Digging Deeper

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Well, maybe he likes tarts.”

  Flick turned from the road to glare at her. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I liked him,” Kirsten said.

  “You’ve already got a boyfriend.” Unfortunately. Flick waited long enough to let Kirsten think she’d won before she asked, “So is he coming?”

  “I knew you fancied him.” Kirsten grinned.

  “Answer the question.”

  “He said he’d probably come.”

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  Flick did her chimpanzee smile.

  “And if you do that, he’ll leave again.”

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  Barbara Elsborg

  Chapter Six

  Dina had set her alarm for 8:15, the mere thought of getting up before midday on a Sunday little short of miraculous. An even greater miracle she sprang out of bed when it went off. By 9:00 she was dressed, her hair straightened, makeup in place, ready to cook breakfast for Beck. “Cook for your man to find a way to his heart.” That didn’t come until Chapter Five but Dina couldn’t see it mattered in what order you did things, so long as you got the result. The boys were still asleep. Their snores could be heard all over the house, accompanied by a few muffled farts. Dina wrinkled her nose. She almost threw up in disgust when she saw Jane sitting in the garden reading an archaeology book. Then, realizing it would impress Beck, Dina rushed upstairs to get her own copy of the incredibly expensive and incredibly heavy core textbook Urban Archaeology Fieldwork in the Twenty-first Century. She sat next to Jane.

  “Oh, you managed to get hold of a second-hand copy.” Dina looked at Jane’s wellthumbed version.

  “No, it no longer looks new because I’ve opened it a few times.”

  Dina rolled her eyes and turned to the first page. With a bit of luck, Beck would wake up soon, see her and Jane reading together and then she could offer to make him breakfast. How impressive was that? “Show your man you’re interested in the things that interest him.”

  She hoped Beck came soon. Her eyes had begun to glaze over and she’d read only a paragraph.

  * * * * *

  By the time Beck emerged from his room it was almost noon. He’d been awake for hours working on his book, which was not as he’d led his colleagues to believe, yet another study of Thermoluminescence, but instead a chilling tale of a serial killer who collected gall bladders from his victims. Now Beck had his professorship, the need to use every available moment to produce an endless stream of theories that interested virtually no one, had thankfully passed. At last he had time to write something exciting and was currently weaving a complicated psychological tale with lots of clues and red herrings. He wanted the identity of the killer to be entirely unexpected. The moment he appeared in the garden, Dina jumped to her feet and rushed toward him.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Beck could have sworn she fluttered her eyelashes. “Only if you’re making one for yourself. Thanks.” He sat next to Jane.

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  Dina returned with a mug. “Like any breakfast? Toast? Cereal?”

  “No thanks. Tea’s fine. You two are keen,” Beck said with a smile as Dina made a big point of opening her book in the middle. At a rough guess, that would have put her some five hundred years beyond the period they were studying.

  “Do you think we’re going to find anything on this dig?” Jane asked in a shy voice. Beck hesitated. It was never a good idea to be negative at the start of a dig, it could jinx the whole thing. “I have a good feeling about this site. We’ll have a discussion this afternoon about how we’re going to tackle it and then have a drive around and look at the whole area. The large-scale map might—”

  “I’ll get it,” Dina interrupted and dashed into the house. A moment later she was back, red-faced and flustered. “Where is it?”

  “On the floor in my room, by the window.”

  She hurried off again. It was like having a puppy, Beck thought, only this one had an ulterior motive.

  Dina glanced around Beck’s bedroom. She needed as much information about him as she could get. “Know your man” took a whole chapter in her book. His room was tidy. That was so impressive. He’d put his clothes away. Fabulous. He’d made the bed. Brilliant. She sighed. This got better by the minute. A tidy guy. She didn’t like housework. He’d do it for her.

