He went across to the new coffee stall that had been set up on Day 3 and ordered two large lattes to go. While these were being made, Frank joined him. He ordered an Americano with hot milk. The lattes were placed on the counter and Alan was about to pick them up, when Frank, who had noticed the two coffees, asked, ‘Oh, has Harriet arrived?’
Alan had explained to Frank earlier about the need for a bones expert and his professional experience with Harriet. Alan hated his familiar tone. Alan glanced at his watch: it was 8.55.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Dr Webb’s always punctual. I’ve arranged to meet her at nine.’
‘Oh, excellent. I’d love to meet her, too. I’ll come along.’
Fuckin’ Ada! Alan almost exploded at the man’s cheek. Not so much as a ‘perhaps I might join you?’. Then he paused. Maybe this was what their re-introduction needed. If a third party was there, then a degree of formality would be expected. Yes, on reflection, it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
‘Fine, Frank. Let’s head to the staff car park.’
* * *
Alan instantly recognised the Mini Cooper as it drove its way gingerly over the bumpy temporary track that lead into the car park. It didn’t look like it had been washed since that time he had given it a hose down, in a failed attempt to patch-up their collapsing relationship.
Alan had pictured this scene many times in his mind’s eye, but never with a stranger looking on. He had seen her long legs in high-heeled shoes step out of the car, then the mid-length skirt slipping slowly over her elegant calves as she straightened up. In Alan’s memory she always wore tall-heeled shoes, not high-heeled court shoes, but more sensible shoes for country wear. Wearing them, she was almost precisely as tall as him. Eye-to-eye; lip-to-lip. And those skirts: so very well-tailored and always elegant.
Today, however, she was wearing a pair of close, but not too close, fitting jeans and flat-soled shoes. She was dressed for digging. She didn’t appear to have noticed Alan and Frank enter the car park, as she stretched and yawned. Then she pulled out her phone and started to text. Alan called out.
‘Harry!’ Then a second time. ‘Harriet!’
She heard him the second time, and put the phone away.
‘Harry, I’d like you to meet Frank Jones, he’s directing the live shoot.’
For Alan, doing things this way was great as he didn’t have to decide how to greet Harry: a kiss on the cheek, or a handshake. He did neither.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Harriet. Alan has told me so much about you.’
It wasn’t a deliberate faux pas. Harry gave Alan a look which spoke volumes.
He tried to explain. ‘Well, not really. I mean not about us …’Alan paused, he was making things worse.
Harry turned away to hide the smile she couldn’t suppress; Alan did discomfiture so ineptly.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. ‘I told Frank all about your work with human bones.’
Frank was looking mystified, but for once he kept his mouth shut. Harriet was now smiling openly.
Alan’s phone beeped and he grabbed it, grateful for the distraction.
He read it aloud: ‘I’ve arrived.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet said quietly. ‘I do believe I have.’
* * *
Alan gave Harriet a tour of the set-up and showed her where all the essentials were: the catering tent, the coffee booth, the staff toilets, the Fursey offices and the three archaeological Portakabins – the general office, where Alan had his desk, the tea shed and the finds shed, where they found Hen. She knew Hen of old and they greeted each other warmly. Then, after a quick walk through the abbey ruins, they entered the shelter over Trench 1.
Alan looked down with approval. They’d left things in a bit of a mess at the end of Day 5’s filming and he’d asked Kaylee and Jon to do a rapid clean-up before Harriet arrived. And they’d done a great job. The trench looked spotless.
After they’d all been introduced, Harriet stepped down into the trench. Kaylee had finished exposing the skull and neck of the body in Grave 2 and the bones had been beautifully revealed.
‘You’ve done this before, I see?’
‘Sort of,’ Kaylee replied. ‘But it was a big urban dig and we all had to teach ourselves. I’d love to learn to do it properly. I really would.’
Harriet was clearly delighted at this. ‘That’s great to hear, Kaylee. I’d be happy to teach you.’
