Chapter 20
‘I don’t know how you guys find the things you do in all this rubble.’ Nick had hurried to catch up with her as if interpreting Phyllida’s use of the word ‘trail’ as tailgate. ‘I mean look at this,’ he continued. ‘It’s like the ruins of an industrial wasteland.’
‘I know,’ Gemma agreed. ‘To the uninitiated, it looks like a wild mess of rocks and rubble and mud, even though you’re likely to find more objects from domestic life than from industry.’ She carried on walking.
‘It’s like the archaeological dig that’s near here, the one I’ve been covering,’ Nick said, keeping pace. ‘The developers of the building site uncovered a four-bedroom Roman house with pottery, coins, copper bowls … Even gaming counters.’
‘Mmm, incredible,’ she said, becoming distracted by the river and mildly irritated by Nick’s chatter.
But he wasn’t to be subdued. ‘I’d have loved to have broken that story.
Since I lost my full-time gig, I’ve been working part-time for a small paper and taking on freelance jobs whenever I can.
Which usually means you get the stories no one else wants.
Apart from the dig. I made sure I got that one. ’
‘Oh, right.’ Gemma looked longingly across the beach, wondering which spot she’d claim as hers. She may have agreed to come as a group but she still wanted the chance to mudlark by herself.
‘Just quietly,’ he whispered, moving closer to her. ‘I hammed up the size and professionalism of The Mudlarkers’ Club to give me an edge, so I’d get to write the story on the two-thousand-year-old Roman house. Don’t tell Phyllida.’
She turned to him. ‘Did you?’ She didn’t know whether to admire his chutzpah or feel a little bit used on behalf of the club.
He laughed. ‘A journo’s gotta do what a journo’s gotta do.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve covered some interesting stories and met some fascinating people,’ she said, starting down the access stairs.
‘And some utter bores.’ Nick followed. ‘You meet all types in my job.’
‘Okay, I’m going over here.’ Gemma pointed to a patch of stones where the foreshore bulged into the river.
‘Yeah, good point, we’re meant to be mudlarking! Sorry if I’m talking too much.’ Nick mimed the zipping up of his mouth.
Gemma smiled. She shouldn’t really criticise his high spirits because, if anything, she envied them.
‘It’s okay. I’m happy to chat on a break.
The thing with mudlarking is that it’s as much about the serenity as it is about what you uncover.
On a good day, I hear nothing. The silence is bliss.
But when it’s not going well, I hear everything. My thoughts can be the worst of all.’
‘I get it.’ Nick nodded. ‘It’s like when I’m engrossed in my writing, that’s all I’m focused on. The words, the hook, the story, the drama, the climax …’ His words trailed away as did his gaze.
Gemma pulled out a new set of gloves from her rucksack, thin black latex ones to replace the Marigolds, which had developed a split in one finger.
She paused for a moment and looked to the sky.
A dragonfly flew into her frame and hovered, its wings a blur of motion.
Immediately, the tension in her shoulders eased and a sense of calmness came over her.
‘How about I go over here?’ Nick said. ‘Close but not too close, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ Gemma placed her rucksack on a dry rock, then lowered her head and zoned in on the mud and the jumble of rust, grey and white stones drying out in the sun.
Despite being part of a group, once she’d started, it was easier than she’d thought to block out everything around her and disappear into a world of her own private time travel.
Here, the mud was drier and more densely covered in stones and broken brick.
After a period of standing, she sat on a large rock – a remnant perhaps of the river’s shipping industry – and let her eyes roam.
‘Hey, I think I’ve found something,’ Nick called out after only a few minutes. ‘Is this anything?’ He held up a small, round object.
‘I can’t tell from here,’ she said. ‘Keep it and I’ll have a look later.’
He pulled out a string of green dog poop bags from his back pocket, as if he was about to do a magic trick with a scarf. He saw her watching. ‘I didn’t have any other bags,’ he explained louder than necessary. ‘Darryl didn’t mind.’
‘Darryl?’
‘My dog,’ Nick said as if he needed to clarify, when really she’d been questioning its suitability as a dog’s name. ‘He’s Ella’s dog, but I love him as if he were mine.’
After only a few seconds, Nick started up again. ‘Have you ever found anything really valuable?’
Gemma closed her eyes for a moment. Nick may be good company, but right then she wished he’d be quiet.
‘Sorry, there I go again.’
Just then, next to a chunk of terracotta rock, Gemma spotted something mustard coloured. She bent over and pulled it from the mud.
‘What is it?’ Nick asked.
Gemma turned the shard over, felt the smooth glaze on one side and the rougher ceramic on the other. ‘It’s a piece of pottery. Yellow Staffordshire slipware.’
