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Hope could count the number of times Ziggy had raised his voice to her on the fingers of one hand. The blank space seemed to yawn like an endless void before her. If her mother hadn’t refused to speak about her father because she missed him too much, Hope couldn’t begin to fathom what had kept her silent all these years. ‘Then what is it like?’ she demanded, letting the years of frustration leak into her voice.
‘It’s not my story to tell, but all I will say is he’s not worth your time wondering about him.’ Ziggy didn’t sound angry any more, just sad and tired. ‘Look, if it was up to me, then you’d have been told everything a long time ago, but Stevie made us all promise.’
Hope sagged back next to him, the frustration leaking away until she felt as flat as a week-old party balloon. ‘How bad can it be? You make me wonder if my father was an axe murderer or something.’
Ziggy chuckled, though there was little mirth in the sound. ‘Not that bad.’ He edged closer to Hope, nudged her shoulder with his. ‘We love you, kiddo. Love you and Rhys more than either of you could possibly know. Zap and I, well, we’ve always tried to do our best to fill the gap, to give you everything a father could give their child. I’m sorry if you feel like it hasn’t been enough.’
Oh, God, is that what he thought? Swinging around, Hope threw her arms around her uncle’s neck and hugged him tight. ‘You couldn’t have been a better father,’ she said, voice fierce as she pulled back to look up at him. ‘You and Zap both have been amazing. I don’t care who my father was, that’s not the main issue here. I just want to know why Mum feels like she can’t tell me the truth, especially when he’s been dead all these years. Whatever it is, I’m strong enough to take it.’
Her uncle was silent for a long time. ‘Perhaps you need to consider whether she’s strong enough to deal with it. You don’t know what it was like when she came back to us. I sometimes think if it hadn’t been for you…’ Trailing off, he shook his head. ‘No, that’s not fair. Stevie was fragile for a while, but she’s made a wonderful life for the two of you and the hotel runs like clockwork because of her hard work.’
Hope smiled, almost against her will, as old memories came flooding back. ‘I loved it when she let me sit in her office during the holidays and I could watch her working. I wanted to be like her when I grew up, to be like both of you,’ she said, giving her uncle another hug. ‘You both inspired me.’
It was her uncle’s turn to smile. ‘I was worried about how gung-ho you were in the beginning. I didn’t want you to feel like you’d been pressured into working here.’ His expression dimmed as he glanced towards the ceiling. ‘I wonder sometimes if we should’ve done more to encourage both you and Rhys to strike out on your own. It feels selfish of me to have burdened the two of you with so much responsibility, especially on days like today when Rhys is exhausted, and you’re trying to manage half a dozen different things and take on the responsibility for this dig.’
This wasn’t the first time he’d expressed similar reservations, and now, just as before, Hope only had one answer for him. ‘I love my job. There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be, no other career I would choose for myself, and I know Rhys would say the same thing.’ She shook her head. ‘My wanting to move out isn’t because I’m feeling tied down, or resentful of my place here. I just want a little space to call my own, a bit of privacy.’
‘Room to breathe,’ Ziggy added, as he reached for her hands and squeezed them gently between his own. ‘You’re our girl, Hope. Our little ray of sunshine after so much darkness. From the day you were born, you filled all our hearts with so much joy. I suppose we’ve all clung on a bit too tightly for your comfort, not just Stevie.’
Darkness? The use of such a foreboding word only served to increase the unease about who her father might have been. ‘You mean because Mum was having such a hard time?’
Her uncle shook his head. ‘It wasn’t only her.’
‘Dylan,’ Hope guessed, and knew she was right when Ziggy’s face shut down, his brows pulling low enough to almost shield the familiar blue of eyes so like her own. Her wayward uncle’s departure was another thing shrouded in mystery.