Jon had moved back to Grave 3 and was standing rather diffidently by its side. They looked down: the toe bone was still there, in splendid isolation. Jon gave an excuse that was familiar to both Alan and Harriet. ‘I thought I’d get the rest of the grave filling down to the same level. I didn’t want to dig rabbit holes.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet replied. ‘You were quite right. And it all looks beautifully level, too. But would you mind dreadfully if I took over now? I think Alan here wants me to start excavating bones.’
Jon didn’t try to conceal the look of relief that spread over his face.
* * *
Slightly to Alan’s surprise, the coach-load of county and district councillors were shown over the abbey ruins by Peter Flower, who had also given them a brief guided tour of the historic landscape as they drove from Cambridge.
Before he handed over to Alan he confidentially explained, ‘Terribly sorry, Alan, but I’ve got to dash back to Fisher. We’ve an important college council meeting at noon which I’ve absolutely got to attend.’
Alan didn’t trust the man at all, but he knew he must appear friendly, if he was ever to discover anything.
‘Sounds like you’re in for a pay rise, Peter?’
It was meant to be jocular, but it sounded rather pointed. Shit, Alan thought, I blew that. But he hadn’t.
Flower positively beamed. ‘Young Cadbury, you must be a mind reader! I’ll let you know later.’
Time to sound genuinely concerned. ‘No, seriously Peter: I do hope it goes well.’
Flower turned to leave. ‘Thanks, Alan.’ This was half-mimed, as he headed out of the catering tent towards a waiting taxi in the staff car park.
Alan was glad to see him go. Somehow he was going to prove that Flower had encouraged Stan to drink again. It didn’t have to be a big public exposure: he just wanted Flower to know that he couldn’t get away with it. You couldn’t treat people like dogs: jump, and I’ll throw you a treat.
* * *
Were it not for the power of television, the 55 councillors would have treated Alan as the support act to the main attraction, the famous Dr Peter Flower. But not now. As he stepped forward, he got a round of applause. Slightly disappointed at himself, he found he was rather enjoying the attention. It was certainly much better than being ignored, or worse, patronised. He also thought he caught a few whispers of ‘It’s a grave’. But then he saw Harriet in the trench below, and in an unexpected attack of nerves found himself blurting out the obvious.
‘Welcome to Trench 1. And as you can see in front of you: it’s a grave.’
This earned another, prolonged, round of applause. While hands were enthusiastically clapping, Harriet looked up at him with a look of quiet exasperation. Alan immediately regretted being so flippant.
After their tours of the two trench shelters, the group gathered outside for the Q and A session that the council leader was keen to have. He had also asked Alan to give them a short summary of the area’s archaeological potential. Alan discussed the superb preservation of the human remains and the fact that flood-clay had preserved whole landscapes virtually intact. He even hinted that the Roman presence there might be far more substantial than anyone had suspected – and he strongly advised them to watch Day 6 of the ‘live’ tonight, when the results of the Lidar survey would be revealed.
‘What are you expecting, Alan?’ the leader asked.
Alan smiled, in reality he didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know. Spontaneity isn’t always easy to simulate on camera, and he knew he was a lousy actor.
‘I honestly don’t know. And that’s the truth.’
‘Oh, go on,’ a councillor called out. ‘You can tell us. We won’t breathe a word …’
That got a laugh.
Then a young woman – Alan recognised her as the leader of the increasingly popular Green Party – asked, ‘What’s the hidden potential of these landscapes, Alan?’
‘Do you mean under the flood-clay and peats?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Suddenly Alan was aware this was potentially difficult. The Green lady seemed very friendly, but others had different, usually vested, interests, too. He could see Councillor Sebastian Cripps looking very serious, but giving nothing away.
‘I think there’s little doubt that the Roman occupation levels extend beyond the limits of the upland here at Fursey.’
‘Yes, but for how far out into the surrounding fen?’ It was Sebastian’s voice.
For a moment Alan wished Stan had been there to answer him.
‘We won’t know that without further survey. But I’d be very surprised indeed if any Roman material will be found below about a metre above OD.’
Sebastian nodded sagely. Did he understand the implications for him? Alan couldn’t decide.
Another councillor asked, ‘OD? That’s sea level, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘And contrary to popular opinion, the Romans didn’t do much actual fen drainage. They mostly took advantage of naturally drier conditions in the first and second centuries AD.’
