Chapter 50
The soonest Gemma could get to the Museum of London was in her lunchbreak on Monday.
Even though she’d emailed the Finds Liaison Officer over the weekend and she’d yet to hear back, she didn’t want to waste any time waiting for a response.
She wrapped the brooch in multiple layers of bubble wrap, put it in a Ziplock bag and into a zippered pocket in her tote bag.
Then, at work, she secured it in her locker and checked on it regularly in between patients.
She called the museum to see if she could make a last-minute appointment, which, to her relief, she could.
‘Thank you for fitting me in,’ she told the officer. ‘I’ve got something I really want you to look at.’
‘Okay,’ he said with minimal interest. Perhaps he was used to larkers and detectorists believing – wishing – they’d found an item of treasure.
‘We – my mudlarking friends and I – think it’s something important. Well, Nicola Taylor believes it could be something of historical and royal significance.’
‘Oh, you’re Nicola Taylor’s friend?’ He was interested now. ‘She emailed me about this piece. Have you got it?’
Gemma carefully handed the package to the officer and watched him unwrap it. When the brooch revealed itself, he paused, stared at, then turned it over. Gemma held her breath.
‘Huh,’ he said, nodding.
‘Huh?’ she repeated. Was that all he was going to give her?
‘Thank you for bringing this to us,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s beautiful. Intriguing. We’ll conduct a thorough analysis and let you know our hypothesis.’
‘I mean, do you think we could be rushing to conclusions and barking up the wrong tree?’ Gemma said. ‘One of my mother’s dogs actually did that once, it was so dumb. The cat he was barking at was in the neighbouring tree.’ She let out a nervous laugh.
The officer smiled, then became serious again. ‘You could be,’ he said. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. You’ll need to fill out a form with your contact details and information on where you found it.’
‘Oh, I’ve already done that. I emailed it on Saturday.’
‘Excellent. What’s your name?’
‘Gemma Hudson,’ she said with unexpected conviction, for it was the first time she’d said her maiden name out loud since splitting up with Adam.
‘Thank you, Gemma. We’ll be in touch in due course.’
For the rest of that day, Gemma could barely concentrate on a thing. The waiting and wondering were unbearable. She couldn’t stop imagining if what Nicola Taylor had said was true and it was something. Something that no one had ever seen before. Something so rare and valuable …
But no, Gemma had to stop thinking like this. Because Nicola Taylor could also be wrong.
Thankfully, the Museum of London didn’t keep her hanging.
She heard back from them late the following day.
The Finds Liaison Officer was beside himself with excitement because Nicola Taylor’s hypothesis was correct.
The brooch Gemma had unearthed was one hundred per cent twenty-four-carat gold with real pearls.
What’s more, because the inscription and its font matched the personal signature of Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn, they were very confident it was linked to the royals and their marriage.
But why it had survived when Anne’s other jewellery hadn’t and how it ended up in the Thames, they’d yet to understand. If they ever would.
After receiving the Museum of London’s report confirming what they believed to be the provenance of the brooch, Gemma had to sit for a minute to take it all in.
Learning of a hypothesis was entirely different to finding out that the supposition was true.
Gemma could hardly believe it. The brooch she had found was a never-before-seen five-hundred-year-old-artefact made of real gold and real pearls.
She had done something few people get to do.
She had touched treasure. She’d even worn treasure!
It was like she’d been given the opportunity to time travel, albeit briefly, to the past. Now, she wanted to find out all she could about Anne Boleyn and her marriage to Henry the Eighth, to immerse herself in their world.
But first, she must message the club. They’ll be delirious with joy.
Within minutes, their WhatsApp chat went into overdrive.
After that, it took Nick only twenty-four hours to compose a press release and send it to those he knew in the media.
He checked that Gemma and Phyllida were happy with the quotes he’d attributed to them and, in the spirit of The Mudlarkers’ Club, got every member to approve it.
The speed at which all this happened made Gemma dizzy with disbelief and euphoria.
Her symptoms were only to get worse.
On Friday evening, Nick was loitering outside the hospital when she left work.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, shocked to see him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was in the area,’ he said. Then his mouth stretched into a wide grin. ‘More importantly, I need to know if you’re doing anything on the twenty-third?’
‘Next week?’ she asked, wondering why he hadn’t just texted.
