‘Being at home not working is frustrating … bloody frustrating. I just want to get out and dig something. Get my bloody spade … start hacking through the dirt.’
‘Aren’t archeologists supposed to exercise a little more finesse?’
‘I’m itching to strip the top-soil from a Roman villa. Then get down to peeling back layers of building rubble right down into the hypocaust. Although at this rate I’ll settle for raking over a wartime cabbage patch.’
‘A first-rate archeologist like you?’ Piet stood up to kiss me on the lips. ‘You’ll soon get another job.’
‘Oh, by the blood of all the hairy-arsed gods of yore, give me something I can get my teeth into. Anything.’ I took a bottle of wine from the rack, then I plunged the corkscrew into the cork as if stabbing the thing. ‘A pristine iron-age settlement – or one of the great henges. Only not another bloody nineteenth-century bottle factory please.’
The cork popping from the bottle seemed to release a strange sound. A scream that rose into a searing squeal. I stared at the bottle. How could removing the cork emit a sound like that?
Piet hurried to the door. ‘Oh, no what’s he done to Woody now?’
I understood. It wasn’t the bottle emitting the shriek: it had come from the dog. For some reason my wife suspected our son of accidentally hurting the animal. We left the house to find Admar kneeling with his arm round Woody’s neck.
Admar hugged the dog while shouting, ‘Stop that! Stop that! I’ll get you back!’ The boy yelled the words in the direction of the orchard at the bottom of the garden.
‘Admar, what’s the matter, honey?’ Piet asked.
‘The man hurt Woody.’
‘Which man? Where is he?’ Now I looked round the garden for an intruder.
Admar’s eyes flashed with rage. ‘He went back over the fence.’ He pointed in the direction of the apple trees.
I ran down through the trees to the bottom of the garden. The fence there is a low one; it’d be easy for an adult to vault over into the farmer’s field beyond. I expected to find a local youth who’d decided to make a nuisance of himself. Only there was nothing but meadow. It ran down to a stream lined with willow. The intruder would have had to run like the wind to reach the cover of the trees. Then maybe they had because I couldn’t see anyone now.
Piet appeared beside me. She held her hand to her eyes as she scanned the field. ‘Anything?’
‘Didn’t see anyone.’
‘Well the bastard hurt the dog. Woody’s bleeding.’
‘Bleeding! Do you think he’s been shot?’
‘I don’t think so. Admar insists the man spat through his hand at Woody.’
I frowned, not following.
‘Admar, said like this.’ She bunched her hand to a fist then pressed it against her lips where the thumb joined onto the hand.
‘Admar didn’t see a weapon?’
She shook her head. ‘Then he was so shocked at seeing Woody hurt that he wouldn’t have thought to look.’
We walked back to where the dog was turning his head back to lick his flank.
‘There’s a small wound.’ I took a closer look. ‘Looks like a puncture.’
‘It might be deep?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s not much blood.’
‘Dad, will Woody die?’ Admar’s eyes teared up. He was a slender boy, with a thick head of hair as dark as his mother’s. He was so slightly built that he resembled a slim adult in miniature, not the hefty Viking-boned boys of my family – or me come to that. Admar had an uncanny knack of mimicry that could make his friends breathless with laughter but right now his face was the image of anxiety for his pet.
I did my best to reassure him. ‘No, he won’t die. What’s more, Woody seems to be taking care of the wound himself.’
Woody turned to look at me when he heard the sound of his name. He licked his lips. I noticed the pink smear of blood on his tongue. The dog appeared calm enough. OK, he’d been hurt, but you could tell from his demeanour that he’d taken
‘Aren’t archeologists supposed to exercise a little more finesse?’
‘I’m itching to strip the top-soil from a Roman villa. Then get down to peeling back layers of building rubble right down into the hypocaust. Although at this rate I’ll settle for raking over a wartime cabbage patch.’
‘A first-rate archeologist like you?’ Piet stood up to kiss me on the lips. ‘You’ll soon get another job.’
‘Oh, by the blood of all the hairy-arsed gods of yore, give me something I can get my teeth into. Anything.’ I took a bottle of wine from the rack, then I plunged the corkscrew into the cork as if stabbing the thing. ‘A pristine iron-age settlement – or one of the great henges. Only not another bloody nineteenth-century bottle factory please.’
The cork popping from the bottle seemed to release a strange sound. A scream that rose into a searing squeal. I stared at the bottle. How could removing the cork emit a sound like that?
Piet hurried to the door. ‘Oh, no what’s he done to Woody now?’
I understood. It wasn’t the bottle emitting the shriek: it had come from the dog. For some reason my wife suspected our son of accidentally hurting the animal. We left the house to find Admar kneeling with his arm round Woody’s neck.
Admar hugged the dog while shouting, ‘Stop that! Stop that! I’ll get you back!’ The boy yelled the words in the direction of the orchard at the bottom of the garden.
‘Admar, what’s the matter, honey?’ Piet asked.
‘The man hurt Woody.’
‘Which man? Where is he?’ Now I looked round the garden for an intruder.
Admar’s eyes flashed with rage. ‘He went back over the fence.’ He pointed in the direction of the apple trees.
I ran down through the trees to the bottom of the garden. The fence there is a low one; it’d be easy for an adult to vault over into the farmer’s field beyond. I expected to find a local youth who’d decided to make a nuisance of himself. Only there was nothing but meadow. It ran down to a stream lined with willow. The intruder would have had to run like the wind to reach the cover of the trees. Then maybe they had because I couldn’t see anyone now.
Piet appeared beside me. She held her hand to her eyes as she scanned the field. ‘Anything?’
‘Didn’t see anyone.’
‘Well the bastard hurt the dog. Woody’s bleeding.’
‘Bleeding! Do you think he’s been shot?’
‘I don’t think so. Admar insists the man spat through his hand at Woody.’
I frowned, not following.
‘Admar, said like this.’ She bunched her hand to a fist then pressed it against her lips where the thumb joined onto the hand.
‘Admar didn’t see a weapon?’
She shook her head. ‘Then he was so shocked at seeing Woody hurt that he wouldn’t have thought to look.’
We walked back to where the dog was turning his head back to lick his flank.
‘There’s a small wound.’ I took a closer look. ‘Looks like a puncture.’
‘It might be deep?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s not much blood.’
‘Dad, will Woody die?’ Admar’s eyes teared up. He was a slender boy, with a thick head of hair as dark as his mother’s. He was so slightly built that he resembled a slim adult in miniature, not the hefty Viking-boned boys of my family – or me come to that. Admar had an uncanny knack of mimicry that could make his friends breathless with laughter but right now his face was the image of anxiety for his pet.
I did my best to reassure him. ‘No, he won’t die. What’s more, Woody seems to be taking care of the wound himself.’
Woody turned to look at me when he heard the sound of his name. He licked his lips. I noticed the pink smear of blood on his tongue. The dog appeared calm enough. OK, he’d been hurt, but you could tell from his demeanour that he’d taken
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