by Alan Early
Podge knocked his knuckle on it. He didn’t know one type of rock from another, but this one seemed harder than most; it didn’t give off the hollow ring that limestone did. The jackhammer could probably break through it, but only given time and probably a couple of replacement chisel pieces. Both of which he didn’t have. His best option would be to work around it then lift it out to reveal the pipe.
Unsure how big the piece of rock might be, he decided to start fairly close to the original spot and move further away by stages as necessary. He lifted the jackhammer back up and placed the chisel two feet away from his first attempt. He straightened his hard hat then switched on the machine once more.
This time he concentrated on what he was doing, keeping a close eye on the chisel hammering into the ground. When it passed lower than his previous effort, he breathed a sigh of relief. But this was short-lived as he felt a sharp crack through the vibrations in his hands. Suddenly, a lumpy cream-coloured substance started to ooze up out of the second hole. He immediately turned the jackhammer off and laid it aside.
Although the substance quickly stopped seeping out, it gave off a strong, sour stench. Gagging, Podge pulled his jacket collar up over his nose and mouth to try and filter out the smell and bent down for a closer look. The gunk wasn’t the only thing that had come out of the hole, he now saw. A small piece of red pottery was lying on its surface. He reached out and picked it up, hoping that it wasn’t a shard of the water pipe and that he hadn’t done more damage to it than the ice had.
For a moment he almost panicked as he saw that it was a rounded chip of earthenware, similar to an old pipe. But then he realised that this was no pipe. This was different. A pattern of swirls and interweaving loops was carved into the shard. Whatever this was, Podge realised, it was clearly very, very old.
Deirdre had left the noise of the tunnel and was heading towards the engineers’ office when she spotted the excavator looking intently at something in his hands. She was tall and slim, and her hips wiggled when she walked. Her hair was, as usual, tied into a neat bun under her hard hat and her thick, round glasses magnified her brown eyes to almost twice their size.
She diverted from her course and strode over to Podge.
‘What’ve you got there?’ she asked. Suddenly, the sour stench slammed her in the face. ‘Pee-ew! And what’s that awful smell?’
‘It’s that stuff.’ He pointed at the creamy slime oozing out of the hole he’d made. ‘Do you reckon it’s sewage?’
‘I doubt it. I’ve seen sewage down in the tunnel and it doesn’t look – or smell – like that!’
‘Found this too.’ He handed her the slice of pottery. ‘I think it’s pretty old.’
She studied it for a beat, tracing her fingertip over the carved swirls. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ she said.
Within minutes Deirdre had gathered up Ruairí and Joe Quinn from the office. They were all standing around Podge’s find, holding their noses. The grumpy excavator stood to one side smoking a cigarette – if only to block out the stench.
‘What is it?’ Ruairí said, his voice sounding unusually nasal as he pinched his nose.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ answered Deirdre.
‘I think I know what it is,’ Joe said, turning the shard of earthenware in his free hand.
‘What?’ Ruairí asked, looking up at his boss.
‘It’s butter.’ Joe turned away from the hole and paced quickly back towards the office.
‘Butter?’ Deirdre repeated, as the pair of them trailed after him.
‘Yup, butter.’ He didn’t seem too pleased with the discovery. ‘In college, one of my lecturers told me that he was working on an excavation in Cork years ago. Work had to stop when they found a jar of butter left under the ground by the Celts. He even showed us photos of the stuff and it’s just like this. Shortly after that it was made law that all big digs like this had to have archaeologists survey them in advance of work starting.’
‘Which means that …?’ Ruairí prompted, unsure of the situation.
‘We’re going to have to call in the experts.’
Joe made the call to the University College Dublin archaeology department personally. The lady who took the call promised that they would send someone over to have a look within the hour and, true to her word, an archaeology professor along with a couple of volunteer students arrived forty minutes later. Soon the students were on their knees, chipping away at the surrounding earth with tiny chisels and hammers.