‘Amongst other things.’ Here it was, a chink in his armour. Perhaps he’d finally put his guard down enough to share some of the family secrets that had bothered Hope for far too long. Before she could push for answers, her opportunity was gone. Straightening his shoulders, her uncle plastered on an exaggerated smile that didn’t touch his eyes. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just being a gloomy old fool. Every family goes through the odd rough patch, that’s all I meant. Let’s leave the past where it is and focus on the future. And the most immediate future is getting these dinner preparations finished before everyone else gets home.’
Ziggy didn’t quite meet her eye and Hope wanted to scream from the frustration of being fobbed off yet again. Turning back to the chopping board, she took her anger out on the poor, unsuspecting spring onions. ‘The trouble with this family,’ she said through gritted teeth as bits of green flew everywhere under her rapidly slicing blade, ‘is that there are too many bloody secrets.’
8
Cam sat at his desk the Thursday afternoon following his trip to Juniper Meadows, his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he squinted at his computer screen. With a click of his mouse, he enlarged the document he was trying to decipher, squinted again and then shoved his glasses on top of his head with a tired sigh. The recent efforts to digitise historical records should in theory have made life easier for everyone, but the quality of the scans varied greatly and when the original records were written in tiny, cramped script like the one on his screen, they were little more than a recipe for a headache. He added the reference number of the document to his notepad, then clicked it closed.
Tugging his glasses back down again, he returned his attention to the index list to see if he could find anything else that might be relevant. When he told people he was an archaeologist, the first questions were either something about Indiana Jones, or for those of a certain age, Time Team. The popular TV show had turned archaeology into mainstream entertainment. It had started airing a couple of years after he was born and his parents had watched it religiously throughout its twenty-year run. Cam could remember sitting cross-legged on the rug by the electric fire, eyes glued to the screen as Tony Robinson and his team rooted around in the mud and wove incredible stories of ancient lives – often from little more than a handful of pottery shards and a few marks in the ground. It had seemed like a form of magic to Cam and he’d been fascinated by it.
It was only once he’d begun his studies that Cam had come to understand, if not always appreciate, how little time was spent on actual field work. Desk surveys, such as the one he was doing, were the usual starting point. Digging around through county and national records, trying to piece together an occupational timeline, was tiring and often frustrating, but it was an essential part of his toolkit, just the same as his trusty trowels and brushes. Cam had already copied a number of documents to the shared drive he had set up for the not altogether imaginatively named Project Juniper. Together with Barnie, Cam planned to return to Juniper Meadows tomorrow evening and stay the entire weekend. They’d been promised full access to the family’s archives and Cam was much more hopeful of finding something that might help them pinpoint what they were dealing with.
He ran his eyes down the index one last time before concluding there was nothing else there of potential interest, then closed the page. He and Barnie had split the survey work, divide and conquer being their only hope of getting through everything in time. Cam focused on ecclesiastical and parish records while Barnie tackled the history of Stourton Hall and the family history. It made sense to do it that way, with Cam’s specialist religious knowledge. Besides, he hadn’t felt all that comfortable digging around in Hope’s past. He wanted to get to know her better, rather more than was sensible given he was technically working for her now, but not via the impersonal tool that was the internet. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too busy over the weekend.
The end of term was rushing towards them and between final assessments, dealing with anxious students panicking about their imminent exams and the endless form-filling the university bureaucrats demanded, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day. He’d barely seen Barnie all week, a brief encounter – so to speak – in the department kitchenette on Tuesday, an agreed lunch meeting that had ended moments after Cam had sat down because a tearful undergraduate had spotted him. An hour and one very damp shoulder later, Cam had left the girl in the safe hands of the pastoral team while she waited for a chat with one of the university’s mental health counsellors. He’d returned to his office to find Barnie had left his abandoned sandwich on his desk, together with two apples and a banana arranged in a rude formation. It had been just the laugh Cam needed and he’d been reminded once again how lucky he was to have a friend like Barnie. Having opened the drive and updated the results of that afternoon’s search, Cam decided to have a quick check on his friend’s progress. He’d just opened Barnie’s notes when there was a knock on his office door. Suppressing a sigh, Cam reminded himself that his students were the priority. Turning away from his computer, he set his glasses to one side. ‘Come in.’
