Chapter 46
On the last Saturday of the month, The Mudlarkers’ Club arranged to meet in front of the Old Naval College at Greenwich.
Phyllida had suggested they head east down the river, further than they’d been before.
This time, Timothy said he was able to make it, but Laila couldn’t.
She had to study for a school test, Timothy explained with obvious delight, which gave Gemma a similar burst of pride.
It was mid-morning, and Gemma was the first to arrive.
The Thames had started to inch slowly and rhythmically away from the high-tide line.
In an hour and a half the river would be at its lowest. She sat at the top of the steps leading to Greenwich beach and looked out at the grey foreshore and the last remaining timber piles of a medieval jetty.
A few minutes later, Nick sat down next to her. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
‘Fancy,’ she said.
‘Nice boots,’ he said, nodding at her footwear.
‘I’ll be the envy of the club.’ She stretched out a leg to admire the floral wellingtons Nick had gifted her. ‘How’s Darryl? Have you had him to stay yet?’
‘Next weekend. I can’t wait.’
‘I bet he’ll love going mudlarking, too,’ Gemma said.
‘Yeah, all these river smells,’ Nick agreed.
‘What else has been happening?’
‘This and that.’ Nick paused as if not sure whether to elaborate. ‘I’m not seeing the prof anymore.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, hoping to disguise her delight.
‘We had some good times and she’s really interesting—’ He paused.
Gemma waited for the ‘but’.
‘I don’t want to be critical, but she was quite intense.’
‘She was passionate about her specialist subject matter,’ Gemma said to be conciliatory. ‘That isn’t always a bad thing.’
‘I agree, but sometimes I like things light, you know, and she didn’t even laugh at my jokes. Not like you.’
Gemma felt a warm glow radiate inside her. ‘Well, that’s rude.’
‘Very,’ he replied. ‘Also, she wasn’t very spontaneous, which you don’t have to be all the time but some of the time would be nice.’
‘I dated someone like that once,’ Gemma said. ‘He’d virtually hyperventilate if plans had to change. He was a sweet guy, too. I always wondered what happened to him.’
Suddenly, there was a raucous ‘Yoo-hoo’ from down the street. Phyllida was walking with Timothy, holding his folding stool.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Timothy said. ‘I can’t walk as fast these days.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Nick said. ‘We were just enjoying a moment taking in the sights and sounds.’
‘I was telling Timothy how I thought we should make our way east first,’ Phyllida said. ‘We could have a tea break in front of the Trafalgar pub, then continue to the pier before turning back. But Timothy, you must take all the breaks you need and go at your own pace.’
‘Thank you, Phyllida. To be honest, I don’t mind what we do, I’m just so pleased to be back out in the fresh air surrounded by history with you young people.’
‘Let me carry the stool.’ Nick gestured for Phyllida to give it to him, and he led the way down the steps onto the damp beach rubble. The rains of the previous few days had finally moved on and the sky was unusually clear for late October.
Nick set up the stool a few metres away from where they were going to start mudlarking, and Phyllida offered around Werther’s Originals as though they were at the cinema.
‘I haven’t had these for years,’ Timothy said.
‘They’re Robert’s favourites.’
‘How’s it going with you two now?’ Nick asked Phyllida.
‘Much, much better, thank you. We’ve still a way to go but the boat has righted itself and the seas are calmer.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ Gemma said.
‘Now, shall we start?’
Mindful of each other’s personal space, they spread out across the beach.
Nick, now more confident in his mudlarking skills, strode off towards a spot that appeared to be strewn with animal bones.
Phyllida went down to the gently lapping shoreline, cloudy with mud.
While Timothy hung back, aware, Gemma assumed, of his slower, more tentative walking.
Gemma chose a spot in the middle of the foreshore where firm mud met pebbles and flinty bits of stone and concentrated her gaze on what lay before her.
She let her thoughts mimic the water, coming in and going out in their own uninterrupted rhythm.
Gemma’s first find was an orange brick which was blotchy with mud and had two initials carved into it.
She didn’t fancy lugging home a brick but did wonder who its maker was and what she might find out about it.
Could it have come from the original Tudor Palace of Palentia?
A few years ago, archaeologists found remains beneath the Old Royal Naval College.
Gemma’s imagination did a little skip and a hop back to the past. She didn’t care whether she was wildly off the mark and in reality was holding an uninteresting mass-produced twentieth-century brick.
She took a photo so she could find out more later and carefully returned it to the silt.
