The Way, the Truth and the Dead Read online

  As they stepped out of the Portakabin, Alan handed a plan of the site with the two trial trenches to Jake Williamson, Hen Clancy and Jon and Kaylee, the two diggers from White Delphs, who had been at Fursey for six weeks. They were all very grateful for the money and the work, but there is a limit to how many finds one can trowel from an area of 50 by 120 metres, without going mad, and everyone, Alan included, was getting sick of the sight of tiny Grey Ware sherds. As Jake memorably announced in a tired voice one rainy afternoon tea break, ‘Even bloody Samian seems a bit samey.’ No, they were all itching to do some ‘real’ excavation. They’d had more than enough of trowelling. And if it had to be live on television, then so much the better. Because that was what Frank and Weinstein had decided – with, of course, Alan’s agreement – but in reality, as they all knew, he had no option.

  At first Alan had been very sceptical at the suggestion, which an over-excited Frank had proposed at the end of the first week of conventional filming. Alan didn’t think that Weinstein or T2 would buy the idea. It was far too risky: what if they found nothing? What if the big building on the geophys plot turned out to be rabbit holes? What if the blank area did indeed prove to be empty? Did they really want to make idiots of themselves in front of 3 million people? ‘I hope 5 million’, was Weinstein’s unexpected response. Oh well, Alan thought, on your own head be it. And he was still far from convinced, despite Weinstein explaining that modern television was all about calculated risks and taking the individual members of their audience out of their comfort zones. After all, Big Brother had done it with massive success – so why not them? Again, Alan had a terse reply in mind, but he decided not to use it.

  Clare was impressed at the way Jake and the team were standing guard over the archaeological areas. Nobody would be taking any shortcuts with them around. Alan escorted her back to her car and when she had left, he returned to the roped-off dig, to find Jake and Hen measuring out for Trench 1.

  Alan checked the plan against the site grid – just to be completely certain the trench was in the right place – and then told the team to move on to Trench 2. The actual work of laying out the trenches was being done by Jake and the two diggers he’d brought with him from White Delphs. Meanwhile Hen Clancy and two additional diggers, who Alan had taken on that morning to help with the trial trenches, were setting up the finds processing area. So although the site crew of a director, two supervisors and four diggers was quite small, Alan was satisfied. He liked to do things that way as he felt more in control and it also meant that he got to do some digging himself. Directors of large urban excavations, with dozens of staff and several layers of supervision usually contrived a daily site visit, but the rest of their time was spent in the office ‘doing management’, as Alan called it with ill-concealed contempt. He might have to take on an extra three or four diggers if they opened more trenches, but he was not keen to see the team rise much above a dozen, at most a dozen-and-a-half.

  Lew Weinstein and the bosses at T2 had been very impressed by the viewing figures and audience share of the two introductory half-hour documentaries, which had gone out a week previously. John, Candice and the Fursey Abbey team had almost been overwhelmed by the upsurge in visitor numbers and had erected a small viewing stand alongside the newly-exposed area. The stand would hold around 200 people, and on some Sundays it was almost full.

  It was one thing to have two good sets of viewing figures, but quite another to build on them. Audience loyalty was what the top brass at T2 were desperate to achieve.

  After much discussion, T2 and Weinstein came up with a change to their original schedule. Shortly after the two introductory docs had been screened, they’d see how audiences reacted to five short live broadcasts, each one lasting thirty minutes, starting on Monday at 8.30pm – peak viewing. These would be followed by a final, one-hour episode on Saturday, Day 6. It was hoped the five run-up episodes would boost their Saturday evening audience, which had been slipping badly of late, due to strong sports output from satellite stations, both at home and, more importantly, on large screens in city-centre pubs. It was a very risky strategy indeed for T2 and would probably cost both the commissioning editor and the boss of the history and factual department their jobs if it failed.