  The map was on the floor on top of neat piles of booklets and sheets about the dig. She spotted Versace aftershave—good taste, and a Manchester United sticker on his bag—well, he couldn’t be perfect. A Dictaphone lay next to his laptop. Dina had heard him speaking into it a few times, vague mutterings relating to the dig. She hesitated and then picked it up, rewound it a short way and pressed play. Beck’s voice was quite clear.

  “Septic tank. Outfit for Saturday. Check effect if liver ruptures. Price for gall bladders in China? What use for a bear’s penis?”

  Dina shuddered and switched it off. What the hell was that about?

  * * * * *

  Although Flick, stuffed with Sunday lunch, had intended to have a sleep that afternoon, when she saw the length of the grass she winced. She’d toyed for a while with the idea of getting a goat, until Josh pointed out you couldn’t be sure they’d be satisfied with the grass. Left unattended they’d probably devour every flower and half the patio furniture before they started on the house. Given Flick’s abysmal record with animals, she’d end up with the only woman-eating goat in the country and wake to find herself minus a hand. So no goat, or sheep, because apart from the incident at Hartington Hall, a farmer had once told her they had a tendency to commit suicide by thinking themselves dead when they were bored. How sad was that?

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  Usually when Josh heard her dragging the mower out of the shed, he offered to do the lawn for her. Flick would protest, Josh would argue and she’d give way. But Josh was out and Kirsten was cleaning her room, so unless she could attract the attention of a passing rambler, Flick was on her own.

  She almost dislocated her shoulder pulling on the cord to start the engine. After five minutes of frantic tugging she had to lie down on the grass. Flick looked up at the clouds and wondered if Josh could mow by moonlight. Or had she at last found a use for the strappy contraption that attached a torch to your head? Bought by her for her father, for a Christmas they would never share and still sitting in its shrink wrapping in the garage. Flick thought about what her Dad would have said if he’d seen her mowing the lawn in the dark and smiled.

  “Are you dead?” Kirsten shouted from an upstairs window.

  “Almost.”

  “There’s a button you have to press to prime the engine.”

  That’s what she’d forgotten. “Come and show me?”

  “I’m not falling for that,” Kirsten called back.

  Moments later the air was full of the most irritating sound of the summer. The mower dragged Flick around the lawn. She started going round the edge and then set off diagonally. A few reasonably straight lines became intermingled with several more that weren’t. When she switched off the machine to empty the grass box, Kirsten gave a loud cough.

  “Can’t we have those nice neat lines like Josh makes?”

  “I thought if I just did the highest bits, I wouldn’t have to do the whole thing.”

  ‘Think again,” Kirsten shouted.

  Flick stared at the lawn and sighed. It looked a little like her hair before Kirsten sorted it out.

  The exact moment she finished, Josh appeared on the patio carrying two glasses of wine.

  “Trying to make me redundant?” he asked.

  “Josh, if I get married I want you living in the spare room,” Flick said. “In fact why don’t I marry you? Save this entire hassle of searching for a soul mate. I mean, you’re tall, fair and handsome. I can give way on the dark because you have your own teeth. What more do I need?”

  Josh laughed and handed her a glass. “Pasta for dinner?”


  “Why am I still looking?” Flick dropped to one knee. “Josh, will you marry me?”

  “No. You ask me every week and the answer is always the same. Talking of soul mates, Kirsten’s Mr. Perfect has arrived.”

  Flick didn’t miss the tightening of Josh’s mouth. She dropped into the chair beside him and sipped the cold wine.

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  “Has he? He never offered to give me a hand with the lawn. The bastard probably whisked Kirsten straight upstairs.”

  Josh muttered something that sounded like a growl.

  The fact that Josh couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Pierce convinced Flick the guy was a loser. Pierce telling Kirsten she looked lovely came after he’d told her what to wear, right down to her shoes. He’d so undermined her confidence, Kirsten’s first thought was now whether Pierce would approve, rather than whether she liked it herself. He also had a habit of correcting whatever Kirsten said, which drove Flick wild. Kirsten worshipped Pierce so that should have been it, but it wasn’t.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” Flick asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Parents still speaking to you?”