‘And what about the graves?’ another councillor asked. ‘You said you thought they may prove to be quite early. How does that leave Ely? High and dry?’
This got a laugh.
‘There have been modern digs around the edges of the Isle, and they’ve proved that Ely had ancient beginnings, too. Maybe even earlier than Fursey. Modern archaeology is transforming our knowledge. These graves are just a small part of it. If you don’t mind me saying so, local councillors of all parties around here should be aware that this is one of the most important archaeological regions in Europe.’ He let this sink in, then finished with, ‘And I mean that.’
Not exactly a memorable ending, but it earned him generous applause.
Alan paused as he headed back to his Portakabin to collect the context lists for the day’s work. That had been fascinating, but he had been too general. If he was going to elicit anything from the people around the dinner table tomorrow, he must come up with something far more specific. Maybe a story/parable: something they must respond to.
Alan was lost in thought as he watched the councillors’ coach head slowly down the drive.
* * *
After the lunch break, Alan and Jake realised they hadn’t done their weekly run-through of the site Finds and Samples Register. Both trench daybooks looked pretty thin and the site diary was almost non-existent. As Alan had observed on previous televised digs, essential paperwork often takes a back seat if you let TV people take the upper hand. And Alan wasn’t going to allow that: not on a site of this quality.
Half an hour later, he was back in the dig tent, but still deeply enmeshed within context sheets and sample lists, having just spotted a small but potentially awkward error in the spot-heights around Grave 3. If left uncorrected, such mistakes could lead to graves and other features being placed in the wrong phase. He was annoyed with himself: it was the sort of mistake that happened if you were constantly being interrupted. Then the tent flap was pulled back. Talk of the devil, he thought angrily. He was about to tell whoever it was to kindly sod off, when John Cripps entered. Alan bit back his words. He couldn’t afford to be rude to him, of all people. He was even more glad he’d controlled himself, when the next person entered.
He was a man in his early forties, thinning on top, Alan noticed, as he dipped his head to pass through the gap; he wore a pair of baggy, but neatly pressed, blue jeans, which didn’t altogether go with the shiny black shoes, white shirt, dog collar and dark suit-like jacket. The jeans were held up by a narrow, shiny leather belt that was probably bought to go with a pin-stripe suit. Presumably, Alan thought, the weird jeans were intended to show that he could identify with young people. He was ‘hip to their vibe’. Then he winced at his own cruelty: no, I’m going too far. He’s probably a very nice man.
‘Alan,’ John said. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Jason. Jason Grimes.’
Alan had half expected Theobald, possibly even Julian, and both would have sounded good alongside Grimes. But never Jason. He smiled broadly, largely to conceal his surprise, as they shook hands.
‘I’m the Fenland rural dean. It’s a new appointment that replaces the old ADI.’
Jason could see this meant nothing to Alan.
‘That’s Archdeacon Regiones Inundatae, or Archdeacon of the flooded regions. The appointment came into existence during monastic times, before the widespread drainage of the seventeenth century, when Fenlanders had very specific social needs.’
‘Yes, malaria had become a major problem and the Church grew and processed opium poppy seeds, for example, which it distributed among the poor and needy.’
Alan smiled. He had never thought of the Church as a drug-pusher. ‘It’s an interesting image,’ he said.
‘If not completely fair,’ the dean broke in. ‘Opium has little strength when grown in our climate, it would have been used as an analgesic: an alternative to aspirin, today—’
It was Alan’s turn to show off his knowledge. ‘Made from willow bark, which of course was also plentiful in the Fens.’
The dean smiled broadly. ‘Quite. And I’m sure you’ll also be pleased to know that I’m already known as the Dyke Dean in certain quarters.’
Alan smiled and refrained from the obvious ribald comment.
It was John Cripps’s turn to ask a question. ‘You mentioned earlier that you had taken samples from directly above one of the graves which you hoped might throw light on their date. Has there been any news?’
