Marrying Up (2 page)

Perfectly positioned groups of mature trees stood about like guests at a garden party. Beneath them stood the deer; cinnamon,
cream and ginger in the sunlight. A magnificently macho stag
was standing in the middle of his women and showing himself off, antlers branching proudly from his head like a crown. Now
who, Polly thought sardonically, did
he
remind her of?

‘Miss! Miss!’ Poppy was jabbing her hand wildly in the air. ‘Piece of Roman glass!’

Polly examined it. Roman it wasn’t; in fact it was an early twentieth-century medicine bottle. She laid it beside her own
growing pile of excavated alcohol bottles. That the Oakeshott gardeners of the Edwardian period were prone to heavy drinking
on duty was the picture she was starting to build up. The Oakeshott of the past, it seemed, was not today’s businesslike working
estate cum tourist honeypot bristling with shops and cafés and run by its ducal owner with military zeal.

Polly had met the Duke of Shropshire for the first time yesterday; he had stopped by the dig and revealed nothing of his reported
disappointment with the excavation. On the contrary, he had been charm itself. A tall, handsome man with grey hair and pronounced
aquiline features, he had positively blazed with self-confidence yet treated the children with no hint of condescension. He
had not missed a beat when Kyle had asked if he had a dungeon he tortured prisoners in. And when he had turned to Polly, His
Grace had a definite twinkle in his eye.

‘You’re a very gorgeous archaeologist,’ he had said, rather suggestively, which had made her blush and the children nudge
each other.

Polly had returned determinedly to brushing soil off bricks with a toothbrush and ignoring the occasional giggles from the
small helpers in the corner. She could not quite shake off the feeling that the Duke had been laughing at her. Glamorous?
Her? The squint had been corrected now, but the feeling of having had it could never quite be removed, nor the memories of
being teased at school entirely eradicated. Every time she looked in the mirror, whatever she was wearing, however elegant
her hair, it was Boz Eyes who looked back. And probably always would.

Archaeology was not glamorous either. It meant being out in all weathers, either broiled like a lobster in sunshine, as now,
or fending off the lashing wind and rain in voluminous nylon boiler suits, your hair flattened by a hard hat and your face
as raw as an Arctic fisherman’s. You got covered in mud, even in your ears and up your nose, your nails became split and your
hands became roughened, hard and even bleeding. You ached constantly. Archaeology and drop-dead gorgeousness were, in Polly’s
experience, mutually exclusive. Apart from in Jake’s case, of course . . .

‘Have the children behaved?’

Polly was glad of the interruption. An assertive-looking woman in a red dress had materialised at the side of the pit. It
was the primary school headmistress, Mrs Butcher, come to reclaim her charges. Polly clambered to her feet, smiling. She liked
Mrs Butcher and her obvious ambition for her pupils. She alone among the heads of local schools had spotted the potential
a real live Roman dig offered the children and had moved like the wind to secure permission to visit.

Mrs Butcher’s state primary was obviously very short of money; the small numbers who visited Polly were governed by how many
could fit into the headmistress’s car. Polly had once asked whether a school minibus would be a good idea, and Mrs Butcher
had given a short laugh and said it would indeed, as would the equally likely prospect of a school opera house.

‘They’ve been great,’ Polly said, straightening up.

‘We’ve been learning all about . . .
toilets
!’ Kyle put in, to hysterical squeals from the others. He was silenced by one look from Mrs Butcher.

‘Sorry, Mrs B,’ he muttered, reddening as he tried to dust the mud from his knees.

‘Say thank you to Miss Stevenson,’ Mrs Butcher instructed in her firm, friendly voice.

‘Polly, please,’ Polly insisted. ‘They’re a very bright bunch,’ she added.

‘They are when you can engage them,’ the headmistress agreed. ‘When you can get them off the subject of their Xboxes and Nintendos.’
Her red breast heaved in a sigh.

Polly grinned. ‘The Romans can hold their own, though. Kyle couldn’t believe it when I explained that they had an empire and
a republic, not to mention a senate. He thought all that came from
Star Wars
.’

Mrs Butcher’s warm brown eyes were rueful. ‘I wish we could do more about the Romans at school,’ she confessed. ‘But I have
some very forceful governors –
very
forceful – and the curriculum committee insisted there was no point studying classical civilisations as they have no relevance
to modern life.’

