Autumn Leaves at Mill Grange

by Jenny Kane

  Taking a step back in case Lady Hammett’s calming technique failed, Shaun looked helplessly at his producer, who was also looking fit to explode.

  Abruptly turning on the balls of her impractically heeled feet, flicking her dark blonde hair over her shoulders as she went, the lady of the manor marched towards her front door shouting, ‘Sophie! Get out here. Now!’

  ‘Sophie?’ Shaun muttered, his forehead creasing in confusion. He was pretty sure Lady Hammett expected him to follow her, but instead he headed to his waiting team. Not spotting his quarry among the regular archaeologists, Shaun kept walking until a flash of yellow ducking behind the camera crew’s truck sent him jogging forward.

  She was stood, her eyes shut, her hands over her ears, her long blonde hair acting like an additional curtain of protection across her bowed head. She clutched her trowel against her chest like a lucky talisman.

  ‘Sophie?’

  The young woman opened her eyes, but said nothing.

  Shaun tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘You wrote on the volunteers’ form that your name was Sophie Harriet, but it isn’t, is it?’

  Brushing hair from her eyes, she spoke with false bravado. ‘It is Sophie Harriet.’

  ‘Sophie Harriet Hammett perhaps? Lady Sophie Harriet Hammett?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Did you sign the legal forms so we could dig here? The ones claiming to be signed by Lady Hammett?’

  ‘I am Lady Hammett. Well, sort of – ish.’ Flicking her hair over her shoulders, she flashed him a grin that reminded Shaun of the teenage girls at his old high school.

  ‘This isn’t funny! We could get thrown off the site, lose the TV show even. Permanently. Your mother has a perfect right to sue us. She could have you arrested if she took it into her head!’

  ‘And bring shame on the family? Hardly.’ Sophie sounded defiant, but the smile dropped from her face as fast.

  ‘Have you any idea how serious this is?’ Shaun felt like he was admonishing a child. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Shrugging, Sophie held her trowel up as if it explained everything. ‘For this.’

  ‘A trowel?’

  ‘For archaeology. Don’t you want to know if that’s the lost church of St Guron under there?’

  ‘Of course I do, but—’

  ‘It was built in 1010 you know, in honour of St Guron himself. He is said to be the original founder of Bodmin itself in 510 AD, and—’

  ‘Sophie!’ Shaun reined in his fading patience. ‘It makes no difference how important this site is. If we are digging it with falsified documents, then we are liable for health and safety, insurance; not to mention the damage your mother could do to Landscape Treasures’ reputation if she reports us to the broadcasting authorities.’

  ‘I told you, she won’t. Mother doesn’t do anything that reflects badly on the family name, and Father just does what he’s told.’

  ‘And how does that change the legal situation exactly?’ Shaun waved a hand towards the other diggers. ‘We have spent a fortune on JCB hire, geophysics, accommodation for everyone, and everything else that comes with a show like this. We have a schedule to keep.’ Shaun could hear the words coming out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if what he was saying was true or not, but kept talking anyway. ‘This isn’t about one dig. It’s a series and we are committed to it. What you’ve done could ruin all of it. The previous episodes we’ve filmed will count for nothing if your mother sues for criminal damage, unauthorised excavation and so on. Landscape Treasures could be pulled from the schedule. That would be it for us.’

  Fiddling the trowel between her fingers, Sophie mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

  Shaun pushed his hands deep into his pockets as he regarded the spoilt child of the manor. ‘Why really, Sophie? I don’t believe you did this just to locate an ancient church. Help me understand how a grown woman could act like a selfish brat.’

  Sophie’s head came up so fast, that her chin jutted out just like her mother’s. But for the tears that now dotted her cheeks, the likeness was inescapable.

  ‘Talk to me, Sophie. If you won’t tell me why you did this, you could at least tell us how you imagine we can stop this snowballing into a bigger disaster.’

  ‘Archaeology.’ She gestured to the stretch of moor around them. ‘It’s been a passion since I was little. Well – since I started watching Landscape Treasures, so I wasn’t that small. I’m not saying you’re ancient or anything; I was quite old when I started viewing.’

