‘Let’s call it a day,’ she says. ‘Thanks so much, everyone. Great work.’
‘We should wait until sunset and thank the gods,’ says Cathbad. Ruth gives him an exasperated, but affectionate, look. Cathbad has been a real help all day, taking his turn with the excavation but also keeping an eye on the children. Even so, she’s not going to sit around on the beach waiting for the sun to slip below the horizon.
‘Can’t you thank them now?’ she says. ‘So we can all get home.’
It’s nearly sunset anyway. The wind has dropped and the sea is a smooth limpid blue. Everything around them is blue and gold, shot through with a strange, other-worldly light. Cathbad raises his hands. ‘Mother Nature, we return thanks to you who sustain us. We return thanks for your light and your warmth and for the bounty of your earth. We return thanks for the moon and the stars, who give us light when the sun is gone. We ask you, Great Mother—’
‘What’s this?’ says a voice. ‘A séance?’
Of course, Nelson would have to appear when they’ve stopped working and seem to be taking part in some weird pagan ritual. Ruth will never hear the end of this.
‘Dad!’ shouts Kate, charging forwards. Ruth catches David’s eye and looks away. He will obviously now have worked out Kate’s parentage. Nelson swings Kate into the air. Ruth rubs her eyes.
‘Sand in my eyes,’ she explains to Cathbad, who is looking uncomfortably understanding.
‘Carry on,’ says Nelson. ‘Don’t mind me.’
Cathbad finishes his prayer, perhaps making fewer references to Brother Sun and Sister Moon than he would otherwise have done. He finishes with a fervent ‘Praise be’, and then Ruth supervises the covering of the trench.
‘Was it a successful dig?’ asks Nelson.
‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘We excavated a complete skeleton, probably a man, probably about four thousand years old. We’ll know more when we get carbon-14 tests on the bones.’
‘He’s clutching a dagger,’ says Cathbad. ‘I think he could be a king, or a priest involved in a sacred rite.’
‘A murder victim, more likely,’ says Nelson. ‘Or a murderer.’ He looks at the group of people packing up boxes and equipment. ‘You here again, Mr White?’
‘I wanted to help with the excavation,’ says Alan. He sounds defensive but talking to Nelson can do that to you.
‘We might need to talk to you again about the events at Black Dog Farm,’ says Nelson. ‘Don’t leave the country.’
Alan looks extremely nervous. Together with David, he picks up the boxes and they set off along the beach. Ted takes the geophysics equipment and Cathbad walks with Michael, carrying the metal detector. Ruth, Nelson and Kate bring up the rear, Kate hanging onto Nelson’s arm.
The sand stretches out in front of them, now pockmarked with footprints. The marshes are darkening, starlings swirling like iron filings in the air.
‘Murmuration,’ says Nelson. ‘I can’t remember who taught me that word.’
‘Probably Cathbad,’ says Ruth.
‘Probably. He seemed on good form today.’
‘He’s been a lot of help,’ says Ruth.
They walk in silence for another minute.
‘Good day?’ says Nelson.
‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘This could be an important find. Blakeney Point Man.’
‘You probably know more about him than we do about our body,’ says Nelson.
‘No identification yet, then?’
‘No, although he had a distinctive tattoo, which might help. Cathbad says it’s the Norfolk Sea Serpent.’
‘That’s a new one,’ says Ruth.
‘I think he makes it up,’ says Nelson. He raises his voice so that Cathbad can hear but Cathbad and Michael are now several metres ahead, Cathbad bending his head to listen to his son.
‘I found lots of things on the beach,’ says Kate. ‘Money, a nail from a shipwreck and a key to a treasure chest.’
‘You and Michael found them together,’ says Ruth. She is still trying to push the notion of teamwork.
‘I did most of it,’ says Kate. ‘Can we go to Redwings tomorrow, Dad?’
‘We can’t,’ says Ruth. ‘We’re going to London to see Grandad.’
Although she tries to ignore it, Sunday gloom is already descending.