  “Yes, but not to each other. As usual.”

  “Going out with Sadie tonight?”

  “No.”

  Flick leaned forward and stared into his eyes. “So, do you want to whisk me upstairs?” It had been so long since anyone had held her, a tiny bit of her hoped he might say yes.

  “No.” Josh smiled. “But thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome.” Flick sat back.

  “Been weeding as well?”

  “No, why?”

  “There’s a gap in the front garden. I’ve been meaning to pull up that clump of Rosebay Willowherb for ages.”

  Flick winced. “It’s a weed?”

  “A flowering weed.”

  “Ah, well it’s now sitting in a pot on Kirsten’s mother’s window sill.”

  He laughed. “So what else has happened while I’ve been gone?”

  “Start cooking and I’ll tell you a story about a sheep.”

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  Barbara Elsborg

  Chapter Seven

  When Beck walked into the kitchen at 7:30 on Monday morning the house was silent. He’d scheduled everyone to be up and ready to leave by 8:00 and suspected they were all still in bed. Last night they’d walked down to the pub. Beck had said he wasn’t going to go but when Dina announced she’d stay with him, he’d changed his mind. Of course Dina changed her mind, too. Beck had drunk a couple of beers, but Dina and the three boys never had an empty glass in front of them. No wonder students were broke, the amount they spent on alcohol. The boys had drunk themselves stupid. Literally, in the case of Ross who’d tried to kiss Dina and in return received a pair of bruised bollocks. Ross walked back to the house bent over like a coat hook. Beck had difficulty not laughing.

  He switched on the kettle and pulled a mug from the cupboard. He jumped when the door opened but Jane came in. Dina had made another attempt to get into his room last night, managing to move the chest of drawers he’d used as a barricade. She was stronger than she looked.

  Jane smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I suppose it would be foolish of me to think the others are outside waiting by the van. We might as well have some toast.”

  They managed to leave the house at 8:30, but Beck had to turn round twice, once for tablets for Dina’s headache and the second time for hayfever pills for Matt, though it didn’t escape Beck’s notice Matt also emerged with an iPod. Only Jane seemed to show anything remotely resembling enthusiasm. The guys all looked as though he was dragging them to the depths of hell. Dina’s enthusiasm was for entirely the wrong thing. She stayed much too close, staring into his eyes and hanging on his every word without listening to a bloody thing he said. His own pet leech in full makeup. Celia stood waiting when Beck pulled up at the rear of the hall. He’d already scouted out the site, so he knew where they needed to stake out the plot, but he guessed Celia would want to inspect the group she’d allowed onto her land. She looked distinctly unhappy at the sight of what crawled from the vehicle. All but one looked as though they’d spent the last three days sleeping rough at a pop festival. Dina was immaculate in brilliant white shorts and a white cropped top that exposed a line of tanned flesh. Beck had spotted knotted strands at the back of her neck, which led him to suspect she wore a bikini. She had a bulging backpack on her shoulder and brand new Timberland boots on her feet and if it hadn’t have been for her footwear, she could have been off for a day at the beach. The others, as instructed, wore old jeans, tatty t-shirts and well-used footwear. Jane was the only one with a hat. She also sported a t-shirt that read “Archaeologists do it in holes”. Beck liked her style. 46

  Digging Deeper

  Spending the first day of a dig with the majority of your workers nursing a hangover was not uncommon. In fact, Beck couldn’t think of an occasion when that hadn’t happened. So he’d devoted part of yesterday to explaining in precise detail what he wanted them to achieve by the end of the first day. He wasn’t being too ambitious. He had a lot of experience of first days and understood how desperate they were to dig a hole in the ground, but the correct preparation was essential. You had to treat each site as though you might uncover a treasure the British Museum would go ape-shit to own, otherwise you got sloppy and it was easy to lose or damage vital evidence. Now they stood on the site, the five in front of him, Beck lowered his expectations. Matt had his eyes closed. Ross looked as though he was about to throw up. Pravit was throwing up and the walk from the Hall to the field, which was no distance at all, and had so exhausted Dina she dropped down on the grass. On top of a towel, Beck noticed.

