A few days later Ron and Hazel were out early, looking over the fence at what was going on in Gallows Farm. A Land Rover pulled up and several young people got out. Hazel recognised Antony Matthews immediately. A long-haired man wearing a hat with a feather appeared to be in charge, giving instructions to the others and hammering wooden pegs into the ground.
Antony left the others and ran off to speak to Hazel and Ron.
“We’re all ready to go!” he said.
“Will you be using your metal detector?” asked Hazel.
“Only to search the spoil heaps. When we work in the trenches we’ll be removing the soil very carefully, using these little trowels”. He held up a small flat diamond-shaped trowel, like a miniature version of those used by bricklayers.
“Who’s that geezer in the hat?” asked Ron.
“Oh, that’s Phil Harding. He’s a professional archaeologist. He comes from Wiltshire and he’s been working for the Southampton City Council’s Archaeological Unit.”
“What’s he doing up here then?”
“The Department of the Environment’s very interested in this site and they thought they ought to send someone to supervise it.”
“But he looks very young!” said Ron.
“He’s only 23. But he’s been digging sites since he was 16, and he’s got lots of experience. I reckon he’s going to be very famous one day.”
“Come on, Antony!” called the man with the hat in a soft West Country accent. “This trench won’t dig itself!”
“I’d better be off” said Antony. “If you come around in a couple of hours or so, we might have found something”.
Hazel and Ron went off to their chores in the stables. Steve and Dora were away at the Foleys’ new house, and standards at Follyfoot were slipping slightly, but after all the upheavals and excitement of the last few weeks the horses and donkeys didn’t seem to care. The weather was fine for a winter’s day and most of the horses were happy to wander in the meadow by the lake. Ron turned on his transistor radio and tuned it to Radio 1 so they could have some music while they cleaned out the stables. He’d never have done that with Dora and Steve around.
Slugger’s head popped out from behind the farmhouse door. “Can’t you turn that row down?”
“Oh, Slugs – you oughtta learn to appreciate proper culture. This is Mott the Hoople –it’s a great song”.
“Mott the what?”
“Oh, Slugs, I give up!”
“In my day we ‘ad proper songs, by Bing Crosby or Vera Lynn. Or that Guy Mitchell fella – now ‘e ‘ad a good voice and knew ‘ow to put a song across. These modern singers, well, you can’t even hear the words!”
“Well, you don’t ‘ave to listen to it, do ya? Why don’t you go back to the kitchen and make us a nice pot o’ tea?”
“A nice pot o’ tea! You’ll be lucky!”
As the day wore on, Ron and Hazel became curious as to what was going on at Gallows Farm. Strolling over there for a peep at the excavations, they saw that all the archaeologists were on their hands and knees in the depths of the trench. Anthony was working alongside an attractive blonde, with whom he seemed to be on familiar terms.
“Hey, look at old Antony!” whispered Ron to Hazel, grinning. “E’s a bit of a dark horse!”
Hazel looked rather uncomfortable when Antony came running up to them.
“Nothing much to show, I’m afraid. We think we might have reached the Medieval floor level over here, and there seems to have been a stone wall here, but it’s all been robbed out.”
“Found any buried treasure?” asked Ron.
“Nothing valuable, but it’s all useful evidence for us”. He reached over and brought across an empty ice-cream carton that contained a small collection of finds. “There’s a bronze shoe buckle – I reckon that’s Tudor – and a small brass button, a few animal bones and a couple of pottery shards.”
Ron looked distinctly unimpressed.
“And who’s that girl you’re working with?” asked Hazel.
“Oh - that’s Debbie. She’s my girlfriend.”
Ron turned to Hazel and winked.
“Well, I’d better get back to work. We’re going to erect a little hut for our gear and our finds. Phil wants to stop around four o’clock, before it gets dark, and we’ll then drive off to the University and he’ll decide what we’re doing tomorrow.”
Ron and Hazel walked back to Follyfoot, Ron still grinning from ear to ear.
The rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully. The Colonel paid them a short visit and Slugger decided to walk down to the archaeological site with Ron just before four. Hazel said that she’d stay back at Follyfoot.
The archaeologists were packing up for the day, and Phil Harding introduced himself to Slugger and showed him the meagre collection of finds. These now included a few uninspiring looking fragments of flint.
“What’s with all these stones then?”
“These are dressed flints from the Neolithic period!”
“Don’t look that exciting to me. I thought you was supposed to be diggin’ up some monkery?”
“We haven’t found that yet. We’ll extend this trench tomorrow, and if we don’t find any Medieval stuff we’ll then open another one!”
“Seems a waste of time to me!” said Slugger.
Ron left the farm soon after that and headed down the lane on his motorbike. As he neared the Clap Gate Inn he slowed down. Parked in front of the pub was an old green MG which he recognised. It belonged to his mate David. Dave was always fun to sink a few jars with, and Ron had occasionally slept on the floor of his digs when he’d spent a late night in Leeds. Dave was a clever lad: he’d gone to Grammar School and then to Leeds University where he was halfway through a medical course.
Parking his Triumph Tiger Cub, Ron entered the pub and found his friend nursing a pint in the lounge bar. He joined him and soon was telling him all about the recent events at Follyfoot, including the archaeological dig.
“It’s dead boring, mate. They haven’t found anything.”
“Never mind. D’you want another drink?”
As the two young men chatted their conversation turned to other matters, until Ron suddenly announced: “Hey, Dave! I’ve got an idea!”
“What’s that, Ron, me old mate?”
“About the archaeological dig. Have you still got Fred?”
“Yes. What about him? Hey, I see what you’re getting at. Yes, that could be a super wheeze!”
Fred was a human skeleton that stood in the corner of Dave’s bedsit. A gift from an uncle who had been a consultant, Fred normally sported a trilby hat and a Leeds United shirt, with his empty eye sockets greeting anyone entering the room.
Leaving his motorbike at the pub, Ron got into the MG’s front passenger seat and Dave set off for Leeds University. An hour or so later, in complete darkness, they drove down the access road past Wike forge to Gallows Farm. Ron was sure Dave was well over the limit, but he handled the car expertly. Who knows what would have happened if Bert had stopped them and then found the skeleton in the back of the car?
“D’you know, Ron, I’ve always thought we should give old Fred a proper burial. And this is our opportunity!”
“Well, they’re digging out the rest of this trench tomorrow – let’s stick him in there!”
The two friends got a couple of shovels from the small prefabricated wooden shed that the archaeologists had erected on the corner of the site. Digging away at the loose earth at the end of the trench, they soon excavated a hollow large enough to contain Fred. After burying him – without the trilby hat or Leeds United shirt – they left in the moonlight. Dave dropped Ron off at the Clap Gate to pick up his motorbike, and, as the engine noises ceased, only the hooting of an owl disturbed the peace of Harewood.