decisions.
But then, somewhat to Alan’s surprise, Frank began with an intelligent question.
‘So did the people who dug that grave leave it open – otherwise how did it get to be filled with flood-clay?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘That’s exactly what I wondered when I first came across one. Then we dug down and found that the alluvium – the flood-clay – was only in the uppermost part of the grave fill. The rest had been back-filled in the normal way.’
‘But how did that happen?’ Frank was still looking puzzled.
‘You’ve got to imagine what happens today, when a grave’s dug and a coffin is buried. The usual thing is to leave a low mound of soil for several months, a couple of years in some cases, before the gravestones or formal edgings to the grave are added. That interval gives the earth that’s filling the grave time to compress. Worms will break down large lumps of soil and get rid of pockets of air.’
‘So if you don’t leave a small mound, the grave filling will compact and leave a small depression instead?’ Frank asked.
‘Precisely. And then the flooding happens and the growing hollow starts to accumulate alluvium – if the grave was placed in the river flood-plain, as seems to have happened here.’
Frank’s interest had been aroused. ‘So these would have been Roman graves, would they?’
Alan shook his head. ‘No, I think they’re a bit later. Look here.’ He pointed at the section behind Kaylee that they’d filmed on that disastrous first visit to the trench the previous evening. ‘You can see a distinct cut-line a few inches into the Roman flooding.’
‘So what do you reckon?’
‘I think it’s got to be post-Roman, but probably not by very much. Maybe as early as seventh century? Even eighth. I don’t know. But if it is a grave, it’s most likely Christian, given its rough east-west orientation.’
‘But it could be Roman, too, couldn’t it?’ Frank asked rather anxiously. For him, ‘Roman’ obviously sounded more precise, more interesting – and more glamorous – than the disappointing and ponderously academic ‘post-Roman’.
Of course, Alan mused, I could have used the dreaded words Dark Ages, rather than post-Roman, but that would have sent Frank into orbit. Alan was only too aware that the post-Roman centuries of the supposed Dark Ages were crucially important to the emergence of what we now call England. It’s when English emerged and formed a new national identity. No, Alan thought, we couldn’t have made a more exciting discovery. But Frank was waiting for a reply.
‘No, that’s impossible.’ Alan indicated the section again. ‘The stratigraphy doesn’t work. It has to be post-Roman. There’s no argument, I’m afraid.’
A deflated Frank then headed off to Trench 2.
* * *
The Call Sheet for Tuesday was pretty much as for day one. Alan looked at his watch. Three o’clock: just half an hour before tea break, then rehearsals and run-throughs. This would be their last chance to do any digging without being pestered by directors, cameras and microphones. Must make the most of it, he thought, trowelling hard, but taking more care this time not to remove the scabs on the knuckles of his right hand. Then he hit clay, just as he was starting to catch up with Kaylee who had been working on defining the end of her grave. He didn’t even look up, but muttered loud enough for her to hear.
‘Bloody hell, Kaylee, I think I’ve got another one.’
She looked up. ‘You sure?’
Alan continued scraping for a minute, then straightened his back. ‘I am now.’
Kaylee leant across for a closer look. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Edges very sharp’ – she glanced at where she’d been working – ‘and it seems on the same alignment as mine.’
* * *
During the run-through Alan told Frank about the new grave. He did so quietly, as he didn’t want everyone to come crowding round his trench, especially now, when the trench shelter’s sides were up to let a bit of air through after a sunny afternoon.
‘Wow!’ Frank exclaimed loudly. ‘That’s fantastic news, Alan! Another grave! Another “It’s a grave” moment! I could hug you, Alan!’
And I could happily knife you, Alan thought, as visitors started to head towards Trench 1. He took a pace away from Frank. Time to take control.
‘Stay where you are, everyone!’
When necessary, Alan could be authoritative.