There was a long pause and Cam was about to call out again when the door opened to reveal the last person he’d expected, or wanted, to see. Scott Willoughby was a second-year student, and a thorn in Cam’s side. He’d been in Cam’s tutor group for his first year until Cam had caught him cheating on his final written assessment. It wasn’t the first case of plagiarism he’d come across, pressure to succeed and temptation were an intoxicating partnership for many students struggling to cope with the realities of university life, but he’d never witnessed anything as blatant as the paper Scott had turned in. Huge chunks of the text had been copied and pasted and the few lines inserted to stitch them together had been desultory at best. Cam had had no choice other than to recommend the boy be sent down.
Scott’s father, a university alumni and very wealthy donor, had intervened. His not-so-veiled threats to withdraw his funding for a new library had sent the powers-that-be into a tailspin and a desperate compromise had been reached. Scott had been given the opportunity to redo his essay. Cam had stood his ground and refused to have anything to do with it, leaving the head of the department to do the marking. Scott had passed with flying colours, though Cam wasn’t sure if that was down to hard work or his father’s bullying and threats. When he’d returned for his second year, tutorial responsibility had been transferred to Barnie. By all accounts, Scott was a model student and had given no cause for concern with any of his other assignments. He’d done his best to stay out of Cam’s way, until now.
‘Scott. What can I do for you?’ Cam kept his tone polite, though he really didn’t have time to spare. Scott glanced to the floor, his hesitation on the threshold the picture of reticence Cam well remembered from their previous encounters. He’d hoped Barnie might have had more luck bringing the boy out of his shell, but apparently not. Mind you, given what Cam knew of the kid’s father, it wasn’t any surprise if he couldn’t say boo to a goose. Swallowing a sigh, Cam reached for his reserves of patience and sat back in his chair and gestured to the visitor’s chair. ‘You can come in, you know?’
Scott flashed him a quick smile and scurried over, dropping into the seat with a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Ferguson. It’s just that Dr Barnard mentioned the project you’re both working on and it sounds great, only… I… well, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me again, given everything that happened.’ He dropped his gaze to his lap and Cam could see he was twisting his fingers together, clearly still nervous. Scott’s head shot back up, his brown eyes wide. ‘Not that I would blame you, of course!’
Having had quite enough of the student’s squirming discomfort, Cam held a hand up. ‘What’s done is done. Dr Barnard tells me you’ve applied yourself very well this year, which is to your credit. Now, you wanted to talk to me about the Juniper Meadows project?’
Scott nodded with more vigour than that cartoon dog Cam used to see on TV advertising some insurance brand or other. If he wasn’t careful, he’d do himself an injury. ‘Yes! Dr Barnard said you were looking for volunteers to take part over the summer and that there might be the chance for an extra course credit.’ He gave Cam a bashful smile. ‘I can do with all the credit I can get, if I’m honest.’
‘You want to be considered for a role on the team?’ Cam wasn’t sure what to make of it. Scott had all but turned tail and run in the other direction whenever he’d spotted Cam, so it must’ve cost him a lot to come here today and face him. He wondered what his father would have to say about it. Perhaps he didn’t know? Barnie had mentioned the lad had moved into a shared house with a few others on the course, so perhaps being out from under his father’s direct influence had something to do with it.
Scott nodded again. ‘I don’t mind what I do. You can give me the dirtiest, most boring job going, I’d just really like the chance to experience a proper dig from start to finish.’
It was true that the project at Juniper Meadows would offer the students a unique experience. Most had been on short digs or on visits to other projects but nothing on the level Cam was planning. He’d agreed with Hope they’d carry out a full geo-phys survey of the area and would do a full excavation on all sites of interest, not just exploration pits. He also had permission to fully uncover what there was of the existing ruins so they could be properly mapped and recorded. It was ambitious to say the least, but she had insisted that no stone was to be left unturned, so to speak. She’d even dangled the possibility of the project extending over more than one summer if their initial work warranted it.
