Ruth looks over to where two earnest women are discussing Roman pottery, and smiles.
‘Let me know when the hard drugs start circulating.’
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ says Max.
Ruth looks at him warily. She feels that she has had enough surprises to last her a lifetime. But Max is smiling and the party is going on all round them. Surely the underworld is far away.
Max takes her hand and leads her to his car. The front window is slightly open and on the back seat is a large black dog. When the dog sees them it goes mad with delight, wagging its entire back end. It is a slim, slinky animal with a whiskery, smiling face. Ruth finds herself smiling back.
‘Do you remember the breathing you heard on the site? I said I thought it might be a dog?’ asks Max, leaning in to pat the now delirious dog. ‘Well, this is her. She’s a stray, been hanging round the site for weeks, so I thought I’d take her in.’
‘A dog is for life…’ says Ruth, pointing to the car sticker.
‘Well, exactly. And I think I need some company.’ Max’s face darkens momentarily but lightens when the dog leaps through the window and flings herself on him.
‘She wants to join the party,’ says Ruth, who is thinking that the dog is more gregarious than she is. A party animal.
‘I’d better put her on the lead,’ says Max. ‘She might get overexcited with so many people about.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Claudia.’ Max grins. ‘It’s a suitably Roman name and she does have claws, as I know to my cost.’
Ruth pats the leaping, wriggling dog. ‘Will you have room for her in Brighton?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a garden and I’m looking forward to long walks on the seafront. It’ll keep me fit.’
He looks pretty fit already but Ruth does not say this. Max hands her Claudia’s lead (slightly to her alarm) and rustles around in the boot of the Range Rover.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
He emerges with a carrier bag which he hands to Ruth.
‘What…?’
‘Look inside.’
Ruth looks and sees another dog. A stuffed one this time, rather battered by the years, but still smiling.
‘Elizabeth’s dog,’ says Max, rather thickly. ‘She called it Wolfie. I thought your baby should have it. It’s ridiculous me keeping it, after all.’
Ruth looks from the stuffed dog to Max, holding Claudia on the lead, and her eyes suddenly fill with tears.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m very honoured.’
‘No doubt Nelson will say it constitutes a health hazard,’ says Max, more briskly, ‘but I’m sure you won’t listen to him.’
‘Why change the habit of a lifetime?’
They rejoin the party and Ruth unbends sufficiently to dance with Irish Ted. In the distance, she can see Cathbad building the inevitable bonfire.
‘You’re a good mover for a pregnant lady,’ says Ted.
‘Thank you.’
He smiles, gold tooth glinting, and Ruth remembers what she has always wanted to ask him. Leaning forward, she whispers, ‘Why are you called Irish Ted?’
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ whispers back Ted. ‘I am Irish but I’m not really called Ted.’
It is past midnight but the bonfire is still glowing. Ruth walks slowly down the hill. She is exhausted but it was a good party. Cathbad has danced in honour of the Sun God, Max has finished his dig and gained a companion, and she isn’t going home alone. She smiles at the woman walking next to her. It had been Cathbad who suggested that she invite her mother – ‘Gaia the Earth Goddess, you know. The eternal mother. It’s all linked’ – and, rather to Ruth’s surprise, her mother had readily accepted. She has spent the evening talking to Max about mosaics, singing madrigals with the Druids, and dancing with both Clough and Ted. Now, she puts an arm round Ruth.
‘Tired?’
‘A bit.’
‘We’ll go home and have a nice cup of tea. Then you should go to bed. You need your sleep when you’re pregnant.’
Roman mothers, thinks Ruth, were probably saying the same thing to their daughters on this same site, two thousand years ago. Come in and sit by the hearth, have some herbal infusion and pray to Hecate for a safe delivery.
Everything changes but nothing is destroyed.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks must go to my aunt Marjorie Scott-Robinson who has been an invaluable source of information on Norfolk, ghosts, tides and the best way to get a large boat under a low bridge. For this and for all the laughter and encouragement – Marge, thank you.
There are, as far as I know, no Roman remains at Swaffham but there is a wonderful Roman site nearby, at Caister St Edmund. Similarly, though Norwich is rich in wonderful houses, Woolmarket Street is fictional. Norwich Castle does indeed house a magnificent museum but the exhibits I mention are (apart from the teapots) imaginary.
Thanks to Andrew Maxted, Matthew Pope and Lucy Sibun for their archaeological expertise. Particular thanks to Lucy for her insights into life as a forensic archaeologist. However, I have only followed the experts’ advice as far as it suits the plot and any resulting mistakes are mine alone. Thanks also to Graham Ranger for his unforgettable description of the ‘smell’ of crime.
Heartfelt thanks to my editor Jane Wood, my agent Tif Loehnis and to all at Quercus and Janklow and Nesbit. Love and thanks always to my husband Andrew and to our children Alex and Juliet.
Elly Griffiths