‘Yep.’
‘Um …’ She had to think for a minute.
He jumped in. ‘You’re needed on TV.’
‘What?’
‘BBC Breakfast wants to interview you. In person. At their Manchester studios.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘For once, I’m being deadly serious.’
Gemma’s stomach started doing backflips faster than an Olympic gymnast.
‘How great is that?’ he said.
‘I don’t think I can do it.’ She shook her head.
‘Cancel whatever you’ve got on.’
‘It’s not that. It’s … well … me on TV? The thought of it is terrifying.
’ Apart from when she was the hindlegs of a donkey in a school play, Gemma had never been centre stage before.
And this time, it would be her whole self, not just two limbs.
‘Don’t you think Phyllida would be so much better? She’d love the limelight.’
‘But she didn’t find it. Anyway, you’re underestimating yourself. It’ll be just like the interview you did with me. They’ll ask the same sort of questions so you can prepare your answers. The only difference is that you’ll get to sit on a comfy couch and it’ll be filmed.’
‘Yes, broadcast live to the whole country!’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll get tongue-tied and turn mute, I know I will.’
‘You won’t, Gem, you really won’t. You have every right to be on national television and you should own it.’
‘Own it?’
‘Yeah, it’s the opposite of faking it till you make it. Because you haven’t just found history, you’ve made history.’
‘I suppose …’ Gemma felt a sense of Nick-boosted pride swell inside.
‘And don’t worry, I’ll come with you. The whole club will come, I’m sure. The others won’t want to miss out. We can get a train up to Manchester with you the night before.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘Of course! So, can I tell the BBC you’ll do it?’
Gemma looked out at the dark street lit up by the lights of the hospital. ‘I don’t want to let you all down,’ she said.
‘You couldn’t, and won’t, I promise.’ Nick squeezed her shoulder.
‘Well, okay,’ she said meekly.
‘Excellent!’ Nick slapped his hands together.
‘Now, listen, the producer wants you to come in looking the part but to leave the mud at home – he seemed to think that was funny. Also, don’t wear the nautical top you like because the stripes will create a distracting optical effect.
And avoid green. It’ll muck up the green screen,’ Nick talked quickly.
It was hard for Gemma to take it all in.
‘It’ll be great, Gem. You’ll be great. But hey, I’d better go.
I’m meeting friends. Just had to tell you in person.
And don’t forget. You’ve. Made. History.
’ He emphasised the last three words with a finger.
‘It’s so amazing.’ He smiled at her proudly. ‘Okay, I’m off. Speak later.’
Gemma watched him skip off down the street and took a moment to think about what he’d said. About the grandeur of the statement and the significance of what it meant. About the enormity of what she’d done.
When she got home, she immediately messaged her friends and parents: I’m going to be on BBC Breakfast on Wednesday!
Like her, no one could believe it. Then she floated around the house as if the magnitude of her history-making was causing her to levitate.
She rose to such heights that it gave her an idea.
But it was one she wouldn’t go through with until after the breakfast show had aired.
The studio set was smaller than Gemma had thought it would be, and the two presenters were shorter and the cameras larger.
She felt like an upturned flower vase because Nick had convinced her to wear the bright floral wellington boots with her dressier jeans and pale-pink shirt.
Despite looking smarter than she usually did mudlarking, no one on set was any the wiser.
The presenters greeted her with such enthusiasm you’d have thought she was Anne Boleyn herself having come back from the dead, and then one of the camera crew wanted to know where she’d got her boots.
All of which had the pleasant effect of helping to calm her down.
The presenters asked her exactly what Nick said they would.
How did you find the brooch? What did you think it was?
How long have you been mudlarking? What made you start?
Although Gemma had answers prepared, sometimes they came out speeded up, or abridged, or not as eloquent as she’d have liked and accompanied by a nervous giggle.
But in the end, did it matter? She felt that she was holding her own in front of a captive audience and four cameras and found, unexpectedly, that it wasn’t so bad after all.
‘Now, Gemma, the big question on everyone’s lips is, will you be rewarded for the treasure you’ve found?’ The presenter, Gregory Holterman, was a good-looking guy but he had terrible taste in ties.
‘Just to be clear, I never started mudlarking for financial gain,’ Gemma said. ‘I don’t think any mudlarker does.’