by Leo McNeir
“But there’ll be –”
“I’m serious, Anne. Maybe I should try to get up for the boat. Perhaps Uschi could crew.”
“You’re worrying about nothing, Donovan. Everything’s fine.”
*
Anne had a surprise for the diggers at afternoon break. As they gathered, weary and sweating at the HQ barn, she asked Dick if she could address the team. They fell silent as she stood in front of them.
“I told you I was the most important person on site as tea-girl. Well, I’ve been promoted. I am now officially water-girl too.” She indicated a large cardboard box on the floor in the middle of the barn. “You’ll find loads of ice cubes in Tupperware boxes and there are bottles of chilled water.” Groans of ecstasy from the audience. “And some fruit squashes of different flavours. Help yourselves.”
Somebody called for three cheers, while Dick offered to resign at once and put Anne in charge of the dig, the project and the universe as a whole. She graciously accepted all three posts.
“Oh, one other thing. Do you think I could take a photo of each of you to remember you all by? Something for the Glebe Farm scrapbook?”
After the break, she wandered about the test pits for half an hour, snapping Polaroids and noting names. Back in the office she produced a wall chart of all the photographs and pinned it up on the corkboard in the kitchen area.
Marnie looked up from her drawing board and wandered over to take a closer look. “That’s nice. What gave you that idea?”
“Oh, just something Donovan said.”
Chapter 17
Paranoia
In the days that followed, a hot summer settled in, with temperatures in the upper thirties. The records showed that the daily haul of archaeological results amounted to some sherds of pottery, a few traces of small buildings and on average one student flaked out with heatstroke. Anne left the picnic rug permanently laid out in a cool part of the spinney with a flask of chilled water and a flannel in a plastic container. Here the diggers could flop down whenever necessary. It became known as the crash pad.
Anne began using the freezer boxes in every fridge – the office kitchen, the vacant cottage, the boats – to produce ice cubes round the clock. On her way to Sally Ann and Thyrsis to retrieve that morning’s harvest, she saw movement around Exodos. Ducking behind a tree, she positioned herself to gain the best view. There was no doubt about it, a man was taking a more than passing interest in Donovan’s boat, peering under the tarpaulin.
What could she do? All the possibilities raced through Anne’s mind. Confront the stranger? Brilliant idea. What if he turned out to be a neo-Nazi thug hell-bent on revenge for the death of his leader? Call the police? A sure guarantee that the newcomer would prove to be a boat enthusiast, a harmless anorak intrigued by the boat’s unusual appearance. Call Marnie? The next day’s headlines would announce the murder of two women by a neo-Nazi thug hell-bent … Yeah, yeah, fine.
Then she remembered Ralph, sitting innocently in his study on Thyrsis, probably writing words of wisdom to avert the next financial disaster somewhere in the world. What if he decided to get some fresh air and walked into the neo-Nazi …? Ugh!
Retreating into the spinney, Anne tugged the mobile from her jeans pocket. She heard it ring twice.
“Ralph Lombard.”
She half-whispered into the phone. “Ralph, it’s Anne. Listen. There’s a man poking about on Exodos. I don’t know what he wants, but –”
“I do.”
“You do? What?”
“Coffee with milk and two sugars.”
“Eh?”
“He’s the local BW patrol officer, just checking the registration sticker on the boat. He knocked on the door and asked permission to move the tarpaulin. I agreed and offered him a cuppa.”
Anne leaned back against a tree and sighed. Blimey, Donovan, you’re making me as paranoid as you are.
*
On Thursday evening Marnie was locking the office barn when Anne came round the corner carrying a large circular sieve, like a cartwheel with a mesh bottom.
“What’s this? An important find? A mate for Holbeach Man, perhaps?”
As Anne came nearer, it was clear that the tray was not transporting bones.
“Marnie, would you mind if I ran these mugs through the dishwasher overnight? They do rinse them out, but they’re getting pretty stained.”
“How many have you got there?”
“I make it twenty-eight.”
“And I bet you know all the diggers by name.”
“Not quite, but give me another day or two. There should be room for this lot in the machine if that’s okay with you.”
“Go ahead.”
Minutes later they were walking through the spinney. Marnie chuckled.
“It was like something out of the Famous Five.”
“What was?”
“You, hiding in the trees, alerting Ralph to the dangers of the BW man on his rounds.”
A wry smile from Anne. “I felt such an idiot … milk and two sugars … would you believe it?”
“What was the outcome, actually? Did Ralph say?”
“The man asked Ralph whose boat it was. He said it belonged to a friend. What was his name? Smith.”
“Ha!”
“Quite. Anyway, he rang the office, gave the registration number and they confirmed the boat owner was a D. Smith, permanent mooring in London, licence fee fully paid.”
“Did he say anything about him staying there, in the docking area?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Ralph supplied the answer when they were sitting together over supper on the boat.
