Chapter 52
It was spring. Although you wouldn’t have known it.
Snow had fallen overnight and given Gemma’s daffodils the fright of their lives.
In the New Year, the house she and Adam had bought was sold.
Gemma had finally felt ready to let it go and when she did, it proved less upsetting than she thought it would be.
For, as much as she’d loved it, it had become an ever-present reminder of her failed marriage, and she knew that at some point she had to move on.
Because she didn’t wish to rush into buying anything until she felt certain about the future, she found a two-bedroom rental flat in the same area.
Even though it didn’t have a garden, it had a balcony, so she could pot the daffodil bulbs she’d dug up from their old garden.
The best part was the view over the Thames.
She didn’t need to check the tide chart to know whether the river was filling up or draining away.
She could pull open the living-room curtains and there it was, rippling and swelling as it always did in one way or another every single day.
After their kiss in the bar, Gemma and Nick began dating.
After four weeks, Gemma started calling him her boyfriend, which stunned her as much as it did her friends.
Most weeks, they spent half the week together.
Sometimes it was two halves back to back.
Either Gemma stayed over at Nick’s or he, at hers.
It felt good. It felt right. Gemma liked having a living arrangement she could dip into and out of when it suited, and having a place of her own where she could live on her terms and no one else’s.
Thankfully, Nick understood her need for a sense of independence post-marriage and didn’t press her to move in with him.
But she knew that’s what he wanted. Ironically, it was his graciousness at not pushing for it that was making her change her mind.
After all, wouldn’t it be wonderful to wake up next to Nick every day?
At times, she found herself imagining them getting a dog together and going on long walks along the river and letting it explore the foreshore while they mudlarked.
She even dreamed of becoming a foster parent, whether she ended up having a child of her own or not.
She’d so enjoyed befriending Laila and feeling as if she was, in a small way, contributing positively to her welfare and well-being that she seriously began to entertain the idea.
It was a couple of weeks before Easter when the Coroner of the Portable Antiquities Scheme called Gemma at work. She’d been in the middle of hanging a new patient’s chemo line and admiring the woman’s silk turban, so it wasn’t until her break that she got his message.
‘It’s about the brooch,’ he said. ‘Call me back.’
Gemma drew a sharp intake of breath. This was it. Finally, they’d find out exactly how special the brooch was. She went outside to the carpark and returned the coroner’s call, feeling as though phantom moths were lodged in her chest.
‘It will come as no surprise to you, I’m sure,’ he said without expression, ‘that the British Museum would like to acquire the piece. The brooch is an artefact of significant historical importance.’
He droned on as if reading from a pre-prepared speech. ‘With every find like this, we can learn a little more about the past. To be able to share this with the world is an immense privilege.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Gemma said. ‘I’d love the brooch to be on display at the museum.’
‘The museum would like to purchase it. They’ve had it valued. Fifty per cent will go to the Crown and fifty per cent to you.’
‘To me?’
‘You found it.’
‘I know but can it go to anyone else?’
‘What you do with the money is up to you. But I don’t recommend spending it all at once.’ The man, who had up until then sounded bored with the conversation, abruptly burst into laughter.
After the call ended, Gemma immediately messaged The Mudlarkers’ Club to arrange a meeting.
She didn’t tell them why, although they might have guessed.
They gathered at her flat the following evening where she put on a spread of gourmet cheeses, a charcuterie board and even a magnum of champagne.
She’d never had one of them before. It felt ridiculously decadent, and it was.
It cost more than the two nights in the Amsterdam hotel where she and Nick had stayed before Christmas.
Nick thought she’d gone bonkers buying such a large bottle.
But then, she hadn’t told him either about her conversation with the Coroner of the Portable Antiquities Scheme.
It was the hardest secret she’d ever had to keep.
Her clandestine behaviour was clearly burning a hole in everyone’s patience because they bombarded Gemma with questions as soon as they walked in the door.
She resisted the urge to give anything away but encouraged them to sit down and have some of the artery-clogging double-cream Brie to settle their stomachs and drink the breathtakingly expensive champagne to calm their nerves.
It temporarily helped to stall the cross-examination.
When Gemma felt she’d strung them along long enough, she tapped her mudlarked ring on her glass to get their attention. ‘I’m sure you can guess why you’re here,’ she said.
‘We’d like to think so, don’t we?’ Timothy said.
‘I had a call from the coroner.’
Phyllida gasped. Gemma hadn’t even got to the gasp-inducing part.
‘You never told me that!’ Nick said.
‘The British Museum wants to purchase the brooch,’ she said.
‘Please put us out of our misery,’ Phyllida said.
‘There’s nothing to be miserable about, I can assure you.’ Gemma took a sip of champagne. She was rather enjoying being the keeper of information and in control of when it was released. ‘They’re going to pay for it, of course,’ she added.
Nick fist-pumped the air. ‘Yes!’ he said.
Phyllida groaned. You’d think she was about to give birth.
‘Fifty per cent goes to the finder and fifty per—’
‘We know!’ Timothy exclaimed. Even he was getting exasperated.
Perhaps it was time.
‘I suppose you’d like to know what they’re going to pay.’
‘Yes!’ They said in unison.
Gemma nodded, then found herself whispering the astonishingly large valuation, as if to say the six-figure amount at a normal level would render it untrue.
Nick swore loudly, Laila and Timothy had a jaw-dropping competition and Phyllida threatened to faint – again. It was becoming such a common occurrence that Gemma worried one day she would faint and they wouldn’t notice.
‘But the reason I want to celebrate is not because of how much money it is,’ she said.
‘That’s a good enough reason, if you ask me,’ Laila said.
‘Sure, but we all know mudlarking isn’t about finding something of monetary value. For me, the real treasure has been the people I’ve met and being part of this club.’
‘Aw, that’s nice,’ Nick said.
‘Shush, Nick,’ Gemma said with a smile.
‘You two found each other, so that’s treasure, right there,’ Phyllida added.
‘I’m trying to be serious here!’
‘Let the girl speak,’ Timothy said.
Gemma sighed. Perhaps she’d been premature in refilling their glasses.
‘What I’m trying to say is, I’m really glad to have met you all.
When we mudlark together, we might be doing so as individuals but we’re together, like a team.
And, contrary to the usual code of mudlarking ethics, I believe that whatever we find is, ultimately, a group effort.
So that means everyone should get a share of the spoils.
I’m going to split the money from the brooch equally between all of us. ’
For a moment no one spoke. Even Nick was lost for words.
After what Gemma thought was a suitable pause, she raised her glass. ‘To The Mudlarkers’ Club.’