‘Yes. Dr Scott, the micromorphologist, phoned me first thing this morning,’ Alan replied. ‘And he’s quite convinced they’re very early. Of course it all depends on what you take as a starting date, but he is of the opinion they were cut in the first decades of the seventh century.’
‘Good heavens!’ This was clearly as close as the dean ever got to swearing. ‘That is early. Very early indeed. In fact, it makes these graves pre-date the foundation of the cathedral!’
‘Which was in 673, as I recall.’ John Cripps was obviously keen to show off his knowledge. ‘By St Etheldreda, following the death of her second husband, a prince of Northumbria, called Ecofrith.’
Alan listened earnestly, nodding his head, as if on camera. He was pleased: at last John had found a chance to air his erudition – even if he had got prince Ecgfrith’s name a little wrong.
‘Yes, yes …’ The dean seemed to be in another world. ‘Yes …’ he resumed, almost visibly clambering out of his subconscious. ‘Yes, that’s right. The name has always puzzled me.’
‘The prince, you mean?’ Alan suggested.
‘No, this place, here: Fursey. If these bones are as early as Dr Scott seems to think—’
‘And that will need to be demonstrated by archaeology,’ Alan added.
He deeply distrusted the attribution of known historic events to less precise archaeological data: all buildings that caught fire in the mid-first century AD were automatically assumed to have been burnt in the Boudiccan Revolt of AD60–1. According to some of his own colleagues, East Anglian bakeries and blacksmiths’ shops never caught fire by accident in the mid-first century – it was always Boudicca’s rebellious followers. He smiled, then the thought struck him: ancient events could be given new life in modern times by well-meaning people who had nothing to gain by inventing myths and legends.
‘Of course.’ The dean brushed Alan’s remark aside. ‘But if it does indeed date to the very first decades of the seventh century, then there’s only one person who could have been involved.’
‘Oh.’ John Cripps was suddenly very excited. ‘You mean—’
‘St Fursey.’ The dean said rapidly. He was not going to let John steal his thunder.
‘Wasn’t he a Celtic missionary?’ Alan knew the name vaguely. ‘Who came over from Ireland?’
‘Yes, to East Anglia. And he founded a number of monastic sites, possibly including Binham Priory in Norfolk. But the other thing is, he often seems to have sited these places near existing Roman sites. And what have you revealed here?’
John rapidly supplied the answer. ‘An important Roman settlement.’
‘And when was St Fursey active?’ Alan asked.
‘Precisely when these graves were cut, in the 630s,’ said the dean.
I never gave that date, Alan thought. But he decided to keep quiet; he couldn’t face a long explanation.
‘More importantly,’ the dean continued, ‘he is known to have died while continuing his missionary work on the continent around 650.’
‘So well before the foundation of Ely.’
‘Precisely,’ the dean said firmly.
That effectively ended the discussion, and then the two visitors withdrew.
Alan’s resumed trowelling the hard surface, of what was increasingly feeling like a path or track. But his heart had sunk. It was entirely understandable, but they had just erected an elaborate house of cards on a tiny shred of evidence. He could hear the excited discussion continue unabated, as John and the dean headed across to Trench 2.
* * *
The final, hour-long live session kicked off with some dramatic, if predictable, footage of the survey aircraft taking off and then doing its low-level pass along the Fursey Avenue. Next came shots of a smiling Alan climbing out of the plane with his heavy D300 camera slung round his neck; with the plane’s door removed, he’d managed to get some dramatic shots. Then the screen was filled with the Lidar images. The main, sensational, discovery, which Craig Larsson was now describing with wild enthusiasm on the voice-over commentary, was the ditch and bank of a square Roman fort, with three right-angled corners and entranceways at the centre of three sides.
The graphics people had soon plotted the position of the trenches onto the Lidar plan. It turned out that Trench 1 had been positioned directly across the main internal road which ran in a straight line from the north to the south entranceways through the big ditch. Trench 2 lay a few metres north of the east-west roadway, very close to the centre of the fort; both Alan and Tricia reckoned the building with the large wooden posts was probably the command centre known as the principium.