‘How old?’
‘Eighteenth century, I think.’
‘Wow …’ he said with such wonder. You’d have thought she’d found something rare – a perfectly preserved bone-handled Tudor knife, perhaps. ‘What do you think it could have been? A jug or a bowl?’
‘A royal chamber pot, I’d say.’
‘Ew? Really?’ He pulled a face.
‘Could have been.’
‘You mean someone pissed on this thing? Like a real king or something?’
‘And then he had his bum wiped by the Groom of the Stool.’ She chewed her cheeks to stop herself from smiling.
‘You’re having me on.’
She burst out laughing.
‘I thought I was meant to be learning from you!’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’
‘Just so you know, you’re a terrible liar.’
‘I only made up the bit about the chamber pot. The Groom of the Stool really existed.’
‘Yikes.’
‘Come on, let’s get back to mudlarking.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got to find something really good to show everyone at the end,’ Nick said, as if mudlarking had turned into a competitive sport.
After an hour, Gemma found herself at the high moss-covered wall which protected the city from the river. There, Laila was sitting, sketching.
‘Sick of mudlarking already?’ Gemma asked, ready for a break herself.
‘It’s okay. But I like drawing.’
‘Cool,’ Gemma said and immediately regretted it. Do seventeen-year-olds still say ‘cool’?
The scratching of Laila’s pencil shading was nearly as loud as the birds. Gemma noticed a tattoo on the underside of her right forearm, just before the elbow crease. It was an outline of a rabbit with the word ‘Nuts’ inked along one of its ears.
‘Do you mind if I sit here for a minute?’ she asked.
Laila shook her head. Gemma sat down and took out the Thermos from her rucksack. ‘Tea?’
‘No, thanks.’
Gemma poured herself a cup and sipped it slowly, looking out to the river and beyond, to the modern high-rise buildings on the other side. Timothy was walking slowly away from them in a westerly direction.
‘Did you know that hobbies are a gift that came about from the industrial age in the nineteenth century?’ Gemma had no idea why she was trying to be educational, particularly not to a teenager who’d been playing truant.
But somehow, she felt the need to engage with her, in case Laila was hating every minute of being there.
‘Well,’ said Laila. ‘Did you know that wealthy people have always had hobbies? Cleopatra spoke nine languages.’
‘Did she?’
‘Really,’ Laila said, as if Gemma needed convincing.
‘What are you drawing?’
Laila showed Gemma a detailed sketch of the city skyline across the river.
‘I love it! You’re really talented,’ Gemma said.
Laila shrugged. Getting information out of her was like trying to find a completely intact clay pipe: almost impossible.
‘Your grandad’s a lovely man, isn’t he? Do you call him grandad?’ Gemma wasn’t going to give up yet.
‘Sometimes I call him Gramps. Or Grumps to wind him up. He’s not my real grandad, though.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I call my mum “Mum”, even though she’s not my birth mother.’
‘Were you adopted?’ Laila looked at Gemma as if she’d suddenly gone up in her estimation.
Gemma nodded. ‘Names can be names for reasons other than logical ones. My grandmother on my mother’s side insisted we call her “yia yia” even though we have no Greek heritage. She just liked the whole Mediterranean thing. And feta. There was always lots of feta in her fridge.’
‘Is that your adoptive grandmother or your biological one?’
‘Adoptive.’
‘So, you could actually be Greek.’
‘I suppose.’ That was food for thought. ‘I like feta, too.’
‘Do Greeks have freckles?’
Gemma looked at Laila and started laughing. ‘I guess that answers the question then,’ she said.
Laila supressed a giggle. Perhaps giggling was uncool.
‘Did you know that Gramps has another hobby he loves as much if not more than mudlarking?’ Laila said.
Gemma recalled Timothy once mentioning another pastime of his, but she couldn’t remember if he’d ever told her what it was.
‘You won’t believe it,’ Laila said.
‘Won’t I?’
‘Nah.’ Laila shook her head. ‘It’s cross stitching. Something to do with learning to darn socks when he was a kid. He does these super detailed scenes, and he’s really good.’ Laila overemphasised ‘really’ in a way only teenagers can. ‘I love that he’s challenging gender stereotypes.’
‘I’d never have picked that.’
‘You can’t make assumptions. That’s what Gramps always tells me.
Never judge a book by its cover. I don’t, anyway, because I don’t read.
Don’t like it,’ Laila said in a slightly sullen way that implied there was more to it than that.
Then, she went back to her drawing. But curiosity clearly got the better of her because she started up again. ‘Do you know your birth mother?’