‘I’m sorry, everyone, but the ground near Trench 1 is getting quite soft and I don’t want any more people around it until we’ve laid some duckboards and that won’t be until tomorrow. So please stay where you are and don’t come any closer.’ Some people were looking puzzled and disappointed. Alan continued, slightly softer, more confidential. ‘But I can tell you all now that we don’t know for certain that either of the clay-filled pits are indeed graves. They probably are, both of them, but we can’t confirm that until we find bones.’ The place had gone quiet. He had their complete attention. ‘Please bear in mind that if we have two graves, we may well find more, as graves tend to occur in graveyards. And that’s why I don’t want people trampling everywhere. Thank you so much for being so understanding.’
By now Alan was feeling quite annoyed, not just with Frank, but also with the Fursey management team, who seemed far more concerned with capitalising on the massively increased number of visitors, than in managing them. And John had promised to see to the duckboards ‘right away’, but nothing had happened. Then Alan spotted Candice. He ran across to her.
‘Candice, we’ve got to do something about crowd control. I spoke to John about it this morning, but nothing has happened. The thing is, if they do cause damage, both English Heritage and the county mounties will go ballistic – and quite right too. It’ll be all over the press and TV and I can guarantee visitor numbers will plummet.’
In reality, he thought, they’d probably rise, as people like to visit controversy. But the threat sounded ominous.
‘Oh dear, John’s over at White Delphs. A very important meeting. But where do you want the fences? I’ll see what can be done, Alan.’
So, what’s going on at White Delphs that’s more important than a live TV show? thought Alan. But he had no time to dwell on it.
Alan showed her where he wanted them and 20 minutes later a temporary barrier of bright-red plastic construction site fencing, supported on steel road spikes, had been erected.
The walkie-talkie ‘comms’ hanging from his belt crackled into life.
‘Frank for Alan.’
‘Come in, Frank,’ Alan replied.
‘Switch to channel 5.’
Alan’s heart sank. All ordinary conversations took place on channel 1. Channel 5 was reserved for more confidential matters. And right now Alan wasn’t in the mood for a confidential chat with Frank. But he switched.
‘Alan here, Frank.’
‘I’ve just told Lew about the second grave. And he’s very excited.’
‘That’s good.’ Alan’s heart was in his boots. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.
‘I suggested that we do a repeat of yesterday’s success. We’ll spend most of the show in Trench 2, then switch across to you for your killer pay-off line: “It’s another grave!”. But we’ll need to work on the drama: maybe get you to jump to your feet.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Frank—’
‘Don’t be silly, Alan.’ He brushed his objections aside. ‘And we can involve Tricia, too. Maybe get her to “wander” into the scene.’
Alan hated the way Frank often called the programme the ‘show’, as if it was some brain-dead reality crap.
‘And did Lew agree to this?’
‘You bet. He loved it!’
Alan was incredulous. Weinstein had principles.
Before he could reply, Frank added, ‘We’ll see you in Trench 1 in fifteen minutes for a run-through of that scene. OK?’
‘OK and out.’
Alan switched off the power to his comms, then headed rapidly across to his Portakabin office, where he dialled Weinstein’s number.
He told Weinstein about the second grave and his subsequent conversation with Frank. When he had finished, there was a long pause at the other end.
‘Ah,’ eventually came the reply. ‘That wasn’t quite how Frank told it to me. So I gather you’re not entirely happy with Frank’s plans?’
‘No, Lew, I’m not. I’m quite happy to delay the moment of discovery if we’re doing a film and it takes a couple of minutes to find a crew, but not this. Frank’s asking me to fake it. And I won’t do that. It would undermine our credibility.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Alan, it would. But you must understand, Frank’s been in the States and everything is much more contrived and Hollywood-style out there. Audiences have come to expect big drama; it’s part of the “show”.’
‘I know, but I detest that word. But the thing is, Lew, we’re about to do a run-through. Could you phone him and tell him you’ve changed your mind, as I can’t guarantee not losing my rag?’
‘We’ll talk later, Alan, but try not to get too upset. Please. And remember, he’s a fantastic editor: those two docs he cut earlier were brilliant and really impressed Charles Carnwath at T2. I’m sure that’s why he voted through the money for the “lives”. So please try not to fall out with him too much …’
‘Sorry, Lew,’ Alan replied, feeling a bit calmer now. ‘But we’ve always steered clear of anything that even hinted at fakery – and this was going too far. So thanks. Now I’d better get off the phone.’
