Chapter 12
A week later, on Sunday night, Gemma was lying on the sofa watching television, filing her nails and doing Wordle.
Adam’s leaving had gifted her an annoying abundance of hyperactivity, as though if she let herself relax for a minute and do just one thing at a time, she’d remember just how alone she was.
A message from Phyllida about mudlarking made her sit up.
You’ll never guess what I found yesterday!
Gemma replied. Let me try. A Tudor coin? It could be anything, of course, yet Phyllida sounded excited.
I wish, Phyllida replied.
A Roman roof tile?
No.
This could go on all night. Not that she’d have minded, not in the least. I might need a clue.
Maybe I misled you with my overly excited first text. It’s not that rare or desirable. It’s a coffee and chicory essence bottle from the 1940s. Completely intact, half-buried at the waterline. Phyllida sent a photo of an iridescent green-glass bottle.
That’s beautiful, Gemma replied.
I have another question … Phyllida let her statement hang expectantly in the air.
Gemma waited.
Then, I can’t stop thinking about the idea of being in a club. I know that one attraction of mudlarking is its introverted nature, but there’s knowledge, support and sociability to be gained in doing things in numbers, isn’t there? What if we started our own?
The only clubs Gemma had ever been involved with were the Girl Guides when she was a child, but that was only for a year, plus the Nurses’ Union and that didn’t count.
You see, I’m on long-service leave and don’t know what to do with myself! Phyllida added.
Gemma put her phone down. She needed a moment to consider Phyllida’s suggestion.
Did she want to be part of a club? She picked up the nail file and turned back to the TV.
She was watching a reality show set on an island where only those with toned muscles and fake tans were allowed on.
It fascinated her. Stupid really. Perhaps it was the trainwreck nature of the relationships, albeit manipulated and scripted by the producers, which made it entertaining.
Or perhaps it was because it meant she didn’t have to think about her own relationship in which she felt as abandoned and cut up as Adam’s sock.
What occurred to Gemma as she watched the pretence and play of the show was that the contestants had been thrown together with people they’d never met before.
They could be whoever they wanted to be.
Gemma had no desire to be someone she wasn’t nor to flaunt herself to get the attention of others, yet being part of something where you shared a common interest did appeal.
Where other members knew nothing about you.
Where she didn’t have to feel lonely all of the time.
Here she was having another quiet evening on her own.
Mel had messaged earlier in the week to invite her to a dinner party.
But she’d declined on the basis she’d have been the only single person, and that two of Adam’s friends were also going to be there, and she was far from ready for that kind of social event.
The sound of her phone ringing cut through her thoughts. It was Phyllida! How keen she was on the idea, while Gemma was still mulling it over.
‘Oh, great, you’re still here,’ Phyllida said when she answered. ‘Did you see my last text? I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I’m suddenly excited by the idea and I don’t want to let it go. Of course, I don’t want to push you into doing something you don’t want to do …’
Well, she kind of was, but Gemma also found that she didn’t mind.
‘So, what do you think about starting a club?’
‘I do like the concept,’ Gemma said.
‘We could meet once a month and have a show and tell. Maybe in a pub, and we could go on mudlarking excursions as well. It’d be like a book club, but instead of books as our common bond, it’d be mud and what we find beneath it.
Anyone could join, even total newbies. Do you know other mudlarkers who’d like it, too?
’ Phyllida was breathless with enthusiasm.
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Me neither!’ Phyllida said as if it was hilarious. ‘But we could recruit, couldn’t we? I’ve had years in sales and marketing. It’d be a cinch. Shall we do it?’
Phyllida’s eagerness was a little confronting, but it was also infectious.
‘I suppose what I’m saying is,’ Phyllida continued, ‘if I started one, I’d need at least one other person. Would that be you?’
Although Gemma wasn’t prone to making spontaneous decisions, let alone ones with people she hardly knew, she said yes.
Monday morning, Gemma thought she was going to miss her usual train again.
She’d got into the habit of going to bed late and sleeping through her alarm, even when she hadn’t been mudlarking during the night.
But this week, of all weeks, she couldn’t afford to be late as they were due an unprecedented number of patients and were understaffed.
There was no time for breakfast and she had to run to the station. She only just got on the train, seconds before the doors closed. She paused to get her breath back, then searched for an empty seat. She spotted Timothy sitting on his own, looking dapper in a jacket and bow tie.
‘You’re cutting it fine,’ he said.
‘I know.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘I really have to do something about my tardiness. Are you off to the museum?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a training day to brush up on our tour guide skills. I was hoping I’d see you again. I wanted to check that you were all right after I saw you by the river.’
‘Thank you, I’m fine. Perfectly fine.’
Timothy studied her as he might an Old Master painting, which was a little disconcerting because she couldn’t be sure what he’d discover. ‘Have you been mudlarking again?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I might be getting addicted,’ she whispered.
‘Ah, yes, the adrenalin buzz of the find. Nothing like it.’
‘I met someone the other day who wants to start a mudlarking club.’
‘What a wonderful idea.’
Now, it was Gemma’s turn to study Timothy. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in coming along, would you?’
He looked surprised. ‘Me? But I don’t mudlark anymore.’
‘You’ve done it, though, and you love history.
This woman, Phyllida, thinks there should be a club that’s totally inclusive, for amateurs rather than experts, from newcomers to regulars.
Where we can share our knowledge and finds, and chat about mudlarking.
Anyway, you wouldn’t necessarily have to mudlark.
You could bring along things you’ve found in the past and, if nothing else, you might be able to give us some tips. ’
Gemma realised her enthusiasm for having Timothy come along was for her own benefit as much as it was to help Phyllida boost numbers. The thought of socialising with complete strangers generally made her anxious.
‘I wasn’t sure initially,’ Gemma said. ‘But Phyllida was very persuasive. I should also warn you that there’s only two of us at the moment. Hardly a proper club.’
‘So, who is this Phyllida?’
‘All I know about her is that she’s on leave from work, has a son and is very keen.’ Gemma let out a nervous giggle. It was beginning to sound random and strange.
‘Except you know she loves mudlarking and that’s all that matters.’
‘True. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘if you did want to take it up again and were worried about your back, I can recommend a good pair of kneepads so you could do it on all fours.’
‘I may never get up again.’ Timothy laughed.
‘Our first meeting is in two weeks,’ Gemma said. ‘Phyllida suggested the appropriately named Mudlark Pub by London Bridge. If nothing else, we’ll have a drink and a chat and see how it goes. You’re more than welcome to join us.’
‘Why not?’ Timothy said. ‘It could be a hoot.’
May Discoveries:
Another nail – rusted – which I think is handmade and from a nineteenth-century ship, although I can’t be certain.
A late eighteenth-century pewter button with a beautiful rainbow patina.
A tarnished 1996 penny (shame it wasn’t a rare 1933 penny!).
Two blue medical face masks that went straight into the bin.
A green-glazed medieval pottery sherd, which unfortunately is too large to fit into the printer’s tray Joe gave me.
An indeterminate iron bar that disconcertingly I imagined using on Adam.
I had to quickly walk away from it to banish the thought.
Then finally – and this was beautifully unexpected – a new friend who shares my love of mudlarking.