She ignored an upturned supermarket trolley and picked up a ring of wire from a champagne bottle and an abandoned vape to dispose of later. Apart from finding a Victorian button with an anchor on it and some pins, she didn’t discover anything else of interest.
Following Phyllida’s instruction, The Mudlarkers’ Club reassembled in front of the riverside facade of the Trafalgar pub.
‘Right, you lot,’ Phyllida said. ‘What have you got?’
Timothy held up a curved tusk with tortoiseshell markings the length of a long finger. ‘I think it’s from a boar. Their meat was popular with the medieval crowd.’
‘All I’ve got is this bit of pottery whose size is the only thing going for it,’ Nick said.
‘It looks like a piece of red earthenware mould that was once used to make loaves of sugar,’ Timothy added.
‘Interesting. I’m going to look that up when I get home,’ Nick said. ‘What about you, Gem?’
Gemma held up her button.
‘Sweet,’ Phyllida said. ‘My finds aren’t very inspiring, I’m afraid. A bent spoon, an empty lentil can and a car wing mirror.’
‘The day’s not over yet,’ Nick said.
‘True.’ Phyllida got up and stretched. ‘The tide’s still on the way out so I’m going to get back to it.’
‘Good luck.’ Nick pulled out two cans of energy drink from his bag. ‘Anyone want one?’
‘Why not?’ Timothy said.
‘No thanks, I’ve got tea,’ Gemma said.
‘Hey, are you back at the museum yet, Timothy?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, last weekend. I was put on the “hands-on desk” which was a godsend as I didn’t have to be on my feet the whole time. You should come along to a Friday night Spotlight tour. They’re only twenty minutes and focus on a key object in the museum.’
Nick looked at Gemma as if to say, ‘We’d like to go, wouldn’t we?’ As though he was still in his pretend role of husband. Even so, she wouldn’t mind going if he asked.
‘Sure, it sounds great.’ She got up and brushed grit off her jeans. ‘That’s me done. I’m going to join Phyllida.’
Leaving Nick and Timothy to finish their drinks, Gemma found a spot on her own down by the shoreline, where the movement of the river created clumps of tiny bubbles in the water that popped excitedly, then dispersed.
Every so often Nick’s laughter bounced down to her like skipping stones stopping at her feet.
It made her smile. Phyllida, in her all-in-one khaki overalls and hat, was so far away that she’d taken on the appearance of a plastic toy soldier.
Gemma couldn’t tell if she was talking to herself or singing.
Either way, she seemed happier and less on edge than Gemma had seen her for a while. And this pleased Gemma no end.
Making her way in the other direction, where the river began to curve like a fishbowl, Gemma found a spot where the tideline had left a clear undulating pattern in the pebbles.
She got down on her hands and knees and scanned the ground in front of her as she crawled along.
The mud smelt earthy and pungent, and the water felt cold even with gloves on.
Everything was grey, the river, the rocks, the sky.
It was a monochrome autumn day where not even the smatterings of red-tile chips on the foreshore could liven it up.
She lifted the occasional rock and poked at objects that could have been something but weren’t. Waves came in and waves went out.
Then, a new wave washed in and when it retreated, there it was: a heart-shaped, hollow brooch rimmed with pearly stones, whose gold shone brightly, luridly even, against the drabness of the ground.
Gemma pulled it from the mud and let another wave clean it.
She held the brooch to the sky. Even though it was no longer in the water and the sun wasn’t out, it dazzled like a piece of costume jewellery.
The horizontal pin had lost its catch, yet it looked as if it could still be worn.
It was hard to tell its age. It may have been a modern piece made to appear old, or it could have been Victorian.
There was something special about finding other people’s jewellery.
It was personal and emotive; sometimes sentimental, sometimes sad.
Maybe this could be her thing, Gemma wondered.
Like Phyllida’s penchant for glass, she could specialise in collecting jewellery, gemstones and beads, old or new it didn’t matter.
She bagged up the brooch and put it in a side pocket of her rucksack.
Two hours went by as if they’d only been fifteen minutes.
On a flatter, sandier part of the beach, close to the tall mossy wall, they gathered for another show and tell.
They placed their finds carefully and with thought on the sand, as if they were making art.
Nick helped Timothy lay his out, as kneeling wasn’t so much the problem as was getting up again.
When everyone had finished, they stepped back to admire their work and studied each other’s collections like they were in a gallery and their works were for sale.
However, it was obvious which object they were all drawn to. Gemma’s golden brooch illuminated the mud like a shiny foil wrapper among a pile of drab rubbish.
