umbrella and swept a place clean with his hand for me to sit.
Jacobs and Spooner, it turned out, had already left for the day, it being impossible to do any further digging in this weather.
I had barely sat down when Mr. Brown said, “I don’t think there’s anything there, Mrs. Pretty.” He spoke in more of a rush than usual, as if this was something he’d been brooding on for some time and wished to get off his chest.
“Are you sure?”
“Not sure, no. But I’ve got a feeling, if you like.”
“Is that what your nose is telling you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The sense of dejection was even stronger than I had expected. It seemed to sweep through me like a river, pushing everything aside.
“What do you suggest, then, Mr. Brown?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly know. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Trying to work out what’s best.”
He appeared just as downcast as I was. We sat in silence for a while. Partly in order to give myself something else to think about and partly because it was something that had made me curious for some time, I asked how he had first become interested in archaeology.
“My granddad used to do a bit of scratching about,” he said. “Just as a hobby, mind. Then my dad taught me about soil. He’d made a special study of it — Suffolk soil. He knew just about everything there was to know. They said you could show him a handful from anywhere in the county and he could tell you whose farm it had come from.”
“How extraordinary.”
“When I was fifteen, I received a certificate signed by Arthur Mee himself, saying that I had a reliable knowledge ofgeography, geology and astronomy. After I left school, I tried all sorts of things — farming, keeping goats, being a milkman. I even sold insurance for a while. Trouble was, I couldn’t stick at anything. I spent all my time reading, anything I could find. It scarcely mattered what. May says I have far too many books. They nearly drive her mental.”
“And how did you meet Mr. Maynard?”
“I met Mr. Maynard at the Suffolk Institute. The Reverend Harris from Thornden introduced us. Do you know the Reverend Harris?”
I shook my head.
Mr. Brown chuckled. “He reads even more than me, the reverend does. About archaeology especially. And scripture, of course. I’d done some digging of my own by then. Mainly around the Roman kilns at Wattisfield. Mr. Maynard asked if I might like to do some freelance work for the museum. Bits and pieces, you know. Whatever they chose to send my way.”
We sat and listened to the rain falling on the roof. The smell of wet grass came up through the floorboards. Mr. Brown was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees.
“I wonder if I might ask a question, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.
“By all means.”
“It’s just — it’s just that I can’t help thinking, why now?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Well, I’m wondering to myself why you want the mounds excavated now. After all, it’s not as if you’ve just arrived here, or anything like that.”
As soon as he had finished speaking he glanced away. I suspected he thought he might have overstepped the mark.
“You are quite right, of course,” I said. “I often discussed it with my late husband. It was a subject that greatly interested us both. But unfortunately he died before we were able to make a start. Then, after he died, I found that it did not seem appropriate somehow. As for what changed my mind, I can only say that I felt that if I did not do it now, then it might be too late.”
He nodded several times. Slowly, the sound of the rain died away. When it had stopped completely, he said, “Shall we go outside and take a look?”
The air was warm and humid. Steam was already rising from the mounds and the surrounding fields. In places, the rain had beaten the barley flat, the stalks snapped through. The expanses of exposed earth were dotted about with brown puddles.
We stepped around the
Jacobs and Spooner, it turned out, had already left for the day, it being impossible to do any further digging in this weather.
I had barely sat down when Mr. Brown said, “I don’t think there’s anything there, Mrs. Pretty.” He spoke in more of a rush than usual, as if this was something he’d been brooding on for some time and wished to get off his chest.
“Are you sure?”
“Not sure, no. But I’ve got a feeling, if you like.”
“Is that what your nose is telling you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The sense of dejection was even stronger than I had expected. It seemed to sweep through me like a river, pushing everything aside.
“What do you suggest, then, Mr. Brown?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly know. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Trying to work out what’s best.”
He appeared just as downcast as I was. We sat in silence for a while. Partly in order to give myself something else to think about and partly because it was something that had made me curious for some time, I asked how he had first become interested in archaeology.
“My granddad used to do a bit of scratching about,” he said. “Just as a hobby, mind. Then my dad taught me about soil. He’d made a special study of it — Suffolk soil. He knew just about everything there was to know. They said you could show him a handful from anywhere in the county and he could tell you whose farm it had come from.”
“How extraordinary.”
“When I was fifteen, I received a certificate signed by Arthur Mee himself, saying that I had a reliable knowledge ofgeography, geology and astronomy. After I left school, I tried all sorts of things — farming, keeping goats, being a milkman. I even sold insurance for a while. Trouble was, I couldn’t stick at anything. I spent all my time reading, anything I could find. It scarcely mattered what. May says I have far too many books. They nearly drive her mental.”
“And how did you meet Mr. Maynard?”
“I met Mr. Maynard at the Suffolk Institute. The Reverend Harris from Thornden introduced us. Do you know the Reverend Harris?”
I shook my head.
Mr. Brown chuckled. “He reads even more than me, the reverend does. About archaeology especially. And scripture, of course. I’d done some digging of my own by then. Mainly around the Roman kilns at Wattisfield. Mr. Maynard asked if I might like to do some freelance work for the museum. Bits and pieces, you know. Whatever they chose to send my way.”
We sat and listened to the rain falling on the roof. The smell of wet grass came up through the floorboards. Mr. Brown was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees.
“I wonder if I might ask a question, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.
“By all means.”
“It’s just — it’s just that I can’t help thinking, why now?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Well, I’m wondering to myself why you want the mounds excavated now. After all, it’s not as if you’ve just arrived here, or anything like that.”
As soon as he had finished speaking he glanced away. I suspected he thought he might have overstepped the mark.
“You are quite right, of course,” I said. “I often discussed it with my late husband. It was a subject that greatly interested us both. But unfortunately he died before we were able to make a start. Then, after he died, I found that it did not seem appropriate somehow. As for what changed my mind, I can only say that I felt that if I did not do it now, then it might be too late.”
He nodded several times. Slowly, the sound of the rain died away. When it had stopped completely, he said, “Shall we go outside and take a look?”
The air was warm and humid. Steam was already rising from the mounds and the surrounding fields. In places, the rain had beaten the barley flat, the stalks snapped through. The expanses of exposed earth were dotted about with brown puddles.
We stepped around the
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