* * *
Alan was desperate for a coffee. After his phone call to Weinstein the adrenalin had worn off, and now he remembered he’d barely slept the night before. One of the lighting riggers standing in the short queue at the tea urns called across to him.
‘Alan, Frank wants you on comms.’
Oh shit, Alan had forgotten to turn his handset back on. He did so, switched back to channel 1 and pressed the transmit button.
‘Alan to Frank. Sorry, my comms were off.’
‘Yes, I know. We’re doing a run-through in three minutes.’
Even over the radio, Alan could detect the frostiness.
As he walked across the roped-off area, Tricia joined him. She was looking very anxious.
‘Don’t look so worried. I’ve spoken to Lew and Frank’s “it’s a grave two” is off.’
‘Oh, well done, Alan. I’m so relieved. It was all so fake. And I’m no Keira Knightley: I’d never have pulled it off.’
Alan smiled. If anything her face was as beautiful. ‘I don’t think any of us would: we’re diggers not actors.’
‘At least you all are. Sadly, I don’t think I am.’
She said this with genuine sadness. Alan wasn’t sure what to say next. She was right: she didn’t have the right temperament to be a full-time professional field archaeologist. But she was very good at what she did do. And she had a great screen presence, too. Alan was surprised by her insecurity.
‘Oh, come on, Tricia, it’s early days yet.’
‘So you don’t think I’m a complete fake: an imposter?’ she asked quietly, standing very close and looking deep into his eyes.
* * *
When Alan arrived in the trench shelter, Craig Larsson came up to him.
‘Well done, Alan,’ he said confidentially. ‘Lew phoned me and I was horrified. Frank seems to think you’re all actors. It would never have worked.’
Alan didn’t feel quite so angry. Craig did have a point: Frank had been working almost exclusively with actors, many of them out of work, on his so-called reality shows in the States. They’d do anything – and more – that he asked. And Craig should know, his background was in children’s television, but he’d been to drama school and still appeared from time to time in films and dramas.
‘I just hope I haven’t upset him too much. It never does to have a row with the director.’
Craig smiled. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Alan, the show needs you far more than it needs him. And anyhow, you’ve got Lew behind you and he’s the one who pulls the strings.’
Their conversation was interrupted by Terri Griffiths, the auburn-haired assistant producer. Alan was glad to see her smiley face back on set.
‘Alan, Frank wants you to walk with Craig as he does the opening PTC.’
Ah, Alan thought, so that’s what Lew must have suggested. ‘Then he’ll ask you about the new grave. OK?’
Alan could see Terri was listening to something on her earpiece. She scurried off.
Together Craig and Alan walked to the presenter’s starting position. Alan wasn’t entirely clear what was to happen next.
‘So we’ll have our chat, then what? I return to the trench?’
‘Yes, you could. But why not take me over to see the new find. That’s what you’d normally do, isn’t it?’
‘OK, that’s fine.’
Alan always felt relaxed when working with Craig.
* * *
Despite the pre-shoot disagreement – row would be too strong a word – live Day 2 went very well and Alan had a trick up his sleeve, for when the camera came to Trench 1 for the second time. In the previous, opening, scene that followed their walk-up to camera, Alan had shown what he thought was going to be a second grave. Then for the ten or so minutes it took to film Trench 2 and the studio panel, he trowelled a band along the side of the grave down to the end, where it made a right-angled turn. Had a student done this, he’d have been furious with them – it was the worst sort of ‘wall-chasing’ and a common mistake made by first-year undergraduates. When you ‘chase’ something like a wall, you can easily remove it from its setting, for example by damaging its junction with other walls. But this was different. He had to show Frank that there are other ways of achieving what you need.
Craig arrived for the second interview. ‘And how’s it going, Alan?’
‘I’ve taken a few naughty shortcuts, the sort of thing I wouldn’t allow students to do, but look: can you see, I’ve scraped a band about a foot wide that follows the edge of the grave until here’ – he scraped some more – ‘where it ends in a neat right-angled corner.’
‘So you’re certain it’s a grave?’ Craig asked.
