Dying Fall

old boyfriend Peter had got back in touch, he had wanted to dive straightback into their relationship, regardless of the fact that ten years had passed and that he himself was now married with a child. And it had taken all Ruth’s strength to refuse him. She knows that you can’t go backwards, only forwards. Every archaeologist knows that. Time is a matter of layers, of strata, each firmly fixed in its own context. You can dig down through the layers but you can’t change the fact that time has passed and new strata have been laid on top. But, says a reproachful voice in her head, if she had joined a website like this earlier, she might have kept in touch with Dan. She would have known all about his work at Pendle University, they could have sent each other photos, updated each other on their lives. She wouldn’t now be left with this terrible feeling of waste.
    As she is still deliberating, the landline rings. In the background, she hears Kate saying interrogatively, ‘Piss?’ Bloody Cathbad.
    ‘Hello?’ Ruth snatches the phone away.
    ‘Hello. Dr Ruth Galloway?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh super.’ The voice becomes expansive. ‘This is Clayton Henry from Pendle University.’
    What an odd name, thinks Ruth irrelevantly, it sounds as if it’s the wrong way round. Then –
Pendle University
.
    ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you at home. I got your number from Phil Trent.’
    Ruth does mind and thinks that Phil should have more respect for her privacy. But, then again, she is dying to know why Clayton Henry is calling.
    ‘It’s OK,’ she says.
    ‘Well, Ruth, I’m in rather a fix.’ Clayton Henry’s voice is a strange mix of posh and Yorkshire. He sounds a bit like Alan Bennett. Ruth doesn’t like the confiding note that has crept in and she hates people she doesn’t know calling her by her first name.
    ‘Yes?’ she says, unhelpfully.
    ‘One of our archaeologists – delightful chap – died tragically last week. Dan Golding. Don’t know if you’d heard of him.’
    ‘We were at university together.’
    ‘Oh.’ Clayton Henry stretches out the syllable. ‘Then I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
    ‘It’s OK. I already knew.’
    ‘Oh.’ A slightly different note this time. ‘Well, I don’t know if you knew that Dan had recently made what he considered to be a significant find.’
    Ruth waits. A trick she has learnt from Nelson.
    ‘Bones,’ says Henry. ‘At a Roman site near Ribchester. The burial led Dan to think that the remains might be … important.’
    ‘Important?’
    ‘A significant figure historically.’
    Ruth knows that burial can be an indicator of status. An elaborate tomb, grave goods, weapons and treasure – all signs that a rich or powerful person lies within.
    ‘I’ve asked around,’ Henry is saying, the unctuous note back in his voice. ‘And you are one of our foremost experts on bones.’
    This description always makes Ruth think of a dog. Nevertheless, recognition is always welcome. She remembers how pleased she had been that Dan had followed her career.
    ‘I wondered if you might possibly consider coming up and having a look at our bones.’
    Our bones
. Ruth feels a prickle of resentment. The bones belonged to Dan. But she would like to see Dan’s discovery very much indeed.
    ‘I know it’s a long way,’ comes the Alan Bennett voice, ‘but we could put you up. A colleague’s got a lovely holiday cottage out Lytham way. You could make a real break of it. Bring the family.’
    For a moment Ruth wishes she had a real family – a husband, four children and a dog – all of them longing for a proper seaside holiday with buckets and spades and Blackpool rock. Still, Kate would like the donkeys.
    ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says.
    ‘Please do,’ says Clayton Henry. ‘I really think it might be worth the journey.’
    *
    Tonight, everything conspires against the peaceful bedtime routine. Flint is sick, regurgitating dead mouse on the kitchen floor, Kate doesn’t like her supper and cries bitterly into her scrambled egg, and Ruth’s phone rings constantly. First it’s her mother asking if she fancies going to a Christian camp in the summer. ‘There are special meetings for single parents. It’s all very friendly.’ As this invitation comes every year, Ruth has no difficulty inrefusing. Thanks very much, she says breezily, but she has other plans. ‘With Max?’ asks her mother hopefully. She has never met Max and probably