Digging Deeper

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Why don’t you buy lamb chops and get your own back,” he whispered, then smothered a smile as she barely rescued herself from a freefall into the frozen fish.

  “We weren’t introduced earlier. I’m Alexander Beckett. Everyone calls me Beck. I’m leading the dig at Hartington Hall.”

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  Beck watched his hand hovering as his frantic brain tried to warn him of an impending electric shock. He found himself holding a bag of sprouts he hadn’t meant to pick up.

  “I’m Flick.”

  When he smiled back at her, Flick felt her grin widen. Then his gaze slid in the direction of her basket, and her stomach tied itself into an untidy pretzel. Almost everything in there was reduced. He’d think she was cheap. She was cheap.

  “How do you eat your Jelly Babies?” Beck asked.

  Flick followed his eyes to the only item in her basket without a reduced price sticker. “I like to suck them to pieces.” The moment the words came out, she wanted them back.

  He laughed and this time when he looked at her, Flick caught fire even though she stood shivering in the freezer section. Flames erupted from her ears. She was about to disappear in Ilkley’s first case of spontaneous combustion. A puddle of water to a puff of smoke in seconds. She’d make the front page of the Yorkshire Post newspaper. She hadn’t been flirting about the Jelly Babies. It was the truth, but it sounded so suggestive, Flick wanted a huge hole to open up in the supermarket floor right where she stood. A sizzling thunderbolt would do, or a sudden rise in sea level. Where was global warming when you needed it?

  “I like to lick them clean, then bite their heads off.” Beck winked at her. Flick gulped, then yelped when a shopping cart rammed her heels.

  “Sorry,” said a blonde in dark sunglasses.

  Flick ducked the flamboyant hand wave thrown at her.

  “Beck, I need your advice about what wine to buy,” said the blonde. Whiny voice too, Flick noted.

  “I’m busy, Dina.”

  Flick wanted to laugh. As if that would put off a fuck-me girl in action. Dina stretched between Flick and Beck to reach something from the highest cabinet, her breasts angled in Beck’s direction. The effect was somewhat spoiled when her hand came down holding a packet of Mr. Brain’s frozen faggots.

  “I’ll see you at dinner tonight,” Flick said to Beck.

  She walked away with a smile on her face but when two guys passed and made loud baaing noises, her smile disappeared. She glanced back, saw them laughing with Beck and cringed with embarrassment. Flick guessed he’d told them all about her encounter with the sheep. He wasn’t as nice as he looked. 12

  Digging Deeper

  Chapter Two

  By the time she got home to Timble, Flick was fuming. Beck and his students might find her escapade with the sheep entertaining, but she could still feel the hoof prints. Since she’d be serving the hunk his evening meal in a few hours time, Flick would have ample opportunity to get her revenge.

  “Flick, is that you?” Kirsten shouted down the stairs.

  “No, it’s Brad Pitt,” Flick yelled back. “Is that a beautiful woman up there?”

  “Absolutely. Hey, Brad! Take your clothes off and get your lovely bum up here. It’s your lucky day.”