‘Well,’ Alan stood up. ‘What d’you think?’
Before filming began, Frank had told them that he didn’t want the interviews to be question-and-answer sessions. He was after a more conversational, informal feel to the show. That word again, Alan thought, but he had to concede, he did have a point.
‘I agree, it’s certainly the right size and shape.’
‘And look, Craig, the two features are laid out on precisely the same alignment. And if I’m not mistaken …’ Alan reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a folding compass, which the second camera focused down on. ‘Yes, they’re aligned a few degrees off east-west. And that, of course, suggests they are probably Christian – like churches, they’re pointing towards Jerusalem.’
‘Does it matter that they’re not precisely east-west?’
‘Not at all,’ Alan replied. ‘In medieval times rural gravediggers, even architects and stonemasons, didn’t routinely carry compasses, so the east-west alignment is never precise. In fact, the layout of tombs and graves in the Bronze Age was a lot more accurate.’
‘You always stick up for prehistory, don’t you, Alan?’
But instead of smiling, Alan was frowning. He needed to change the mood. In his ear, the countdown to the end credits had just begun.
‘The thing is, Craig, there’s still space for another grave in this trench and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we didn’t find it tomorrow. Graves 1 and 2 are set quite close together and parallel. This suggests to me that we’ve found a graveyard. And that’s exciting, because somewhere near here must lie the buried remains of a long-lost Saxon church.’ He only just had time to draw breath. ‘And if I’m right, we could have one of the earliest churches in England – and possibly, too, a direct link to Roman times.’
The Test Pit Challenge signature tune faded-up as soon as he delivered the last words.
Weinstein’s voice cut in. ‘That was fantastic, Alan. What a fabulous ending! Well done. But make sure you get some sleep tonight. We’ve still got four days to go and I thought you were looking a little weary on the run-throughs.’
‘Thanks, Lew, and you’re right, I’m knackered.’ He lowered his voice and tried to direct his words at the mike pinned inside his shirt. ‘I’ll nip off now. Make my excuses to Frank, Tricia and the others.’
‘Will do. And again, well done. Sleep well.’
Grump Edwards must have read his mind, or listened-in to their conversation, as he was standing alongside when Alan finished speaking to Weinstein. Quickly he unpinned the radio mike, while Alan unplugged the lead from the transmitter in his back pocket. Then he headed back to his Fourtrak, which he had left in the park nearby. It was a clear night and he had to scrape a light frost off the windscreen. As he waited for the de-mister to warm up he texted Jake to tell him that he’d be on-site at ten tomorrow. And when he got home, he didn’t set his alarm and slept for a full eight, dreamless hours.
* * *
The next morning a refreshed Alan left the Fourtrak in the park and headed over to the coffee stall, while munching an aged cereal bar he’d just found in a long-forgotten pocket in his rucksack. The place was deserted. Alan asked the lady dispensing the coffee where everyone had gone and she pointed across to the large tent where people ate their meals. It was packed. Sipping his latte and wiping the last crumbs of cereal bar from his beard, he went round to the back of the crowd where there was still some space. At the front of the tent he could just catch glimpses of the Cripps family: Barty, Candice, John and Sebastian, with Frank standing beside them. They were sitting most graciously; very much the obliging county family. Alan tried hard to read their body language, but it was impenetrably rigid. Too rigid, perhaps. Did they realise?
Frank introduced them. ‘Thank you all for coming here and I know you’ve all got a lot to do, so I’ll cut to the chase, as we say in television.’ That got a polite titter. ‘The Cripps family would like to say a few words. And Candice, I think you’re going first?’
Candice smiled and stepped forward. She was plainly used to speaking in public and her words were clear and confident. She thanked everyone for their collective efforts that had made the live shoot such a resounding success – so far. And as she said, she was being careful not to count chickens before they were hatched, but in the event that no disaster intervened, the estate was going to provide Champagne after the final shoot. This went down very well. Barty followed with a broad smile and very few words, but his presence made all the difference: he transformed a rather blatant PR exercise into something more like a genuine, old-fashioned, family gathering.