“I asked if Exodos would be all right there for a while. Apparently there’s no technical reason why it can’t stay, but only for the fourteen days allowed along this section. He asked why we didn’t just tie it up on the towpath side.”
Anne looked concerned. “He can’t make us do that, can he?”
The question seemed to surprise Ralph. “He didn’t press the point.”
“What did you say?” Marnie asked.
“Well, just that we were looking after the boat as our friend had injured his foot and couldn’t get up to collect it. It was more convenient to keep it near us, easier to run the boat’s engine and keep the batteries charged up.”
“So, no hassling us for another week,” Marnie observed.
“Oh, I don’t think BW will mind if it’s a little longer, given the circumstances. They’re not monsters.”
Marnie snorted. “Good.”
Ralph continued. “I think he found Exodos interesting, unusual, not like other boats.”
“It’s certainly different.”
“There were a few people looking at it yesterday afternoon, actually.”
Anne sat up. “What kind of people?”
“I think they were from the dig. They looked like students.”
*
Donovan rang Anne that evening. She had been sitting out in the courtyard reading a book on Le Corbusier and was putting on lights in her attic when the mobile warbled.
“You’d be proud of me,” she announced.
“Any particular reason?” Donovan asked.
“I’ve taken Polaroids of the diggers and I’m nearly able to call them all by name.”
“They’re all students?”
“Mostly. There are three older people here, too.”
“But you’re sure they’re part of the group?”
“Yes. They’re sort of hobby archaeologists. They’ve worked with Rob Cardew for about ten years on a big dig in Somerset, near Glastonbury.”
“The Avalon project?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s famous.”
“They call themselves amateurs, but they go on that dig every year and they know a huge amount. The students ask them questions.”
“And you’ve got Polaroids of everyone?”
“Ja, Mutti.” Anne laughed. “Though I’m
thinking of calling them Paranoids.”
*
On Friday morning the office phone rang at quarter to nine. Dreading that it might be Celia, Marnie took the call.
“Walker and Co, good morning.”
“G’day. How’re yer doin’?”
A woman’s voice. An Australian accent. More accurately, everyone’s idea of a stage Aussie accent.
“Beth? What are you –”
“Good on yer.” If anything, the accent had become stronger. “It’s me, yer long-lost sister from down under.”
“Beth, you live in Chiswick. Have you been drinking?”
The voice reverted to normal.
“Well, I might as well be living in the outback. I thought you said you’d be in touch.” Reproach.
“Sorry. Too much going on. How are things, Beth?”
“We’re okay. Tell me your news and I’ll tell you something.”
“We’re working hard, as usual. The dig has started in the village. They’ve set up base camp here in one of the barns. What else is there?”
“You’ve got Timeline coming.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Aha!”
“Tell me, Beth.”
“Simple, my dear Watson.”
“Elementary.”
“Oh yes, that, too. A chum of Paul’s at UCL is in the archaeology department. Rufus Maitland. He’s one of the programme’s advisers.”
“Right. They’re coming here today for a planning meeting.”
“And you’ll be there?”
“They’ve invited me.”
Silence at the other end of the line.
“Beth? You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to lapse into Aussie again, are you?”
“Er no, no, I’m not.”
Marnie waited. “What is it, Beth? Are you all right?”
“What have they told you, Marnie?” The tone was serious.
“Nothing really. Beth, is this a –”
“Not a wind-up, Marnie. Listen, what are you expecting them to do?”
“Talk about the dig, dates, timing, people. Why?”
“Have they told you about the programme?”
“Yeah. It’s about witchcraft, persecution, that kind of thing.”
“I meant Timeline itself.”
“What about it?”
“Look, Marnie, Paul’s friend Rufus said they’re in trouble. Timeline’s been running for over ten years. Some people think it’s due for retirement. When it first started they thought they might go with it for a couple of series and then move on to something else. The formula was a success, so it kept going.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“You know what the academic world’s like, Marnie, all civilised on the surface, all sniping, jealousies and back-biting underneath.”
“Where does Timeline fit in?”
“It’s been hugely successful, so it’s got a lot of enemies. Only in the academic world they call them detractors.”
“How does that affect us here?”
“It’s complicated, so I may not have it right. You know what I’m like about details.”
“In a nutshell, Beth.”
“A lot of university archaeologists disparage Timeline’s methods on the grounds that they popularise archaeology, give the impression it can be treated like a garden makeover show or a glossy magazine article.”
“You think the Cambridge people here are like that?”
“I don’t know. But the university people like to get Timeline associated with their own projects because they have seriously big budgets. That’s what Rufus told Paul, anyway.”
Marnie heard an echo of Rob Cardew: They bring huge resources, Marnie.
“There’s no great harm in that, is there?”
“There’s something else, something very odd.”
“Go on.”
“Have they hinted at anything?”
“Not to me. What kind of thing?”
“I dunno. This Rufus character wouldn’t be drawn, but Paul got the impression there was something going on in the background.”