The slight feeling of depression grows stronger as the evening progresses. Ruth has always had a strained relationship with her parents. They were devout born-again Christians who disapproved of almost all of Ruth’s life choices, from reading archaeology at university to having a child out of wedlock. Ruth’s older brother Simon (wife, two children, any religious doubts politely suppressed) was their golden child. But, when Ruth’s mother died four years ago, Ruth found herself missing her to a surprising degree. Her life felt untethered and precarious without Jean’s certainty in the background. She found herself inventing her mother’s responses to events, taking comfort in Jean’s uncompromising attitude, even from beyond the grave. ‘No point crying over spilt milk, Ruth, he’s not going to leave his wife.’ ‘You wanted that job, no use moaning about it now.’
Ruth and Simon embarked on a programme of looking after their father, Arthur. Simon, who lives nearby, in south London, visited every week. Ruth made the journey from Norfolk to Eltham about once a month. At first, Ruth found it very hard. The drive was long and boring, and she couldn’t get used to not seeing her mother at the end of it. The house didn’t seem the same without Jean. Arthur didn’t fill it in the same way and, in the weeks after Jean’s death, he seemed to close in on himself, existing in a few rooms, moving in an apologetic way as if embarrassed to find himself the surviving partner. Jean would have flourished as a widow; Arthur was clearly not designed for the single life.
And so it proved. When Arthur started up a friendship with Gloria, a woman from the Bereaved Support Group at his church, Ruth and Simon had been relieved. It meant that they wouldn’t feel so responsible for their father, a duty that rested heavily on Simon’s shoulders. But when Arthur and Gloria moved in together, Simon hadn’t been so impressed. ‘It’s an insult to Mum,’ he said to Ruth, during one of their infrequent phone conversations. ‘She’s probably after his money.’ ‘He hasn’t got any money,’ Ruth countered. ‘He’s got a house in London,’ said Simon, ‘and that makes him a millionaire.’
But Ruth is pleased with the new arrangement. She likes Gloria, who is a widow with four grown-up children and six grandchildren. Arthur is obviously happiest as part of a couple and the fact that Gloria is a woman of colour means that he is less prone to making alarmingly crypto-racist statements. What’s more, Gloria seems to expand to fill the little house. She cooks, she wears bright colours, she laughs readily and often. Simon says that he hates to see Gloria in ‘Mum’s kitchen’, but Ruth finds that Gloria’s presence makes her notice her mother’s absence less. Besides, Gloria is always very nice to Kate and Kate seems to enjoy their Sundays in Eltham. On their last visit Ruth and Kate met Gloria’s son, Ambrose, and his two daughters. Kate had been delighted to acquire two almost-relatives, especially cool London teenagers with iPhones and dangly earrings.
Even so, Ruth finds herself feeling low once Kate is finally in bed and she is alone looking at photographs of the dig, human bones lying next to measuring rods. Or is the feeling really all about Nelson? What will he be doing tomorrow? Will he and Michelle visit a garden centre, that haven for married couples? Perhaps they’ll have Sunday lunch in a pub somewhere, watching George rampage around the soft play area and laughing softly over their roast beef with all the trimmings?
No, she tells herself, Nelson loathes gardens and family-friendly pubs. Besides, he’ll be busy with his dead body and with the shooting at the farmhouse. Michelle will probably be left to entertain George on her own, unless Laura comes over. It’s not an easy life, being married to a police officer. It probably only works i
f you’re Cathbad, full of inner resources and slightly magical into the bargain. Ruth is lucky to live on her own, accountable to no one. She sighs and goes back to her skeleton.
Chapter 9
‘We found a body on the beach. He had a dagger in his hand and he was probably murdered,’ says Kate.
‘Oh, my Lord.’ Gloria puts her hand to her heart as if the dagger is in her own chest.
‘A body?’ quavers Arthur. ‘That’s not a suitable thing for a child to see.’
Ruth sighs. Does her father really think that she would let Kate pull dead bodies from the water, like some Victorian scavenger child? And Gloria looks as if she’s about to faint into the roast beef.
‘It’s an archaeological dig,’ she says. ‘The body is just a skeleton and it’s probably about four thousand years old.’