The day wore on. Joe and the engineers stayed in the office, waiting to hear from the small team what had been found and sipping mugs of instant coffee.
‘Shouldn’t we call Luke Moran?’ Deirdre spoke up at one stage. Joe was shocked he hadn’t thought of it himself. Luke Moran, the CEO of Citi-Trak, should have been the first person he’d called.
He dialled Moran’s number on his phone, only for the secretary who answered to tell him that Moran was out of the office, making an appearance on a cookery programme. It was a well-known fact that Luke Moran enjoyed self-publicity as much as he enjoyed making money or getting angry and shouting at his staff. Joe left a message with the harassed secretary, saying that they’d found something on the site and had had to call in some archaeologists.
Eventually, there was a knock on the prefab door. Joe rushed to answer it. Dr Martin, the archaeology professor, stepped in. He brushed his dusty hands on his trousers to clean them and leaned against the prefab wall.
‘It’s Viking,’ he said, clearly excited from the pitch of his voice. ‘We can’t be sure of the date yet but I’d approximate some time between ad 1000 and 1100. My students are just collecting some specimens of the butter. Possibly the best example we’ve ever discovered in Dublin. And it’s–’
‘But what will this mean for the tunnel excavation?’ Joe interrupted him.
‘Oh, you’ll have to put it on hold,’ the head archaeologist said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.
‘But it’s only one jar!’
The professor rolled his eyes as if he’d heard this objection before. ‘So far there’s only one jar, but we’ll have to do a complete new survey and some trial trenches to see if there’s anything else.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s difficult to tell exactly. It could be that there actually is only one find or it could mean that we’re standing over a whole Viking settlement. Could be a month; could be twelve. This is a big site. Either way, we’ll have to shut down excavation for a while.’
Joe, Deirdre and Ruairí sighed in united despair.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Martin went on, sensing their dejection. ‘I realise this is probably quite a blow to your schedule. I’ll just see if my students are finished and we’ll be on our way. I’ll be in touch shortly.’
As he left, they heard the fwump-fwump of an approaching helicopter. Joe ran to the door and looked skywards at it. The Citi-Trak logo was painted on both sides. It hovered there for a moment before lowering itself carefully to a clear area in front of the prefabs where the ground was more even than elsewhere. The blades cut through the air, blowing up huge clouds of dust and debris. Luke Moran and his ever-present personal assistant, Piers, came running through the clouds.
For such a broad and fat man, Moran had a long stride and even the tall, lanky Piers struggled to keep up. Moran saw Joe, Deirdre and Ruairí standing in the doorway.
‘What’s all this about archaeologists?’ he shouted over the roar of the helicopter. Always straight to the point, thought Joe. Unlike Moran, he wasn’t keen on yelling across the site so he waited until his boss reached them.
‘Well?’ Moran asked again as they led him into the office.
Joe took a deep breath, preparing himself. Moran wouldn’t like what he had to tell him, he realised. It’s just like pulling off a plaster, Joe thought to himself: best to get it over and done with fast. So, as quickly and succinctly as he could, Joe filled Moran in on all that had happened.
/>
‘We’re going to have to suspend work for a while,’ Joe finished. As he was speaking, he hadn’t been able to look Moran in the eye and found himself staring at a piece of lint attached to the man’s jacket shoulder instead. Now that he did look at Moran directly, he saw that he’d turned an unhealthy deep shade of red.
‘You let archaeologists onto my site?’ He spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly with rage.
‘Of course,’ said Joe. ‘We had to. It’s the law.’
‘Sod the law! They had their time to survey the site before we started and found nothing.’
‘Well, they’ve found something now!’ Joe was aghast. ‘We had to let them survey. There could be something of great historical importance here.’
‘Oh, shut up, you idiot.’
Now Joe saw red. ‘I show you respect, Mr Moran, and you should do the same for me.’
‘Oh, really?’ Moran spat back in a mocking tone. ‘And what are you going to do if I don’t respect you? Quit?’
‘Yes, actually, I am.’