  ‘Stop digging yourself into the wrong sort of holes.’ A smile curled at the corner of Shaun’s lips despite himself. ‘I don’t see why your love of archaeology is an excuse to con your parents into allowing us to destroy their front lawn.’

  ‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do, but it’s not exactly “Lady of the Manor” behaviour is it.’

  Having met many titled families during his television career, and knowing that nearly all of them were so delighted to have a site of interest on their lands that they’d got stuck in to the mud like everyone else, Shaun decided not to comment. What Sophie meant was that it wasn’t Lady Hammett’s idea of what a titled woman should do, and therefore it was off limits as a career for her daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry your parents don’t encourage your passion for the past, Sophie, but that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.’ Shaun patted her arm sympathetically. ‘All those people over there, they could lose their jobs over this. This isn’t their hobby, it’s their livelihood.’

  Sophie’s eyes dipped to the ground. A light flush came to her cheeks. ‘I just wanted to prove I could do it. To show them it was a good thing to do. If we had an important historical site in the garden, I thought perhaps it would convince them how worthwhile archaeology is… and…’

  Determined not to let his forgiving nature let Sophie off the hook yet, Shaun asked, ‘So, what are going to do about this?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You are clearly knowledgeable about this site and passionate about the subject, but being an archaeologist isn’t just digging trenches and finding things. It means being able to deal with difficult landowners and coping with paperwork. Then there’s sorting the things that go wrong. JCBs that break down, or don’t turn up on the right day. Archaeologists who hurt themselves, artefacts that can’t be taken out of the ground without specialist equipment, records to keep and reports to write. The list goes on and on.’

  ‘I know I’ve been…’

  ‘Been what, Sophie?’

  ‘Studying for an archaeology degree by distance learning. They—’ she tipped her head towards Guron House ‘—have no idea. All I need is practical experience, so I thought…

  ‘You’d use us to get it?’

  ‘Well, umm. Yes.’

  *

  Thea gripped the print-out of the geophysics survey Ajay and Andy had done of the Roman fortlet in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. The pockets of her combat trousers were stuffed with string, tent pegs, an industrial tape measure, small finds bags, pens, labels and her mobile phone.

  When she’d left university to work at the Roman Baths, although she’d loved her job, it wasn’t the same as being a hands-on archaeologist, with the constant thrill of potential discovery. Stood now, examining the rough rectangle of ground before her, Thea was conscious of the race of her pulse. She’d forgotten how much she loved this.

  Dismissing the voice at the back of her head telling her it would be more fun if Shaun were there, Thea hooked a ball of string and a tent peg out of a pocket. She had taken advice from the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists about how to correctly run a private dig, then waited weeks for clearance to dig from the Council for British Archaeology, and permission to excavate from the authorities running Exmoor National Park. Now the time had come to take the first tentative look at the site. Although Thea knew she couldn’t possibly excavate the fortlet alone, she could at least mark it out.

  Double-checking the survey results, T
hea pushed the first peg into the damp earth, unable to suppress the beam that crossed her face as she wound the string around the peg.

  A Roman site on Exmoor.

  She knew how important that was; how rare. While Exmoor was ringed by a few forts on its southern side, only two fortlets had ever been found across its vast space. Old Burrow had been there first, but had soon been replaced by Martinhoe on the coast, which overlooked the waterway to Bristol, Wales and beyond. There was also a Roman fort at Rainsbury, on the far south-eastern side of the moor, but little else. Although there was ongoing exploration into the idea that the Romans had exploited Exmoor for its iron deposits, the discovery of a fortlet so far inland was completely unexpected.

  As she worked, Thea pictured the original occupants of the site. There’d only have been about seventy of them, living on a site made up of concentric circles, no bigger than fifty or sixty metres in diameter, with square structures – stores and outhouses – to the sides. Had they been lonely here? Were they Romano-British soldiers, or were they freshly picked from elsewhere in the Empire, finding the very particular cold of the wind as it crossed Exmoor’s open plains a nasty shock after Mediterranean sunshine?