‘Four thousand?’ queries Arthur. ‘Was he a cave man?’
Ruth hopes that her father has not become one of those Christians who believe that the earth is only ten thousand years old and that dinosaurs are fakes invented by cunning atheists. She also dislikes the term ‘cave man’, not least because it excludes women.
‘We think our skeleton is from the Bronze Age,’ she says, ‘which starts around three thousand years BC. It’s a really interesting find, actually.’
‘Where did you find it?’ says Gloria, passing the gravy. She sounds as if the skeleton was a lost wallet, but Ruth appreciates that she’s trying to show some interest. And she has cooked a splendid Sunday lunch.
‘On the beach at Blakeney Point,’ says Ruth. ‘The skeleton was surrounded by broken swords. That’s how we know it’s Bronze Age.’
Arthur looks bemused, and rather revolted, at the thought of the weapons.
‘Funny place to find a load of swords,’ he says, ‘just lying about on the beach. Isn’t that a bit dangerous?’
‘It wouldn’t have been a beach then,’ says Ruth, trying vainly to keep the conversation going. ‘In the Bronze Age Blakeney Point would probably have been marshland. The weapons may have been grave goods, offerings to the gods.’ Arthur and Gloria exchange looks. They like to pretend that pagan gods didn’t exist and that prehistoric people were C of E really.
‘I found some coins,’ says Kate. ‘And the key to a treasure chest.’
Arthur and Gloria smile at Kate. They both dote on her, which is just as well really. All the same, Arthur manages to look reprovingly at Ruth, as if reminding her that swords – even if four thousand years old – are not suitable for children.
It’s a shame because the day had been going well so far. Ruth accomplished the journey without encountering too much traffic. Gloria and Arthur had given them a big welcome and Kate had regaled the company with a description of her school’s Christmas play.
‘It’s Scrooge which is A Christmas Carol really. I’m Scrooge, which is the best part.’
Kate only found this out on Friday. Ruth noted that Kate still does not wholly subscribe to the ‘drama as teamwork’ idea. She’s also very proud of her.
‘Isn’t Scrooge a man?’ said Arthur. ‘You don’t want to play a man.’
‘I do because it’s the best part,’ explained Kate patiently.
‘I can help with making costumes,’ said Gloria. ‘Doesn’t Scrooge wear chains?’
‘That’s Jacob Marley,’ said Kate, ‘but thank you,’ she added, catching Ruth’s eye.
‘That’s really kind of you,’ said Ruth. ‘I can’t sew at all.’
‘Your mother did try to teach you,’ said Arthur, ‘but you didn’t have the patience.’
I had enough patience to study for my A levels, thought Ruth, and get a first-class honours degree. I’ve got enough patience to excavate a site, layer by layer, sifting each sieve-full of soil by hand. But there didn’t seem much point in saying any of this. Ruth knows that Arthur is proud of her, in his own way, but she also knows that she’s a mystery to him. Her mother had understood Ruth better although she hadn’t exactly approved of her. Although Jean would, Ruth thought suddenly, have been impressed by the corner office and Ruth’s name on the door.
But now, over lunch, the conversation seems to have run dry. Ruth thinks that Arthur and Gloria are just horrified at the thought of the skeleton on the beach, but it turns out that they have their own announcement to make. They wait until Ruth and Kate have eaten their treacle tart and ice cream. Ruth is longing for coffee, but Gloria thinks that caffeine is a poison.
‘Gloria and I,’ says Arthur, ‘have something to tell you.’ He pauses awkwardly but that could be because he has treacle tart stuck to his dentures.
‘Is it something nice?’ says Ruth, wanting to help him along.
‘I think so,’ says Arthur hoarsely. ‘Very nice. Gloria and I are getting married.’
‘Wow,’ says Ruth. ‘That’s . . . that’s great! When?’ There are many other things she wants to ask. Have you told Simon? Has Gloria told her family? What about Mum who died only four years ago?
‘We thought a Christmas wedding would be nice,’ says Gloria.
‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’ says Kate.