  Flick smiled and went down the hall into the kitchen. She swallowed the lump in her throat and imagined for a moment she’d come home to find her mum in there cooking. Her dad had only just fitted the new kitchen when he and her mum had been killed. Two years ago, while Flick’s sister Stef was in the middle of her exams, some idiot had overtaken a lorry on the A59, the Harrogate to Skipton road, and plowed straight into their parents’ car. They died at the scene. Michael Knyfe had been a self-employed plasterer who’d taken great pride in the thousands of walls and ceilings he left smooth and polished, yet died leaving his affairs in an unimaginable mess. Flick was sure her mother had no idea how bad things were because her father always managed to cover the cracks so perfectly. There turned out to be no pension, no life insurance, no any-sort-of-insurance. Tax returns were only half-complete. The filing system confounded Flick until she realized there was no system. In the end, after a lot of hard work, all she and Stef inherited were debts. The government wanted money and so did the bank and several suppliers. The Knyfe sisters hung on to the house in Timble by the slenderest of threads. The mortgage continued in Flick’s name because she was the one with a job. If Flick had been able to continue the career she had at the time of the accident, she’d have stayed solvent. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case. Stef had added to her money problems by making it very clear she didn’t see why she should leave university with a millstone of debt around her neck when her sister hadn’t. So in order to maintain the house, pay the mortgage and support Stef, Flick not only had to work herself into a premature grave, she’d been forced to take in lodgers. Kirsten was the first to apply for a room in the house. She had a job in Leeds with a big law firm and was now part way through her training contract. The two of them had hit it off at once. Flick’s other housemate was Josh. Having Josh there was like having your mother, father and older brother living with you but rolled into one person. Josh worked at the headquarters of a grocery chain doing a job that remained a mystery despite his attempts to explain it. Every time they’d asked and he’d begun to describe 13

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  the intricacies of investigating interlinked variables in the operation of post-processual consumer decision-making, their eyes would glaze over and he’d give up. All Flick understood was he did something with computers and enjoyed it. She had no idea why he didn’t buy a place of his own, not that she wanted to get rid of him. He was organized, practical and sensible, and had saved her and Kirsten from more disasters and flesh-eating spiders than Flick cared to remember. It was Josh who discovered why the washing machine ate the wires out of their bras, Josh who could drill holes in walls without hitting water, Josh who always managed to get broken corks out of wine bottles and Josh who gave Kirsten a lift to work and back every day. Most important of all was that he obsessed more about the bathroom being clean than they did, so it was the one room in the house that always gleamed. As men go, he was almost indispensable.

  “You lied. You said you were Brad Pitt.” Kirsten waddled into the kitchen walking on her heels with her toes in the air.

  “You led me to believe you were a beautiful woman and you’re a monster penguin.” Flick looked at Kirsten’s feet. “A penguin with no taste. Silver nail polish?”

  The monster penguin went on the attack. “Oh my goodness, what did you do to your hair?” Kirsten frowned. “Did you cut it yourself again?”

  “No.”

  “Flick!”

  “I might have hacked at a few bits. Does it look okay?”

  “Only if you were going for the I’ve-just-been-ravished look.”

  “The most popular style of the year.” Flick smiled. “The illusion is complete.”

  First thing that morning while Kirsten had still been in bed with boyfriend Pierce, Flick had crawled into her room and borrowed her hair straighteners. When she hadn’t been able to get them to flatten a wayward lock, she’d grabbed the nail scissors and got carried away. She really needed to go to the hairdresser’s but she couldn’t afford it.

  “Will you sort it out for me before we go?” Flick dragged her fingers through the tangled mess. “I want to look nice.”

  “Who for? Henry Hartington?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Ah, not Henry. Who?”

  “Lady C.”

  “Like I believe that.” Kirsten clicked Flick’s head with her finger and thumb.

  “Ouch, all right, I give in. I met the best man this afternoon.”

  “The archaeology professor? What’s he like? Beard, beer-belly and bad breath?

  Knobbly knees? Sandals?”

  “Nope, you lucky, lucky bridesmaid. He has the face and body of a god. Gorgeous backside. Eyelashes I wo
uld kill for. Eyes I could swim in. Taller than me.”

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  “And?”

  “Mind of a man.” Flick gave a dramatic sigh.

  “There’s always something lets them down. What did he do?”

  Flick told her and was disappointed when Kirsten laughed.

  “He didn’t need to tell his bloody students.” Flick groaned, remembering his amused grin. “I thought he was nice.”

  “Well, he saved you from the sheep and it is a funny story.”

  “Only because the sheep didn’t stick its nose up your bum.”

  “So make up your mind, you wavering magnet. Do you want to attract him or repel him?”

  “Yes,” said Flick.