It was just as well that the Lidar had produced such spectacular results, because the dig itself was rather routine, not that it mattered, as Weinstein had assembled an enlarged studio panel, which included no less than two Oxbridge professors. And Craig had been recalled to London to chair it. For his part Frank had prepared a scene where Tricia and Alan re-assessed all the finds in the light of the Lidar results.
With Craig away, Alan was now the effective presenter, addressing most of his remarks to Craig in London. They filmed an up-date of the graves in Trench 1 and the two skeletons, which were now almost half-revealed, and Harriet was able to suggest that one was probably a man in his forties, the other a young woman in her late teens or early twenties. Alan was delighted at what she had achieved: the bones were well-preserved and superbly excavated and looked fabulous on screen.
As Alan was finishing describing the second skeleton, he heard the sound of rain on the shelter. He had thirty seconds to dash across to Trench 2 to shoot the very final scene of all.
The entrance flap was meant to have been left open, but some helpful person had re-tied the flap laces of the Trench 2 shelter. It was now windy and raining hard. Alan wrestled with the damp knots and managed to burst onto set with two seconds to spare. In the process, the wire to his earpiece got caught on something and pulled out. He stuffed it in a pocket as he ran towards the film crew. By now he was drenched and dishevelled. Tricia’s smile broadened as he arrived at the trenchside.
‘Alan, how nice of you to come.’ Weinstein had told her to lighten the mood. ‘Is it raining outside? We’re lovely and snug in here.’
All three cameras had red lights on. They were live.
‘Some idiot tied down the shelter flap and it’s chucking it down!’
Weinstein was delighted at this. After the previous episode one or two viewers had tweeted that it was all ‘a bit too good’. Some had even suggested it wasn’t live at all. But they couldn’t say that now.
The contrast between Alan and Tricia could not have been greater. She was looking demure and composed; he was hot, a bit wild, and flustered. Over her shoulder, Alan could see Grump busily fiddling with the wires and plugs at the back of the recorder. Then a boom mike appeared over their heads.
Alan wasn’t too worried about losing his earpiece as they’d done quite a detailed run-through of this scene earlier. They had a short discussion of the day’s finds – two more lorica segmentata bronze armour fragments – and then Alan took Tricia on a tour of the various pits and post holes, before finishing with the timber wall of the headquarters building, as they had agreed to call the possible principium.
But Alan realised there was something different this time, and it wasn’t just that actual live filming is always more exciting and urgent than even the best run-through. No, there was more to it than that: Tricia was far closer, physically and emotionally, too. She seemed to be hanging on every word Alan said, as if they were special, precious. Despite feeling damp and dishevelled, her presence so close to him added energy and urgency to his words. Tricia responded to this wonderfully by egging him on, and smiling all the time. Discussions about Roman military finds can be so boring, but not this one. And for Alan, who was having a great time, it flashed by.
When they had finished filming, Grump quickly repaired Alan’s earpiece.
‘I think the boss wants a word with you, Alan,’ he said, as he handed it back.
Alan replaced it in his ear.
It was Weinstein. ‘That was superb, Alan. Absolutely brilliant. It was far better than the ending I’d expected. Real food for thought.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Lew.’
‘And did you realise that your mike had gone down?’
‘Really?’
Then Alan remembered seeing Grump produce the overhead boom. Suddenly it all made sense.
‘Yes,’ Weinstein continued. ‘That’s why Tricia was so close. Her chest mike was picking you up. I told her to get up close and personal. And it worked well: you were clear, but very slightly distant. Gave your words a strange authority, like they came from a lecture hall.’
As he listened, Tricia kissed him lightly on the cheek and stepped out of the trench. She mouthed ‘Must fly!’ then headed for the exit.
Weinstein’s words had upset him. So was that last scene together just a means of getting her mike closer? Was there nothing else to it at all? No body language? He had to be honest with himself: he’d taken quite a shine to Tricia. And it wasn’t just that she was beautiful and intelligent, there was a lightness to her which he found very attractive. She seemed to enjoy the surface of life – the moments that come and go – and she didn’t want to dwell on the meaning of everything. But it was more than just easy come, easy go with her. She wasn’t flippant, just pleasant and relaxed. Straightforward. Yes, Alan thought, that was the word. Straightforward. Then he imagined Harriet. Tricia never had the same relaxed facial expression that Harriet had. She was completely unpredictable. Certainly not straightforward. Never that.