  While the purpose of Martinhoe’s fortlet had been to keep an eye on the fleet across the Bristol Channel, the reason for the placing of Upwich’s fortlet remained a mystery. A mystery Thea was determined to solve.

  Three

  September 1st

  ‘Is there a job we could give Mabel? Bert’s worried about her.’ Tugging a third pair of socks over her feet, Tina continued getting ready for bed – a process that involved putting on more clothing than she wore during the day.

  Privately cursing his inability to conquer his phobia, knowing that if he did, Tina would be taking her clothes off, rather than piling them on, Sam passed her a hot water bottle. His guilt at making her sleep outside overtook his lust-fuelled regrets as he saw Tina try to hide a shiver.

  ‘I’ll have a think. There must be loads she can do. Mabel’s a dab hand at most things.’ Sam watched as Tina undid the pigtails she’d worn all the day. He loved how the plaits curled and kinked her hair as she let it loose. ‘We are a bit short on money for wages though. I hate asking people to work for nothing.’

  ‘Bert said that was okay. Anyway, we will have income soon. If Mabel is happy and takes a job she’s good at, maybe she could eventually go on the payroll?’

  ‘Definitely, although I’m not sure when. Everything I had went on the house, and…’ Sitting up in his sleeping bag, Sam suddenly changed the subject: ‘Tina, do you want to sleep inside tonight?’

  ‘What? But…’

  Taking her hands, noting they were cold despite her gloves, Sam spoke fast, knowing Tina would assume she’d done something wrong if he didn’t explain. ‘It isn’t that I don’t want you here, but it’s getting colder at night, and although you’re far too nice to say so, I know you’re having trouble sleeping. I wouldn’t be offended if you used your room in the attic. I wish I could come with you. I want to. Very much.’ Sam stroked Tina’s chilled face.

  Shuffling her sleeping bag closer, Tina kissed him slowly on the lips. ‘Bert was only saying earlier what a good man you are, and he’s right.’

  ‘Hardly. A good man would not expect his girlfriend to freeze every night.’

  ‘You don’t. I’m here because I want to be.’ Tina lifted her padded arms out to the sides and started to giggle. ‘I look like the Michelin Man – or Michelin Woman, rather.’

  ‘A very sexy one, though.’

  Tina winked. ‘Don’t tell me, it’s the extra thick body warmer that sends your pulse racing.’

  ‘Almost as much as the three pairs of socks and the thermal trousers.’

  Tucking herself under his arm, Tina kissed Sam’s cheek. ‘It is getting harder to settle at night, but it’s worth it. It won’t be forever. This is a stage you have to go through, and I want to be there to support you.’

  ‘I’d do anything for you – you know that don’t you, Tina?’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’ Sam kissed the end of her nose. ‘Except cut off my ponytail; so don’t waste your breath.’

  Pulling him down on top of her Tina muttered, ‘As if I’d ask you to remove your one act of rebellion.’ She gave the offending article a playful tug. ‘Come on; prove to me how adept your services training made you at battling through hundreds of layers of clothing to reach your goal.’

  September 2nd

  Sam stood by the kitchen door watching Thea and Tina making coffee. His toes were level with the step that marked the divide between house and garden. He knew this was progress. A month ago he’d have been hyperventilating at the thought of the enclosed space ahead. Now, providing he could feel the air of the open countryside behind him, he could cope. He tried to be proud of himself, but couldn’t. It wasn’t nearly enough progress if he was going to be able to manage this place properly.

  Pushing aside his sense of failure for the moment, Sam called across the kitchen, ‘I’ve had an idea about Mabel.’

  ‘Go on.’ Tina smiled as she raised a cup as if to offer a drink.

  ‘She’s a good cook, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very.’ Thea nodded. ‘I remember that lasagne Mabel produced after the mill burnt down. It was heavenly; and not just because we were hungry and in shock.’

  Tina agreed. ‘So was the cake she produced to go with it. Do you want her to cook for us? I assumed the guests would take it in turns to cook on a rota; part of the rehab process.’