‘But,’ Polly began, as amazed as she was outraged, ‘they’ve
every
relevance. They’re the foundation of
everything
. They’re—’

Mrs Butcher held up one small, capable hand. ‘I know! And I agree. But there’s nothing much I can do – apart from bring the
children here, of course. Even if it’s only a few of them.’

Polly’s burning indignation switched to a burning generosity. ‘Well I could always come to the school and give a talk or something,’
she offered. ‘Roman loos seem to go down well. As it were. Perhaps.’

‘That would be brilliant,’ Mrs Butcher agreed enthusiastically. ‘You’re a wonderful role model. It would be a real eye-opener
for them to see someone young, fun and attractive who’s making a career out of an academic discipline. Most of the girls want
to be Cheryl Cole.’

‘I’m not sure how much of a career it is,’ Polly said ruefully. ‘I’ve got to finish my degree, then somehow finance three
more years of postgrad study with no definite job at the end of it. The only example I might be setting them is of a lifetime
of debt and unemployment.’

‘No worse than they get at home, then,’ Mrs Butcher said robustly. ‘Some of our kids come from families who think it’s normal
to be on benefits for your whole working life. I’ll find you an assembly slot. I’d better go,’ she added, with a
mock-exasperated glance at the children, now skidding up and down the gravelled path bordering the lawn and sending arcs of
tiny pebbles sailing through the sunny air. ‘Thank you again, Polly, if I may. I’m Aurelia, by the way.’

Aurelia
, Polly thought, as she watched the headmistress steer her charges decisively down the path. Latin for gold. She wouldn’t
have expected the forthright Mrs B to have so elaborate a name. Another example of the surprises archaeology revealed.

It was quiet in the gardens, almost deafeningly so now the children had gone. Together with their forceful headmistress, they
seemed to have taken the energy with them. Polly felt suddenly listless, and thinking of the long cycle ride home only made
her feel worse. She had only herself to blame; Dad had offered to drop her off on his way to work and pick her up on his return.
But she had insisted on making the daily journey to Oakeshott and back on Mrs Pankhurst, her ancient, doughty university bike.
Mrs Pankhurst had no gears, weighed a ton and bore the relationship to a normal bicycle that a medicine ball does to a football.
She was, however, the best possible defence against Mum’s irresistible syrup puddings.

Polly closed her eyes and breathed in the perfumed air from the flowers around her. Dozy bees, their back legs thick with
pollen, buzzed in heavy, desultory fashion. Even now, at the end of the afternoon, the sun still blazed from a cloudless blue
sky. It was hot. Too hot to be thinking of cycling off just yet.

Now the little ones were gone, she could remove the white shirt she wore over her vest top. As the cotton peeled away, she
felt the warm air settle deliciously on her exposed skin.

Slowly she began to gather together the tools the children had used. Occasionally she glanced up. Afternoon was the most beautiful
time of day at Oakeshott, and today was lovelier even than usual. On the lawns behind Polly, dazzling stripes of sunlight
and the long shadows of trees stretched across shimmering grass. Before her, the afternoon sunshine blazed on to the front
of the
magnificent house, picking out the ripe fruit in the horns of plenty, the heaving breasts of the goddesses and the muscled
thighs of the gods. From the centre of the private knot garden to the side of the house rose a great fountain, its spume sparkling
in the light.

What was that? A scrabbling noise. A panting. Something big. Something behind her.

Polly twisted round. To her horror, a large brown Labrador dog, apparently materialising from nowhere, had jumped down over
the edge of the lawn into her pit, and was frantically digging with big, swift paws right in the middle of her neat excavation.
Soil flew over its heaving shoulders; the stakes and string, uprooted, lay tangled in the dirt.

‘Stop it, you beast!’ Polly stumbled towards the animal. ‘Stop it!’ She tugged with all her strength on the dog’s collar,
but he proved immovable as a block of stone. He was a big creature to start with; the muscles moved smoothly under his shiny
chocolate coat, and to his size and weight was added the extra force of sheer determination. ‘Stop it, you
horrid
dog!’ Polly yelled, further enraged by the sun in her eyes, feeling the sweat bead her brow as she continued yanking to no
effect.

The strong light was suddenly blocked; Polly heard a thud and the crunch of heels on soil. Someone else was in the pit.