Arthur and Ash stopped for a hot chocolate on their way home from school. It was exactly what they needed after the first few days back, and the warm sweetness felt perfect running down their throats on this icy evening. By the time they got back to their estate, Stace had also just arrived home.
‘Hey, Arthur!’ she shouted from across the road where a friend had dropped her off. ‘Wait up!’
Arthur looked at Ash in confusion. ‘“Wait up”? What does Stace want with me?’ he asked. Ash shrugged her shoulders, just as bewildered.
‘What’s up, Stace?’ Arthur said when she reached them.
‘I was just wondering,’ she started, a little out of breath from her sprint across the street, ‘if your hot cousin is coming around any time soon?’
‘Who?’ questioned Ash.
‘Eirik,’ Arthur told her with a wink.
‘Oh!’
‘So when’s he visiting you next?’ Stace asked again eagerly.
‘Uh … probably not for a while. He doesn’t visit that often. Sorry.’
‘Arthur, you have to get him around! Invite him to the cinema or something.’
‘And you’d just happen to be there, right Stace?’ Ash said, sniggering. ‘Wearing your best outfit and make-up too!’
They were outside Arthur’s house and, before Stace could send a retort Ash’s way, he promised that he’d try his best to invite Eirik over.
‘Although, he’s kind of a loner so I can’t guarantee anything,’ Arthur said, going in through his front door.
Joe was sitting in the kitchen, going over some paperwork in silence. Rather than disturb him, Arthur headed for the stairs until–
‘Arthur.’
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Come here and sit down for a minute. I have something to tell you.’
Arthur took the seat opposite his father, slightly anxious – it was unlike his dad to be this formal and he was worried that he was in trouble for something he couldn’t remember doing.
‘What’s up, Dad?’
Joe took off his reading glasses and set them down on the paperwork. He looked his son straight in the eye for a beat before speaking.
‘The Metro excavation has been suspended.’
‘Why?’
‘We found some Viking artefacts on the site so all work has to stop.’
‘Oh.’ Arthur looked down, half-wondering what artefacts had been discovered. ‘What does that mean for us?’
‘Work on the tunnel might not start up again for another year. It’s all up in the air at the minute. So I’ve quit my job. We’re moving back to Kerry.’ He said the last bit with a huge smile.
‘What! When?’ It was a blow he hadn’t been expecting. It had been something he’d wished and prayed for when they’d first moved to Dublin, but now that his wish had come true, he found that he wasn’t even slightly pleased.
‘I had to give them four weeks’ notice. There’s a lot of paperwork to finish before I leave. So we go home in a month.’ Joe stopped when he realised that he wasn’t getting the excited reaction that he’d expected. ‘Arthur? I thought this was what you wanted. Aren’t you happy?’
‘Yeah,’ Arthur lied and forced a weak smile onto his face. But he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.
Chapter Eleven
A week passed and Arthur still couldn’t bring himself to break the bad news to Ash. It was something he just didn’t want to think about. Despite this, it was on his mind constantly. Even when he did manage to concentrate on schoolwork or something on TV, the thought of leaving was still there. A niggling, negative thought in his subconscious. He felt like a drone during those days. He’d get up, go to school, do his work half-heartedly and return home with Ash in near-silence. Eventually she noticed the change in his mood and asked what was up.
‘Nothing,’ he’d answered monotonously, still hoping to avoid the issue with her. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’
The new girl, Ellie Lavender, also tried engaging him in conversation during the lunch-breaks, asking about his family, where he was from, what he liked to do at the weekends. But to no avail. Arthur just replied with one-word answers.
It was Friday lunchtime when Ash gave him some news that brightened his humour. The students were on their way back to class when her phone beeped shrilly. She and Arthur had each bought new phones with Christmas gift vouchers after their old ones had been destroyed in the frozen lake (even Ash wasn’t able to fix them). Arthur went for a small touchscreen that fitted neatly in the palm of his hand, while Ash chose a state-of-the-art smartphone which she spent hours happily playing with. She flicked the screen to read the incoming text, then squealed in delight.