The two brothers spoke last. John apologised for the rather poor crowd control on Day 2, but everyone had been taken aback by the massive increase in visitor numbers following the success of ‘the Itsagrave shoot’. Alan noted that he used the term casually. It was now part of the language, certainly locally, if not nationally. He went on to say that he hoped things would improve today. They had called on professional guidance from staff and colleagues at the nearby White Delphs visitor attraction, some of whom were already on-site. They would be bringing in new crowd-control barriers, improved walkway surfaces and better signage and supervision in the parking areas. With luck, they would not have to turn anyone away, as they had had to do on Tuesday. He finished by saying that if the closer co-operation with ‘our friends’ at White Delphs did indeed prove to be successful, the two attractions would be working more closely together in the future. He made this final announcement with some satisfaction.
Alan studied him closely: Sebastian must have conceded defeat. Yes, John was now in control.
Then Sebastian stepped to the front. His height should have given him a big advantage, but if anything, he made less of an impression than his far more confident and assured younger brother, who was completely at ease when surrounded by television crews and media types. By contrast, Sebastian seemed rather remote, as if he’d be far more comfortable out on a tractor, drilling spring barley. Alan could sympathise. On the other hand, Sebastian was also a local councillor, so he’d have thought he’d know a little bit about public speaking. And his first two sentences were reasonably clear.
Even though he was standing right at the back, for a brief moment, Alan thought he had met the big man’s gaze, but it proved fleeting. Soon Sebastian was mumbling from a set of notes, towards the first two rows of his audience. So far as Alan could make out, Councillor Cripps was giving advance warning that he would be escorting an all-party group of county and district councillors around the site and the excavations on Saturday morning. Alan’s heart sank: the last day of the shoot. That was all he needed.
Finally, John Cripps stood forward for a second time. There was a respectful hush.
‘My friends,’ he began. The tone of his voice was very distinctive, and Alan was immediately transported back to the final moments of Stan’s wake. He couldn’t help it, but he found his eyes were filling with tears.
John continued. ‘This live shoot has been a very moving occasion for all of us, and I firmly believe we must never forget the efforts of past generations who created this special place. So if I may, I would like us all to observe a few moments’ silence, while we pray for the lives and souls not just of the monks of Fursey Abbey, but of the many ordinary people who looked after and protected them, and whose remains lie buried here.’
But no mention of Stan. Just the big-bellied bloody monks. Alan was livid. For him, at least, this glib piece of pious PR had gone badly wrong.
* * *
When the gathering had dispersed, Alan and Jake Williamson did a detailed feature-by-feature tour through the two trenches. They’d established a good working relationship and were both clear about what had to happen next. That done, Alan drove to Sybsey Airfield where the English Commission on Ancient Monuments (ECAM) housed their leased aircraft. Sybsey had been an aircrew training establishment during the war and there was a substantial War Memorial by the main gates with dozens and dozens of names. Alan always nodded respectfully towards it as he passed: there was something so sad about those many hopeful young men whose ambitions had come to nothing.
Alan knew Dennis, the ECAM eastern region archaeologist, well and they’d done many Lidar surveys together. Lidar was a remote sensing technology that essentially combined the principles of photography and radar through the use of a reflected laser beam. Lidar surveys couldn’t capture the differences in vegetation growth that gave rise to the dark crop marks of conventional aerial photographs. Instead, the laser beam penetrated vegetation and was able to reveal the tiniest undulations in the ground surface. Lidar had proved a huge success in the Fens, where very often ancient features had been largely covered, or filled in, by peats or flood-clays. So the top few inches of once-huge Bronze Age burial mounds could clearly be detected. Alan knew of a group of five such barrows in the Nene Washes about half a mile away from Richard Lane’s new house.
During the planning stage of the live project, Alan had insisted that they couldn’t just dig. They had to put more into the project than that. Weinstein didn’t need persuading, but Charles at T2 proved less enthusiastic and it took Alan a full two hours in the T2 offices at Southwark to persuade him. In the end it was the new technology of Lidar that proved irresistible. Alan was also aware that ECAM were doing a detailed survey of the southern Fens, so they welcomed the unexpected extra cash and were able to re-jig their schedule. As Frank so unmemorably described it later: ‘a win-win for all concerned’.