Looking up, she was fixed by a gaze from two deep-set dark eyes, and felt a searing sensation through her lower insides like
the passage of a bullet. She had a strange feeling of things slowing down. Realising that her mouth was slightly open, she
shut it. She felt winded somehow.

‘Sorry about the dog,’ he said. He was, she estimated, a good foot and a half taller than her and about the same age. He wore
an ancient check shirt and torn jeans, and his dark hair had a wild and undisciplined look, as if he often raked it deep in
thought, or clutched it in despair or excitement. Polly was suddenly, hideously aware of her tiny vest top, exposing cleavage
and midriff, and the fact that she wore no bra.

‘Your dog has made a complete mess of this site,’ she snapped. In her agony of self-consciousness, attack was the only defence.

‘I know. Sorry.’

He had thick lashes, she noticed, irrationally. His nose was long and straight and his mouth was wide and curved upwards at
the ends, as if it smiled a lot.

The dog had not stopped for a moment. His nose remained on the ground and his paws continued as a scrabbling blur. Polly glared
at him, exasperated.

‘He must have buried a bone there,’ the stranger suggested. His words sent a blinding flash of light through Polly. She dived
for her rubbish bag and dragged out the bone, to which a banana skin from Poppy’s lunch adhered.

‘This one?’ She chucked it at the dog, who fell on it with a growl of delight.

‘Looks like it.’ The stranger was smiling. ‘Unless it’s someone you dug up earlier?’

‘It’s a cow bone. The children found it.’ Polly seized her rake and scraped agitatedly at the ground. What was the matter
with her? She frowned and stared at the earth, unable quite to pinpoint why, suddenly, she felt as churned up as it looked.

‘Let me help tidy up,’ he was offering.

Polly shook her head. ‘I’m fine on my own.’

‘But . . .’

She looked him in the eye, finally. ‘Just take your dog away,’

she said in a low, steady voice. ‘
Please
.’

He shrugged shoulders that were wide but not bulky. His build was tall, rangy, slim-hipped. ‘OK. If that’s what you want.’

Was it what she wanted? She tore her glance away, feeling a churning in her breast. A warmth that had nothing to do with the
sunshine burned in her cheeks. What she definitely didn’t want, under any circumstances, was another good-looking, arrogant,
brilliant, self-confident bastard like Jake.

It had been a sunny summer morning by the river in Oxford; the trees were full of light and shimmered gently in the slight
breeze. The dew made the grass dance with colour, tiny glassy drops of pink, blue and yellow, as if someone the night before
had carelessly let fall a shower of diamonds.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ Jake had said, looking down on her from his towering height and swinging her hand as they walked
along.

‘Sure you are.’ Polly had grinned. Jake, in the year above her and his course’s star student, was going on a prestigious Roman
dig in the South of France for the summer, unearthing the foundations of what promised to be a temple. What was probably unearthable,
undiscoverable, Polly thought, was how Miranda had managed to land a place on it too. Miranda, in Jake’s year, was celebrated
less for her grasp of Roman worship sites than for turning up to digs in pink Hunter wellies and a leopardskin bikini.

Jake had been outraged when, teasingly, tacitly, Polly had suggested that Miranda might try to seduce him. ‘I’m only warning
you,’ she had protested. Beneath the tumble of golden hair Jake’s fine blond brows had drawn together in annoyance. Miranda,
he explained, was a mere site bunny, the sort who infuriated the serious archaeologists by getting hand cream all over the
digging tools. How could he ever be interested in someone like that?

Polly had been reassured. Until that evening, when she had gone round to Jake’s college rooms unannounced and found an unscheduled
piece of field work in full swing. Jake had been too occupied, groaning ecstatically as Miranda worked on an exposed site
between his muscular legs, to notice Polly’s white face as it stared, appalled, through the half-open bedroom door.

Too shocked to make a scene, she had reeled away down the narrow, twisting stairs. Next day, the university term over, she
had gone home. After leaving messages – unanswered – on her mobile, Jake had called her at her parents’, only to receive an
indignant earful from Dad, who had gathered the gist, if not the details, of what had happened. After that, all communication
had ceased. The relationship was buried for ever. Archaeologist though she was, Polly had no intention of raking over this
particular bit of the past. None of which, of course, meant that what had happened had not hurt.