‘What’s up?’ Arthur inquired.
‘It’s a text from my mom. Cousin Maggie is coming to visit!’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow! She’s showing some paintings to a gallery on Dawson Street. She said she’ll meet us there around one and take us out for the day!’
‘That’s great!’ Arthur was so pleased at the thought of a much-needed distraction that he didn’t notice Ellie and Ex walking slowly in front of them. Or the small and knowing look that Ellie shot at her brother.
Although it was only mid-January, a thaw had set in on the Saturday morning and they took the bus into town. It was still cold and their breath puffed out in clouds of condensation, but the day didn’t have that biting frostiness that they’d been used to for weeks now. Arthur, Ash and Max all disembarked from the bus outside St Stephen’s Green. Stace couldn’t come as her mock Leaving Certificate exams were rapidly approaching and she wanted to use the spare time to study.
The pavements weren’t icy and slick any more, but rather uneven with residue from the salt and grit that had been scattered on them during the treacherous weeks. Dublin city centre was busy once more – the opposite of the Saturday Arthur and Ash had visited the Vikings. The improving weather had obviously encouraged the shoppers too.
They crossed the road at the traffic lights and walked down Dawson Street. Most of the Christmas lights, trees and decorations had been taken down and packed away until next November. But all the shops that lined the street had bold, red sale signs placed prominently in their windows. Shoppers piled in and out of stores, carrying bags stuffed with bargains and spending the last of their Christmas savings and gift tokens.
They reached the art gallery Cousin Maggie had mentioned about halfway down the street and next to a large bookshop. The shop-front of the gallery was old, with intricately carved wooden pillars and mouldings that were thick with layers of paint. Polished bronze letters stood out on the sign, spelling the words Chevalier Galleries. A lone painting hung in the single window. It was a landscape, depicting a windswept and harsh field in Connemara. The oil paint had been applied densely and globs of colours popped out here and there on the canvas. It was selling for €23,000.
‘Twenty-three hundred!’ exclaimed Max in sh
ock.
‘That’s twenty-three thousand, Max,’ Arthur said.
‘Twenty-three thousand! For that? I prefer Cousin Maggie’s ones. They’re not as depressing.’
As if on cue, Cousin Maggie appeared inside the shop, stepping out of a back room with a couple of gallery employees. She smiled and waved through the glass, then turned back to a stern-looking man in a three-piece suit. Arthur assumed that he was the gallery owner. They talked for a moment. Then Maggie shook his hand and walked out to the street.
Straight away, she hugged the three of them at once.
‘How are you all?’ she asked, finally letting them go.
‘We’re good, Cousin Maggie,’ Ash answered for them. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m great, Ash!’ She pointed over her shoulder into the gallery. ‘The owner, Mr Branigan, is a famous artist himself, but he’s agreed to show my paintings to some interested buyers later today, so I couldn’t be better!’
‘That’s amazing news,’ Arthur said. ‘Well done!’
‘Fingers crossed it goes well. Now,’ she clapped her gloved hands, ‘who’s up for some celebratory milk shakes. I saw a place down the street that looked nice.’
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode briskly away. Max ran after her. Arthur and Ash started to follow but stopped when–
‘Arthur! Ash!’
They turned in the direction of the voice calling to them. Ellie and Ex were running across the street to them, dodging the dense traffic. Arthur almost didn’t recognise them out of their brown school uniforms. Ex was wearing clothes that fitted for a change, although Ellie was still in her too-large trench coat.
‘Hi, guys!’ said Ellie when they reached them. ‘We were just passing. I thought I saw you and I said to Ex, “Hey, isn’t that Arthur and Ash?” and he was like, “I dunno,” and I was like, “I’m pretty sure it is,” and then I called your name and, lo and behold, it is you!’ She took a short breath. ‘So what are you up to?’ Through it all, Ex stood silently behind her, studying his feet.