“What could it be? Are we into university politics here?”
A pause. “Funny isn’t it, Marnie? You and I have both ended up with university men. We both know how academics love gossip –”
“Ralph doesn’t go in for –”
“I know, neither does Paul, really, but he hears things.”
“We’re going round in circles, Beth.”
*
Celia rang one minute after Marnie ended her call with Beth. She sounded cool.
“I’ve been trying to ring you since nine o’clock, Marnie.”
Marnie let it ride. Anyone else complaining about a delay of seven minutes would have strained her nerves, but not now. Clichés involving water and ducks’ backs flitted across her mind.
“What can I do for you, Celia?”
“I’ve – I mean, we’ve – signed your contract letter. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to pop down with it. I’m bringing my diary, too. I want to discuss timings with you, thought I’d check you were in the office before I set off. I didn’t want a wasted journey.”
“Er, I’ve got rather a lot on today, actually.”
“Oh.” That tone again. “I thought we’d agreed that I’d let you have the letter – with your cheque for a thousand pounds – and then we’d put a date in the diary.”
“That’s not quite what we agreed –”
“You’re not going back on that are you, Marnie?”
“Of course not.” Marnie had an image of Celia: a Victorian child with golden ringlets, wearing a white frock, stamping her foot, threatening to thkweam and thkweam till she was thick. The thought made her smile. “I just need to make a few phone calls to sort out materials and people.”
Celia heard the smile in the voice and interpreted it as Marnie coming round to her way of looking at things. “That’s super. I’ll be with you in a trice.”
“No, hang on a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got to finalise some measurements before I can go any further.”
“Oh, but you –”
“If I came up now, I could do that and you could give me the letter.”
“Super!”
*
When Anne returned to the office from her routine visit to the HQ barn, she was surprised to find Marnie gathering papers and files together. Two minutes later they were driving up the field track in the Discovery, with Anne checking her bag for tape measure, camera, notepad and pens.
Knightly Court looked wonderful, the morning sun brightening the mellow stonework, picking out the colours in the flowerbeds, the shadows of trees reaching across the lawn. Celia led her visitors onto the terrace and they sat at the table under the parasol. A sprinkler was at work in the middle of the lawn, its soft swishing a background accompaniment to their conversation.
Taking the envelope from Celia, Marnie took in the garden view.
“Mm, I could get used to this.”
A half-smile from Celia, barely a movement of the lips.
“It comes at a price.”
Marnie rapidly opened the envelope and examined the contents. Attached to the letter – signed by Celia and Hugh – was a cheque bearing Hugh’s signature. With barely a glance at it, Marnie slipped it out from under the paperclip and passed it to Anne, who fixed it on her clipboard.
“No changes?” Marnie said.
“I told you there were none when we spoke.”
“That’s fine. People do sometimes have second thoughts.”
Marnie passed the papers to Anne who looked at the signature page, slotted them back in the envelope and made a note on her pad. Celia watched her closely, one hand resting on a diary. She began opening it.
“So.”
Marnie stood up. “Thank you, Celia. As I said, we’d like to take some final measur
ements. There’s no need for us to disturb you further this morning.”
“But –”
“I’ll then order all the materials today, which will give me a timeframe so that I can talk to the people who’ll carry out the work and get things started.”
“When will that be?”
“The start? Depending on these various factors, I’d say, within the next two weeks.”
“I see.”
“Is that a problem, Celia?”
“No, as long as you can keep them to that. In my experience, things always over-run. I mean, look at your property. You’ve been there a couple of years and it’s still not finished.”
“Work like that has to be phased over time.” Marnie resented having to explain herself to Celia. It obviously hadn’t occurred to Celia that work like that also had to be paid for. “Anyway,” She held out her hand, “we’d better get on.”
Measuring up took almost an hour, as Marnie and Anne moved from room to room, double-checking dimensions and noting the measurements against Marnie’s originals. They guessed that Celia would be on the terrace and Marnie was wondering whether to return to take her leave when old Mr Devere appeared in the hall.
“Good morning, Mr Devere. As you see, we’re making progress.”
“Delighted to hear it.” He glanced at Anne.
“May I introduce my assistant, Anne Price.”
“Marcus Devere. How do you do, young lady?”
“How do you do, sir?”
As he shook hands with the girl, Marnie thought she detected approval in his expression.
He spoke again to Marnie. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you. We’ve been finalising measurements. Anne has re-checked all my figures, just to be on the safe side.”
“My daughter-in-law showed me the specification you’d prepared. Very thorough, impressive. You like to do things properly.”
“It’s important.”
“She told me you’d insisted that I be shown the document.”
“Insisted? It was rather a suggestion to a client. As the entrance hall is included in the brief, it would impinge on you and you’ll be affected by the works. I’m sure Celia would’ve shown you the details without my prompting.”
They began walking slowly across the hall.
“Some would say the older generation have – what’s the expression? – passed their sell-by date?”