  The first live show would be a behind-the-scenes introduction to the dig. The presenter, Craig Larsson, would generally be on-site. From there he could interview Alan in the trenches and Tricia in the finds hut with Hen; he’d also be introducing clips from the earlier two shows, plus some new aerial shots they’d filmed a fortnight ago.

  * * *

  A few days later, shortly after midday, Alan returned from a quick visit to a hearing-aid shop in Ely, where he had been fitted with a small earpiece, after a visit the previous week when his outer earhole had been moulded in wax. The nice lady in the shop had advised him to wear it as often as he could over the next few days. ‘Before you know it, you won’t know you’re wearing it’, was what she had said. ‘But right now,’ Alan thought, ‘It feels like somebody has shoved a concrete tank trap into the side of my head.’

  After a hot lunch from the Test Pit Challenge’s excellent caterers, Alan and Tricia walked over to the two trial trenches, which were both being trowelled-down. Originally Weinstein and Charles Carnwath, the commissioning editor at T2, had insisted that the trowelling had to start live on-screen, but Alan had pointed out the stupidity of that idea: archaeology isn’t a race; and besides, all you’d see would be dry soil. It would be much better if they started a few hours earlier, then at least they could point at any areas that were starting to look exciting.

  They arrived at Trench 2 first. Both trenches had been covered with clear plastic rain shelters which acted a bit like greenhouses during the day, so the flaps at each end were folded back. Late February sunshine can be surprisingly hot. During the morning, various black-overalled technicians had been working away on the lighting, but now everyone was still away at lunch. Alan had advised the diggers to make the most of it: free meals are rare in archaeology, let alone ones with starters, a choice of three hot main courses, a pudding and cheese – not to mention limitless tea and coffee. Belching slightly, Alan pulled a trowel from his back pocket and stepped into the trench. It was still very shallow – barely two inches deep, but already colours were beginning to show up.

  For a couple of minutes Alan trowelled, concentrating closely. Then Tricia broke the silence. ‘It looks darker towards this end, Alan.’

  Alan nodded, still deep in thought.

  ‘Is that something important, or is it where they were trowelling last?’ When there was no answer, she tried again. ‘I mean is it fresher, damper here?’

  That wasn’t much better either, but Alan knew what she was trying to say.

  ‘It’s hard to say. A trowelled surface is best when it’s fresh. What you’re looking at has been messed around. It’s been walked on and there are scuff marks left by toes and kneelers and finds trays by the edge of the trench there. But on the other hand, you may be right. I’ve been having a look at it and I think the colour change may well be real, but we’re still very much in the OLS—’

  He broke off. She was looking puzzled. He hadn’t yet grasped the extent of her lack of field experience. She’d come to archaeology via an Art History BA, and was very much an artefacts person. For a moment his mind flicked back to Harriet, his co-director on his last dig. She too had been a specialist – in human bones – but she could also dig like an angel. The way she dug those tiny and so fragile baby bones … He sighed. Still, there’s no going back. What’s passed is gone. End of.

  ‘Sorry, that’s the Old Land Surface, or buried topsoil – so I wouldn’t expect to see much at this level.’ She was looking disappointed. ‘But you’re right,’ he continued more brightly. ‘It is darker and a fraction softer, too – and that may well prove significant.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find out tonight?’

  For a moment it was Alan’s turn to be lost. Then he realised
what she was getting at. ‘Oh, you mean for the “live”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was looking genuinely concerned. Unlike Alan, she plainly cared about the broadcast’s impact on viewers. He was more worried about what the trench had to reveal – and about not looking a complete idiot in front of millions of people.

  ‘I doubt if we’ll be able to define precisely what’s there, but I think we should be able to say if it’s man-made, or natural.’

  They walked over to Trench 1. By now one or two people were beginning to drift over from the catering tent.

  Again, Alan pulled out his trowel and started to scrape. He’d been at it for a minute or so when Jake Williamson joined him.

  ‘Thought I’d find you here, Alan.’