  As she reclined in the bath, popping bubbles in the foam with the beak of her broken wind-up penguin, Flick wished she could wash away her problems and emerge as a new person. If only she could surge from the suds with a respectable job, a faithful boyfriend, no debts and food in the fridge—well, food in the fridge that was hers. Unbitten nails should be on the list, and because she wanted to be kind to animals, even though they were never kind to her, she’d also like her penguin to be able to swim again. She let it go and it sank to the bottom of the tub. All wishful thinking. The respectable job had been hers, until she’d lost it. After three years studying hard for a history degree in Birmingham, she’d been selected from a starting field of two hundred as assistant to the marketing director of Grinstead’s, a medical equipment manufacturer based in Leeds. She’d loved it. It was there she’d met Marcus who worked for Yorkshire Television. He’d approached Gordon Lowe, her boss, about making a documentary on Grinstead’s, something to do with the survival of family firms into the twenty-first century. The program had never aired but Flick had found herself a boyfriend.

  She’d lost her job even before she lost Marcus and now there was no chance of ever surging up the corporate ladder because she’d been dismissed for theft. It made Flick feel sick when she thought about it so she tried not to. She’d been accused and found guilty without being given the chance to defend herself or find out what had really happened. Now she was stuck in the basement of a building without stairs and no bloody ladder in sight.

  Forty thousand pounds had appeared like magic in her bank account. Flick rang the bank, but they said it wasn’t a mistake. Before she could even speak to her boss, the whole thing had blown up in her face. Flick gave back the money but it wasn’t enough. Another hundred and forty thousand was missing. The finance department investigated and it all pointed to her. Apparently.

  Flick had moved from the theory of mistake, to one of being set up but she didn’t know by whom or why. Grinstead’s offered to let the matter drop if she repaid the rest 15

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  because they didn’t want the bad publicity. Flick wouldn’t and couldn’t pay. In any case, letting the matter drop would not give her back her job. Her letters asking them to investigate further came back unanswered. She’d turned up at the office day after day and no one would speak to her. She’d gone to the managing director’s house and he’d called the police. She didn’t know what else she could do, but she’d been saving every penny for months. The longer Grinstead’s delayed, the more chance she had of paying lawyers to fight them, though it hurt having to spend money defending herself when she’d done nothing.

  Flick had not told her housemates or sister. Far too humiliating, especially with Kirsten training to be a lawyer. Flick had used the lie of redundancy, but she hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to get another job. She couldn’t ask Grinstead’s for a reference. Filling in application forms for jobs that matched her qualifications was fraught with problems and the poor response unsurprising. In the end, with Stef demanding new clothes and spouting the words “compulsory textbooks”, two words guaranteed to hit Flick’s guilt spot, she had given up looking for jobs she’d like and taken anything she could get. At her last count Flick had seven jobs. Six of them low-paid menial work with odd hours, and one that happened to pay more than all the others put together. While Kirsten and Josh thought she worked in a gas station on the Leeds ring road, Flick danced around a pole in Polecats, a city center night club.

  Why tell anyone when she knew what their reaction would be? Kirsten and Josh would be horrified and Marcus would have asked her for free admittance. But she hadn’t had to tell Marcus because the miserable bastard of a boyfriend had suddenly announced he was jetting off to Australia, a trip combining business and pleasure. When Flick turned up at the airport to bid him a surprise farewell, she wasn’t sure who was the more surprised of the three of them—her, Marcus or the busty blonde he had his arm around. When Flick saw them kiss, anger swamped hope, sat on its head and knifed it to death. She made sure her face showed nothing as she walked over. Flick spoke before Marcus could. “I came to say goodbye. Have a lovely time.”

  “Flick? What…er…thanks. Er…this is Briony, my research assistant.” Marcus kept swallowing, his nervous habit, not that Flick needed any more evidence of his lies. She turned to the woman. “You are obviously a special person, Briony. Not many people could cope with Marcus’ problem. Has it flared up yet?”

  She turned and walked off feeling somewhat lighter in spirit. She heard Marcus behind her.

  “Flick.”