The breeze at Sybsey Airfield was surprisingly chilly as Alan, Dennis and the pilot walked briskly towards the light aircraft that was waiting on the tarmac apron outside one of the wartime hangars. The pilot opened the door and the two archaeologists climbed aboard. Alan watched as he did a quick check of the plane’s exterior, then he joined them. First he rapidly checked their seat belts, but he could see they’d both done this before, then he put on his headset and started the engine. Soon they were airborne and climbing to 500 metres.
Alan looked down from his window directly below the wing. They were following a pre-arranged flight path. Sites and landscapes always look different from the air and Fursey was no exception. Somehow, in Alan’s vivid imagination, the slight changes in level between the abbey on its low island and the surrounding, low-lying flat fields, seemed monumental – almost cliff-like. From the air you could see, quite literally, the wood from the trees: the smaller islands that fringed the main Isle of Ely were more thickly spread with trees, woodland and even hedges and there were fields with livestock. But out in the open, peaty landscape of the fens the hedges and trees vanished, as did grassland: the fields were much larger and the dykes deeper and straighter. Alan loved flying and not just for the view. Aircraft removed you from everything: from ambitious people and human frailty. Below him, down there, lay the truth.
* * *
At the end of the scheduled Lidar runs, the pilot asked if there was anything they’d like to look at more closely. Alan and Dennis knew this was his way of asking whether they’d like to be given a bit of a fairground ride: not exactly aerobatics, but a few swoops, dives and steep turns. In actual fact, Alan wanted to take a closer look at the orchard and copse along the northern side of the lime tree avenue leading up to Fursey Hall. If the pilot followed the line of trees to the west, they’d get a good transect out into the open fen. They all agreed this was an excellent idea.
Earlier, Alan had warned Frank that he planned to make a low pass or two along the avenue and he had positioned three cameramen between the trees. They were treated to a very low tree-top ‘recce’ fly-past, followed by others at increasing altitudes. The crowds, of course, loved it all and cheered and waved enthusiastically.
When they had landed, Alan arranged to see the initial Lidar results at Fursey on Saturday, around midday. It would be something they could film then and there, or maybe retain for the final ‘live’. Either way, he thought, it would give me an excuse to get away from the massed ranks of councillors on their dreaded visit that Sebastian had just announced. He was also very aware that ECAM were going out of their way to help the project and he made a mental note to make sure he credited them live, on screen. Sadly, nobody these days looked at the end credits when they flashed by, drowned out by strident voice-overs proclaiming what’s ‘coming up later’.
* * *
Day 3 live kicked off with pre-recorded footage of Alan climbing into the plane and taking off. Then the screen cut to the low fly-past, while Craig’s urgent voice-over proclaimed, ‘The results of this survey could be very exciting indeed. The powerful lasers used in Lidar can reveal the earth’s most closely held secrets and on Friday we will discover why this quiet corner of the Fens is capturing the imagination of people right across Britain …’
Or far more likely, Alan thought, it’ll reveal sweet FA. He’d taken part in many aerial surveys around the Fens and he usually spotted some hint of what was to come when he looked out of the plane’s window. Lidar wasn’t magic: it didn’t create; it had to work on something – and this time he’d spotted nothing. He’d said as much to Frank, but to no avail.
The live sequences began with the studio panel who discussed what the Lidar might discover. Being clever academics they came up with wonderfully learned and unusual ideas which made them look and sound like imaginative pundits, but which Alan reckoned bore precious little resemblance to the sort of things that might actually turn up. Alan also reckoned that the members of the panel (aside from Michael Smiley their chairman) seemed somehow remote; none of them appeared to have been affected by what was increasingly becoming a wave of national enthusiasm for this previously obscure corner of Fenland.
Then Craig delivered his opening piece to camera in Trench 2 with Tricia and Jake Williamson. Although not a television natural, and a bit hesitant at first, Jake did very well and Tricia was good, too, Alan thought; she didn’t try to overshadow Jake and was quietly encouraging.