His thoughts were interrupted by Tricia who called out from the far end of the shelter. She was standing next to the flap, which had now been tied back. Outside the shower had passed over, and a full moon was rising above the silhouetted trees along the avenue.
‘Bye, everyone. Thanks for everything. It was lovely working with you all. Have got to dash. Byee!’
And with that she left. Alan felt slightly let down. He found he sort of wanted a door to close loudly, or for something to happen that marked her departure. But no: the flap slid silently shut, while all around him the crew continued to de-rig.
* * *
Over his four years with Test Pit Challenge, Alan had attended at least three of the end-of-season wrap parties. They were put on and paid for by production so there was plenty of drink and usually a good disco, whose sound system was massively boosted by Grump. The food was bought in, but was usually adequate to mop up the drink. And over the last three years, they had also hired a karaoke and everyone was expected to take part. Points were awarded, and once Alan had even managed to come runner-up. That was in 2008. To this day he couldn’t remember exactly what he sang, except that it was a blues song by Muddy Waters.
Alan wasn’t much of a party animal, but he usually enjoyed wrap parties. For a start, there was an unwritten understanding that whatever happened at the party remained firmly within the circle. Sometimes tensions would build up, especially after a long, wet season like 2008, and people would then go a bit over the top, as a release of accumulated tensions. The other total no-no was social media. In the past, the ban was implicit, but in 2006 two very cocky volunteers filmed Craig miming to the Stones’ ‘Little Red Rooster’ while dressed as Alice in Wonderland. Of course it went viral. When the commissioning editor at T2 saw it, it nearly cost Craig his job, as they were then in the process of establishing him as a credible presenter. He had never so much as hinted it to Craig, but Alan had told Weinstein that he would also walk out if T2 sacked the presenter. Eventually it blew over, but since then, all non-TPC guests to the wrap party were warned there was a total ban on posting anything whatsoever on the Internet.
At the start of the party, Weinstein appeared on all the monitors. It was a rather blurry Skype image, but that didn’t matter. He thanked everyone for their contributions and announced that initial viewing figures for the final episode had topped 9 million, with an all-important audience share of 27 per cent. This merited a round of applause and loud cheers. Then Charles Carnwath, now also back in London, said a few well-chosen words and reminded everyone that that they had still to film another two, conventional (i.e. non-live) one-hour episodes, to go out later that summer. Finally, Candice said a few words of thanks on behalf of Fursey and Alan fully expected John to appear and say a short prayer. But they were spared that.
The formalities over, the sound system came up and the lights went down. Alan headed over to the bar and grabbed a pint of real ale before the cask ran out and they were forced to drink not-so-chilled cans of the usual factory-produced English muck they had the nerve to call lager. He spotted Hen Clancy, who was dressed to the nines, with bows and glitter in strategic positions; she was queuing for food along with Jon and Kaylee. Alan asked her where Harriet was.
‘Oh, didn’t she tell you?’ she said, slightly surprised. ‘She’s got a headache so has gone home. I must admit, she did look a bit low.’
Alan was devastated. He had really been looking forward to being with Harry at the wrap party. She was great on such occasions and always managed to make him feel good, too. And who knows, he thought, I might have been able to convince her that I’m not a complete waste of time?
‘Had she been feeling bad all evening?’ he asked Hen, as casually as he could manage.
‘I don’t know. I only saw her afterwards, as she was heading back to her car. And as I said, she looked all-in. She really did.’
‘So you don’t think she’ll be coming to the party?’
‘Oh, no chance,’ she continued, oblivious to Alan’s distress. ‘She told me outright. She said, “Tonight it’s a couple of aspirins and bed.” Can’t say I blame her. I get migraines myself.’
Alan knew Harry didn’t suffer from migraines, but he said nothing. He moved away from the bar, leaving his full beer glass on the table behind him. He didn’t know where he was heading, or who he was going to meet, but now he was dreading the long hours that lay ahead.