Phyllida noticed it first. ‘Well, look at this!’ she exclaimed. ‘I nearly bought something similar by a jeweller who specialises in making historical-style jewellery. Beautiful pieces but eye-wateringly expensive.’
‘There are letters engraved on the back,’ Gemma said. ‘H-A-M-A-T-A.’
‘May I see?’ Timothy said.
Gemma passed the brooch to Timothy who was sitting on his fold-up stool.
‘The gold is very yellow, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Garish, if you ask me,’ Nick added.
‘I think it’s fake, don’t you?’ Phyllida said. ‘Not that it matters. Personally, I think it’s gorgeous. You should wear it, Gemma.’
‘Well, I am wearing the ring I found,’ Gemma said sheepishly as if it was wrong to appropriate a find for your own use. She went to show them, but her glove was covering it. ‘It’s got an aquamarine stone.’
But no one was listening. The brooch was still holding their attention.
‘There’s something about it …’ Timothy said.
‘Something Roman, you mean?’ Nick asked eagerly.
‘You and your Roman fixation,’ Phyllida said fondly.
‘One day, Phyll, one day.’
Timothy’s eyes were closed now and he was feeling the weight of it in the palm of his hand.
‘It’s heavy,’ he said. ‘And real gold is weighty. Then again, it could be a metal that’s had a chemical reaction with Mother Nature and is deceiving us into believing it’s gold.
The problem with this hobby is that it’s tempting to start making things up, isn’t it? ’
‘You know, somewhere along my mudlarking journey, I discovered that heart-shaped brooches were popular in Scotland in the sixteenth century as betrothal gifts. Although they were usually silver,’ Phyllida said.
‘Still, we don’t know, do we?’ Nick said.
‘In my job, you can’t believe anything until it’s been verified.
You’ve got to fact-check everything and do it all again just in case.
If we’re only making assumptions about the brooch and if Timothy’s got a funny feeling about it, then it needs to be investigated. ’
‘But guessing is half the fun!’ Phyllida exclaimed. ‘When you get home, google Scottish betrothal gifts.’
‘It’s come a long way if it’s Scottish,’ Gemma said.
‘Who knows how any of this stuff gets in the Thames,’ Timothy said. ‘I do agree with Phyllida, though. You should try and find out its backstory.’
‘One time I thought I’d found a real prosthetic eye—’ Phyllida began.
‘As opposed to a fake one?’ Nick laughed.
Phyllida sighed. ‘My point is, I was convinced it had come from a human. A small human, but still. It was macabre. Until I found out it was a doll’s eye from one of those creepy life-like dolls.’
‘There you go,’ Nick said, as if Phyllida’s story perfectly summed up the importance of research.
‘I could post a photo of it on my Instagram account, if you like?’ Phyllida offered. ‘There might be someone out there who knows something.’
‘Good idea,’ Nick said.
‘Okay.’ Gemma nodded. ‘And I’ll see what I can find out.’
Once at home, Gemma googled the history of heart-shaped brooches in Britain – a topic she’d never entertained having an interest in.
It turned out that Phyllida was correct, the Scottish have had a penchant for them going back as far as the sixteenth century.
Back then, they were simple designs made from silver which everyday people gave as engagement gifts.
It wasn’t until the late nineteenth century that the wealthy took a fancy to them and they become more elaborate, bejewelled and enamelled.
After an hour spent down the rabbit hole of heart-shaped brooches, Gemma eventually re-emerged into the twenty-first century none the wiser.
Even so, she posted an update on The Mudlarkers’ Club group chat to keep them informed.
Then, she did as Phyllida suggested and put the brooch on.
Despite not having a catch its pin was thick and sturdy so Gemma felt confident it wouldn’t fall off.
It looked out of place against her coffee-stained faded blue sweatshirt.
Yet, along with her new ring, it felt as though she was on her way to becoming a walking mudlarkering display case.
October Discoveries:
A barnacle-encrusted early wine bottle. The hand-painted ceramic base of some vessel, which I think might be a teapot, possibly eighteenth century.
A hypodermic needle – yuk. A mystery brooch which is quite fancy but I’m going to wear regardless of the occasion.
Amazingly, my birth mother’s house. I not only got to see inside but came away with a memento of wallpaper scraps which my birth mother may well have chosen and hung.
How much I enjoyed playing sleuth with Nick and how, I have to say, it’s a relief not to feel jealous of Professor Rosie anymore.