  Sam gave a thumbs up as Thea waved a packet of biscuits in his direction. ‘It’s a vital part of the program, to be able to cook for yourself and others. The social side as well as the actual cooking, but not everyone cooks well. What if we appointed Mabel to oversee the preparation of the meals?’

  ‘Would that work?’ Thea was thoughtful. ‘I’m sure she’d do a good job with the food, but she can have an unfortunate manner sometimes. Some of our guests might not cope with that.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d be like that with the guests. Mabel has hidden depths.’ Sam took his cup from Tina as he leant on the doorframe. ‘My worry was more that she wouldn’t like the hours. Seven o’clock for evening meals could be a bit late for her and Bert?’

  ‘And they’d have their own meal to cook as well,’ Tina said. ‘How about we ask her to design the menus and order in all the food? Mabel is good at catering for groups. All those committees she’s on have taught her how to get the most out of nothing.’

  Sam raised his cup. ‘Excellent idea. I had plain cooking in mind. Casseroles, pasta dishes. Easy but filling. And loads of vegetable dishes using the stuff we grow here; once it’s grown of course.’

  ‘Jacket potatoes.’ Thea pointed towards the Aga. ‘They’ll do brilliantly in there, and so easy!’

  ‘But not as good as on one of Sam’s bonfires.’ Tina recalled the first alfresco meal Sam had cooked for them shortly after his arrival at Mill Grange.

  ‘Potatoes are something we aren’t going to be short of at least.’ Sam smiled. ‘The crop of earlys is well established. I want to put some lates in soon too. I wondered about asking our test guests to plant them this week.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Thea glanced at the clipboard she was holding. ‘Ann, Woody and Dave; right?’

  ‘Yes. Good people. Lots of fun and always up for a challenge, although letting Ann near the kitchen might be interesting.’

  ‘A good cook?’

  ‘A dreadful cook. I’ve never known anyone so adept at cremating everything she touches food wise.’

  Thea laughed. ‘That’ll be jacket potato night then, followed by one of your heavenly lemon cakes, Tina.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. As does asking Mabel to do the menu.’ Tina grinned. ‘I know! We’ll ask her to consider being our cuisine consultant. She’ll love that.’ Unable to stifle a yawn, Tina picked up the pile of pillows she’d brought into the kitchen with her.

  �
�What are they inside for?’ Sam was surprised to see their pillows indoors.

  ‘Stop them getting damp.’ Tina looked sheepish. ‘I thought we’d sleep better if we could lie on warm pillows tonight.’

  ‘Umm, yeah, good idea.’ Sam reached out his hands. ‘Why not give them to me, I’ll put them in your car, that way they’ll stay dry.’

  ‘But not warm.’ Tina cradled them closer, recalling the action they’d witnessed the night before. ‘I’ll pop them in the laundry room on the way to the office.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’ll take them.’ An anxious Sam longed to be able to dash inside and pull them out of Tina’s grasp.

  Puzzled, Thea asked, ‘Should I take them? I could put them in my room if you’re worried about them getting mixed up with the linen for the house guests.’

  Sam’s smile failed to meet his eyes. ‘I suppose that would be alright, if you were careful and…’

  He was too late.

  As a confused Tina passed the pillows to Thea, four small blue envelopes, scented with perfume, slipped out of their pillowcase prison, and hit the flagged-stone kitchen floor.

  Crouching to pick them up, Tina’s face fell as she took in the feminine script of the handwritten envelopes. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She wanted an explanation, but whichever way her imagination pictured it, the reasons why her partner was hiding scented letters in his pillowcase, couldn’t be good.

  Glancing from one friend to the other, Thea took her clipboard and cup of coffee and made a tactical departure.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’ Sam panicked, seeing how the situation appeared through Tina’s eyes. Taking a step forward, he moved to rush into her arms, but after two steps inside, he was backing away, gasping for air.

  ‘Sam!’ Forgetting the letters for a second, Tina ran outside as her partner took slow steadying breaths. As soon as he’d got hold of himself, she steered Sam to the nearest bench and dropped the letters into his lap as if they were toxic. ‘Talk to me before I leap to conclusions. Who are the letters from?’