  “So, now that we’re here, give me your opinions on the benefits of vertical as opposed to horizontal digging,” Beck said.

  And waited. The only one with their gaze anywhere other than the ground or in Dina’s case eyes closed, was Jane. She stared at him, desperate he ask her. Her hand twitched as though she’d like to shoot it up in the air. He knew she should be the last one to ask, just as he’d always been the last.

  Beck turned to Matt. “What do you think?”

  “Horizontal,” Matt muttered.

  Probably because he needed to lie down. “Why is that?”

  “We can cover more ground, so we know we’re digging in the right place,” Matt said.

  “We’re looking for Roman artifacts. Anything interesting is probably going to be deeper,” Jane pointed out.

  “Oh, yeah,” Matt said. “Vertical then.”

  Beck forced back the snippy comment trying to slide though his gritted teeth and gave up.

  “Right, after we’ve set up, you can spend the next couple of hours playing with the magnetometers and the other equipment. I want measurements of soil resistivity. Two of you work with probes and then compare your results. You can choose whether to mark the site off before or after you do the survey.”

  He knew what he’d rather they did, but they had to find things out for themselves. The site needed to be laid out in accurate grids, turf removed with care, tent set up, diagrams drawn, jobs allocated, decisions made over where to start, and so forth. Beck was there to supervise and monitor but he didn’t need to watch them every moment of the day. He intended to get on with writing his book.

  * * * * *

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  Barbara Elsborg

  Flick drove to the back of Hartington Hall and parked next to a rusty minivan. She thought of Beck and sighed. Two minutes before nine. Celia was desperate for her to be late so she could give her a lecture about unreliability, fecklessness and Flick’s lack of moral fiber, spicing the criticism with a raft of other denigrating comments. Any excuse to insult her, but Flick was never late. She knocked as the clock inside struck the hour. Henry opened the door and beamed. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Pharzuph.”

 
“Ah, the angel of lust and fornication. Well chosen.”

  Flick scowled. “Damn it, Henry, do you spend all day checking the devil’s family tree?”

  She’d scoured the Internet for the names of unusual devils, but not yet caught him out. He was a very clever man. She had no idea why he’d married such a horrible woman.

  “You mustn’t keep writing me love letters,” Flick teased as he handed her the familiar sheet of scented paper covered in Celia’s flowery writing.

  “You’re not going to love me when you see what she wants you to do.”

  Flick ran her eyes down the list of jobs their regular help declined. Handwashing a week’s worth of crystal glassware, polishing the silver and dusting the Royal Doulton figurines and animals. In Flick’s house everything went into the washing machine or dishwasher, including the ornaments. It made life much easier, though so far she’d melted a salad spinner, warped a spatula into an art exhibit and had a bit of an accident with Stef’s Armani jumper. While Flick worked she was also expected to look after Lady C’s mother, Gertrude. In many ways the worst job of all. Top of the list was the silver. Flick groaned. Her least favorite chores, in part because Celia insisted her mother counted each piece Flick cleaned, presumably so she couldn’t help herself to a candlestick or two. Flick had long since given up being offended by Lady C, but spending time with her poisonous mother was like being attached to a machine that drained all your energy until you lost the will to live.

  “When did the archaeologists arrive?” Flick asked.

  “Just before you. Celia is out there telling them how to dig a hole.”

  Flick thought about Beck, felt a shot of desire sweep through her and squashed it by smiling at Henry. If she didn’t want more of Beck’s black looks, the best thing she could do was avoid him.

  Gertrude was already in the dining room, sitting with a tray of tea and toast. As usual the Times newspaper lay open on the table in front of her. Flick had never seen her read a word of it.

  “How are you, Mrs. Merriman?” she asked in a loud voice.

  “I’m ninety-two years old. How do you think I am?” Gertrude said. 48