  He hadn’t noticed Tricia who had been standing by some heavy-duty lighting stands. He knelt down beside Alan and also started trowelling.

  After a bit, Alan leant back. ‘Very different texture to Trench 2, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, very. More stones and much more sandy.’

  ‘And I don’t think we’re much higher here?’

  ‘No,’ Jake replied. ‘That was my first reaction. I checked the OD levels over lunch: Trench 1 is 1.57 and we’re at 1.65. So no difference at all. Certainly not enough to cause that.’

  Tricia had been paying close attention. But she didn’t understand the technical speak.

  ‘Sorry, Alan, I don’t get the significance of all that.’

  She’d stepped out of the shadows and Jake looked astonished at what met his eyes. Alan wondered briefly what it must be like to have such an effect on men. He shot Jake a look as if to say ‘pull yourself together, man’, which Jake did. Alan then introduced them. Instead of shaking hands, she smiled broadly, to which Jake responded with a hint of embarrassed flush. Alan decided it was time to resume her crash course in field archaeology:

  ‘We noted a textural change in the two trenches. This one is more stony and sandy. Normally that particular change happens when the ground level rises, especially as here, where one is on the edge of an ancient island. But as Jake pointed out, the levels are virtually identical, so we don’t think that very likely.’

  ‘So what do you think it is?’ She was leaning over the trench, listening intently.

  ‘Well,’ Alan shot Jake another rapid look, this time it said: please keep your mouth shut. ‘I think we both have our suspicions, but again, we’re still high in the OLS, so we’d better not speculate—’

  ‘Not even for me, Alan?’

  The broad smile she gave him was indeed winning. There could be no doubt about that. But Alan remained obdurate.

  ‘Sorry, Tricia, but no,’ he replied in a mock schoolmaster voice. ‘It’ll all come out in the wash. You’ve just got to be patient.’ He turned briefly to Jake, smiling, and said, ‘And if you say anything, Williamson, you’re on a fizzer. Get it?’

  Jake snapped a salute with his trowel. ‘Yassir!’

  * * *

  The afternoon was frantic. The Call Sheet, essentially a detailed timetable that was prepared before every shoot, itemised what was supposed to happen. It was issued to everyone.

  15.30–16.00: Tea break (crews and contributors)

  16.00–18.00: Rehearsal and run-through (contributors and camera crews)

  18.00–19.00: Lighting, set preparation and sound check (camera and lighting crews)

  19.00–19.30: Film ‘as live’ sequences (contributors and camera, lighting crews)

  19.30–20.00: Break (sandwiches, on set)

  20.00–20.30: Final run-through (contributors and crews)

  20.30–21.00: Live TX

  21.00: WRAP (contributors and camera crews)

  21.00–21.30: De-rig (lighting crews)

  During the previous week the production people at New Ideas had tried to persuade Alan to leave the lighting equipment in place during the six days of the live run, but he pointed out that if they did that, then it would be impossible to extend or open new trial trenches and it would also massively slow down daytime digging, which would be essential if the excavation was to be seen to be advancing. Eventually, and after much discussion, they had reluctantly agreed – and that final half-hour for the lighting crews was the result. Over lunch he muttered something apologetic to one of the riggers who looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Blimey, mate, I saw that and rubbed my hands. We’ll be well into overtime by then. And that’ll be a nice little earner. We owe you a pint.’ Alan smiled at his own naivety; and as for the beer, he knew that would never happen.

  Alan had found Call Sheets, like most modern paperwork, of limited use. They gave details of hotels, train times and that sort of thing – they even gave information on local real ale pubs, which some fortunate production assistant had had to prospect for on one of the recce days, but they also had pages of health and safety crap and the usual management disclaimers that nobody with even a slightly active mind could bring themselves to read. Alan found them useful for the names of crew members and the mobile numbers of visiting experts and suchlike, but mostly his Call Sheets remained, unread, in his house or hotel bedroom. But not now. He’d never done a ‘live’ before and the Call Sheet was proving very useful.