  She kept walking, but Marcus grabbed her and pulled her around. Over his shoulder Flick saw Briony glaring.

  “I’ll ring you when I get back,” he said.

  Flick jerked away. “Don’t bother coming back on my account.”

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  Digging Deeper

  “Don’t be like that.” Marcus tried to take hold of her hand.

  “If you touch me again, I’ll tell everyone at Yorkshire Television how you liked to wear my underwear when you were on camera.”

  Worked like a charm.

  For some considerable time after that final meeting, Flick had thought it very big of her not to have informed airport security that Marcus had a thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine stuffed up his backside. The irony was, he probably did. The week before he’d announced he was off to Oz, Marcus had told her he loved her. She’d experienced such a flood of emotion, she almost cried. Flick didn’t cry. Apart from her mum and dad, Marcus was the only person who’d ever said he loved her. But he’d lied, because if he loved her he wouldn’t have wanted to go so far away and he wouldn’t have gone without her. If he loved her, he’d have asked her to wait or go with him. She’d have found a way. If he loved her, he would have told her he was taking Briony. If Flick loved him, she’d have understood.

  The breakup changed Flick, broke something inside her. One moment she’d been the most important person in the world to another human being and the next discarded. The physical pain that came with that knowledge had been so bad, she’d thrown up. Miserable Bastard still emailed her, as if there was a possibility of a happy reunion when he returned. Flick deleted the messages without reading them. She wouldn’t take Marcus back if he came as a free gift in a pack of cereal. In fact, Flick hoped a shark ate him, or one particular bit of him, preferably a great white with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.

  * * * * *

  Earlier that day, Beck had checked out the rental house and been relieved to find it clean and spacious. The family who owned it had gone to America for three months and been happy to accept a short-term let to bolster the mortgage. Beck had already moved into one of the smaller rooms with a single bed. He’d not missed the way Dina looked at him, nor the accidental brushes against his body. Rich might intend to sleep his way though the year group but Beck wanted to keep his job. Almost before he’d come to a halt in the drive, four of the students scrambled to get out of the van. The moment Beck unlocked the front door, they raced upstairs to stake their claim to a bed. Only Jane lingered. Dina shrieked.

  “Better go choose your room,” Beck said.

  “No point. I’ll be in the smallest. I don’t mind.”


  “You might end up sharing with Dina.”

  A look of horror flashed across her face before she dashed upstairs. The three-storey Edwardian house had six bedrooms. Since Beck had to keep a room free for Isobel, two would have to share. When Matt and Ross discovered a Wii and a stack of games in the wardrobe of the room with twin beds, the decision was 17

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  easy. Pravit and Jane took rooms in the roof space. Dina stood proprietarily in the doorway of the master bedroom, the only room with an en suite, though the rooms in the attic had washbasins. Beck had thought about saving the largest room for Isobel, but he suspected she wouldn’t be bothered where she slept, whereas giving Dina a bathroom of her own would probably prevent the others strangling her on the first day. Beck smiled when he saw Matt and Ross struggle upstairs with her suitcases. Remembering all too well what he’d been like when he was nineteen, Beck sat them down in the living room and had a chat about responsible behavior, how he expected them to look after the house and themselves. Then he handed over keys. Beck guessed that had someone sat him and Giles down and had the same chat, it would have made no difference to what they got up to. That didn’t mean the chat shouldn’t happen. Beck and Giles met on their first day at Cambridge. Within hours, Giles had introduced Beck to the dubious delights of alphabet shagging—sleeping with girls whose names ran from A to Z. For the difficult letters, like Q, U, X and Y, middle names were deemed acceptable. Their first summer vacation had been more of an education to Beck than the previous nine months of university. Beck winced when he thought about it. As he cast his eyes over the group in front of him, he felt too young to play parent but he did feel responsible for their welfare, so he plowed on. Judging by the looks on their faces when he’d finished talking, he’d made his point. He hoped his best man’s speech went down better. Maybe he ought to write it.