Perhaps because this is the first genuinely positive response, both Arthur and Gloria become misty-eyed. Gloria hurries round the table to hug Kate.
‘Of course you can, darling.’
‘Christmas?’ says Ruth. ‘That’s quite soon.’ It’s mid-September now. Surely weddings take years to arrange? But Ruth wouldn’t know because she’s never been a bride.
‘We just want a simple ceremony,’ says Arthur. ‘A service at our church and perhaps a meal afterwards. Just family. And the church elders, of course.’
Of course.
‘Have you told anyone else?’ says Ruth. She means Simon.
‘Just my daughters,’ says Gloria. ‘I’m going to tell Ambrose and Christopher this week.’
‘I thought that we might go over to Simon’s this afternoon,’ says Arthur. ‘We could tell him together. And Kate would like to see Jack and George.’
‘I would like to see them,’ Kate agrees.
‘That’s decided then,’ says Arthur. He tries to look cheerful, but Ruth knows dread when she sees it.
‘You are joking. Tell me that you’re joking.’
They’re sitting in Simon’s conservatory, the afternoon sun uncomfortably hot. Simon’s wife Cathy has produced tea for the adults and orange juice for Kate. Despite Arthur’s promise, neither of the boys are present. Nineteen-year-old George is at university in Sheffield and seventeen-year-old Jack hasn’t yet emerged from his room.
Arthur’s announcement, blurted out in an almost defiant way, has not gone down well.
‘Of course I’m not joking,’ he says. ‘Gloria and I are getting married.’
‘Mum’s barely cold in her grave.’
‘Your mother’s been dead for four years,’ says Arthur, with dignity. But Ruth sees that his hands are shaking. She feels a pang for him. Her father suddenly looks very vulnerable in his cardigan and slacks, teamed as usual with a shirt and tie. He’s not as painfully thin as he was, though, which must be thanks to Gloria’s cooking.
‘Katie, love,’ says Cathy. ‘Do you want to see Jack?’ She holds out her hand. Ruth feels rather irritated. Not only has Cathy decided to distort Kate’s name (as Nelson always does) but she’s making the unilateral decision that this conversation is unsuitable for her. But, on the other hand, it probably is unsuitable.
Kate follows her aunt out of the room, leaving father and children together. Ruth suspects that Cathy was also looking for a way to escape.
Simon paces the little glass room. There’s no shade apart from a large rubber plant; Ruth tries to shift her wicker chair under its leaves. Simon stops in front of his father. ‘You hardly know Gloria,’ he says. ‘We hardly know her.’
‘I’ve known her for years,’ says Arthur. ‘She’s
a member of the church. I knew her when Jean and Ted – Gloria’s husband – were alive. She’s a good friend.’
‘She’s a bit more than a friend now, though, isn’t she?’ says Simon. There’s a sneering note in his voice that Ruth hasn’t heard before. When they were children Simon tended to sulk, to withdraw – he wasn’t one for confrontation or answering back. Ruth used to argue with her parents but Simon, though he often agreed with her, never backed her up. But he’s definitely feeling confrontational now.
‘How old is Gloria?’ asks Simon.
‘She’s seventy-two,’ says Arthur. ‘I know she looks younger,’ he adds, with rather touching pride.
‘I just wonder why she wants to get married,’ says Simon. ‘Doesn’t she have a house of her own?’
‘We’re in love,’ says Arthur, ignoring this. ‘I loved your mother and I didn’t think I’d experience that feeling again but I have. That’s all.’
Ruth finds it almost shocking to hear her father talking about being ‘in love’. She assumed that her parents loved each other but she never heard either of them mention the fact. And now Arthur is experiencing that feeling with someone else. She has to fight her instinctive reaction that this is disloyal to Jean. After all, Ruth herself is in love with a married man and, if anything happened to Michelle . . . But she can’t let herself think that way.
‘That’s lovely, Dad,’ she says.
‘I don’t think it’s lovely at all.’ Simon shoots Ruth a look.
‘Why can’t you be happy for me?’ says Arthur, looking up at his son. He sounds querulous and every day of his eighty-one years.
The Night Hawks Page 7