It was when they’d finished the opening three-way discussion and Tricia and Craig were looking through the day’s finds, that Jake, who had resumed trowelling for a few minutes, made his big discovery. He looked up.
‘Trish,’ he called out. ‘I think I’ve got something here!’
Cameras 2 and 3 of the second unit hurried round to the other side of the trench to get close-ups. Camera 1 instantly tilted down, just in time to catch Jake’s ‘ …something here!’.
‘You know that small pit or large post hole we were working on this morning?’ Jake continued.
Tricia was leaning forward, her excited eyes wide and catching gleams from the surrounding floodlights. ‘Yes?’
‘I think I’ve got a packing stone for a large post.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite certain. It’s right up against the sides of the hole and the ghost of the post is much clearer at this level. It looks squared-off.’
The post ‘ghost’ was a dark stain, the final trace of organic matter left by a long-rotted timber.
‘Oh really? And it’s in that dark area, which we thought might be a ditch of some sort?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Jake replied. ‘But don’t you see, that means it can’t be a ditch? The dark staining may have been left by rotted timbers. I think we’ve found the footing for the wall of a big building.’
‘And can we tell what kind of building?’
‘Most pre-Roman Iron Age buildings used roundwood or half-split timbers for posts and beams. A squared-off post suggests the use of heavy-duty saws, which were introduced to Britain by the Roman Army. So what we have here is …’ He paused briefly, as if he could not believe his own discovery. ‘A big Roman building.’
The discovery of what immediately came to be called Jake’s Building was almost, but not quite, matched by the revelation of a third alluvium-filled grave in Trench 1. Alan had pointed to the spot during an interview on Day 2, and now, on camera, Craig accused him of being ‘an archaeological prophet’. Alan frowned, deadpan, assuming an air of false modesty and announced that predictive archaeology was his current specialism. At best, it was an obscure piss-take, aimed at theoretical archaeologists, but it seemed to go down quite well with the audience – God knows why. He finished by stressing that there was now no doubt: all three graves were closely aligned. They had discovered part of a hitherto unknown Christian cemetery.
* * *
When Alan got back home he felt exhausted. He was discovering that live television made massive demands on those who took part. He had filled his flask with hot coffee on-site and now sat at his kitchen table drinking it. The naked light bulb overhead cast a harsh, unwelcoming light. He knew the fridge was empty, no milk even, as he couldn’t face a repeat of that last visit to the village shop. Then he thought back on the previous three days: the discovery of the graves, Jake’s building, not to mention lots more pottery and metalwork fragments. Stan would have been proud of them. That made Alan feel better. He was dog-tired, but not unhappy. It had all been worth it. So far. And the hot coffee felt good.
Alan glanced down at Stan’s notebook which lay on the kitchen table alongside his laptop. Over the previous few evenings he’d just finished going through the levels, one by one, and they were all internally consistent. Stan’s surveying had been spot on. But why hide them away? What were they telling him? Somehow he had to find the time to go down to the pumping station and take a reading off the Ordnance Survey benchmark on the wall there. Only then would he understand why Stan was so concerned to hide the notebook. But that must be done carefully, without telling the rest of the world – assuming, that is, that Stan’s fears were indeed justified. Now, though, it was time for a well-earned nightcap.
Alan reached into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Islay malt he’d bought at Aldi two weeks ago. For a moment he considered sampling the remains of Stan’s bottle of 20-year-old Glen Hubris McTavish that lay hidden in his chest of drawers among his socks and pants. But the time wasn’t yet right. It would have to wait. He added a drop of water from the tap, then raised the glass of Islay to his dead friend. His brother Grahame had always sworn by coffee and whisky. And as usual, he was right.
Ten minutes later, Alan tipped the coffee dregs down the sink and rinsed the flask in cold water. As he turned to head upstairs, he wondered what on earth the dig was going to find on Days 4 and 5. Would the Lidar survey be the big anticlimax he feared? After all, nothing was apparent to the naked eye when they flew over. But he knew it was stupid to try to second-guess the future – not with landscape, nor with people. He smiled: predictive archaeology, my arse.