  Things went more or less to the Call Sheet timetable, which had mostly been drawn up by Lew Weinstein himself. Like many people in television, Weinstein loved doing live shows, largely, Alan suspected, because of the massive injections of adrenalin, which he soon discovered were a feature of all such work.

  Weinstein’s job was in the T2 studios in London, where he mixed the various site sequences, together with contributions from a panel of three experts, including Peter Flower, and chaired by guest celebrity and retired gameshow host, Michael Smiley – who was also in the London studio. To cover the transition between the various live feeds, Weinstein had a small library of recorded clips, plus the ‘as live’ sequences, filmed earlier that evening. These were background shots of the dig and the diggers, intended to convey ‘atmos’ rather than anything specific.

  The direction on-site was being done by Frank Jones, who Alan reckoned hadn’t done that much live work. He was more a film director, but Alan could also see he was going to give it his best shot. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone quite so wired. Tricia had noticed it too.

  ‘I think Frank’s going to explode. If he keeps this up he’ll be a wet sponge by nine o’clock. Just listen to him!’

  They both had their radio mikes turned off, but their earpieces, which Alan had now grown entirely used to, were positively crackling with Frank’s voice. He was discussing Camera 4’s move while Craig was doing his opening PTC (piece to camera). Alan couldn’t follow everything he was saying, but he seemed to imply that if the camera didn’t do precisely what he suggested the entire show would fall apart. They could tell that Weinstein was getting near the end of his tether:

  ‘OK, Frank, that’s great. Great. Yeah, I’ve got that … Yeah …’A pause, while Frank’s voice doubled in speed. Then came Weinstein’s final response: ‘Great, yeah. We’ll keep it in reserve.’

  Then the line went dead.

  Tricia and Alan were standing open-mouthed, each with a hand cupped over their left ear. Then simultaneously, when the jabbering was cut off, they fell about laughing.

  * * *

  The final rehearsal and run-through went as smoothly as could be expected, and Alan could see that the presenter, Craig Larsson’s, stage fright was building. He was standing still, but fidgeting with his script, his earpiece, his radio mike – whatever came to hand. He was also growing quite pale. Then a studio voice came through on Alan’s earpiece and through radio speakers that Grump Edwards had set up alongside Trenches 1 and 2 and in the dining tent (which had been converted into a temporary viewing theatre for the duration of the broadcast). The flap into the dig shelter was lifted to allow a cameraman to enter, dragging a long cable from the camera he carried on his shoulder.

  Alan looked through the gap, across the stripp
ed surface towards the wide entrance into the dining tent, where he could see quite a big group of people watching the large flat screen. At the back he could clearly see John and Candice Cripps standing together, their heads almost touching as they looked at the screen through a narrow gap in the crowd. Then John moved and Alan realised he’d been wrong: it was Sebastian. But their body language fooled me, Alan thought. As if to confirm his error he then spotted John running towards the tent, glancing anxiously from time to time at his wristwatch. He wasn’t going to miss the start of the show. Then the flap on the trench shelter fell back in place.

  That voice in Alan’s earpiece was still making routine announcements – the usual sort of stuff: health and safety, insurance and the need for quiet on set – and then it said, ‘Start positions everyone. And now it’s over to London.’

  Briefly the radio speakers crackled into life. It was Weinstein’s voice. ‘OK, folks, we’re about to start countdown into the opening sequence …’

  Alan looked across to the corner of the shelter where Craig was to start the walk into his opening PTC and to his horror he was vomiting into a plastic bag, which was hastily taken away by a long-suffering runner. Craig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ll start the countdown on a five.’ There was a brief pause. Then the speakers went off and Alan’s earpiece suddenly crackled into life.

  This time it was a different voice: ‘Five … four … three … two … one.

  Simultaneously on ‘four’ Weinstein’s voice, now very calm and controlled, said, ‘Cue Camera 1’ and on ‘one’ the familiar, ‘And Action!’