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She had been
there at the start, back in the noughties, when the Eastely family had been
doing some work out on their Frampton estate. A sleepy nowhere of a place, out
in the bits of Suffolk nobody knew even existed. Until, that is, the foundation
trenches for Lord Eastley’s new winery project turned up a pile of Saxon treasure
to rival even the haul from Sutton Hoo. The press, of course, descended, and
the archaeologists too. His lordship had kicked up an enormous fuss; his plans
for a piece of the English wine-making pie went up in smoke as the National
Trust, English Heritage, and a dozen other bodies dug up every patch of ground
on the estate. Holly had arrived with the local archaeological society
volunteers and spent the next ten years brushing the earth from coins,
bracelets, helms, and shields. She had loved every second of it; the friends
made, and the excitement of each new discovery. Press interest waxed and waned,
various film crews booked in for those one hour specials on Channel 4 – the
ones stuffed full with impressive, but ultimately soulless, CG flybys trying to
paint a dramatic picture of a long lost world, though nobody back then had had drones
loaded with GoPros – and finally came the little ceremony to mark the end of
the dig, way back in 2017. She and the rest of the society, Peter and Lisa,
Jacquie, Howard, and all the others, celebrating with some of the first bottles
out of the new Frampton Estate.
Then, there
had been the call, a week or two after. Could she come in for an interview?
An
interview…? About what?
About the
dig, about the Frampton Hoard. She was there from the start, after all. Having
been so involved, would she like to maintain the association? Lady Eastley,
still basking in the afterglow of press photographs and sumptuous
documentaries, wished to fund a museum in the nearby village. Would Holly agree
to take on the job of Curator? Take a few weeks to think about it.
Holly did
not think for long. The very next day, after beers in the Saxon King –
Frampton’s newest pub – with Peter and Lisa, she returned Lady Eastley’s call
and said she would be delighted to take on the job. It would be a privilege,
Holly said.
And a privilege
it was, at least for a year or two. Peter and Lisa moved north in 2020. Her
mother was ill, and they wanted to be close. Visitor numbers started to dip.
Jacquie got a job on the continent and didn’t look back, whilst she and Howard
tried to keep the Frampton Archaeological Society going, though not many people
really came out to this part of Suffolk any more.
She barely
recognised Frampton these days. The Saxon King had shut in 2021, the post
office followed, and the annual Remembrance Sunday parade had stopped soon
after. The Frampton Estates’ dreams of filling a shelf in every supermarket in the
country with premium wine had come to nothing, but they still had a share of
what was now laughably called the Great British Revival Economy. And it wasn’t
just the buildings. People didn’t move out to the countryside to raise their
families any more. People in Frampton got out as soon as they could and headed for
London or abroad. Jacquie had, and kept sending invites to her; “Hey, come out
and dig in Italy! There’s a position here that would be perfect for you!” Holly
declined, again and again. The museum needs me, she replied, though it didn’t
really. The last message had been months ago, and Holly didn’t think another
would be forthcoming. Liam’s brother had left as well, she knew. But Liam was
one of those shy kids; polite and quite chatty, but not the sort to leap into
the unknown. She took her mug in both hands and held it close, the heat rising
and catching as dampness on her cheeks.
They were
all addressed the curator. Well, Holly thought, she had been the curator once.
Until that preening toff from the British Museum was appointed a year ago. He
was still laid up with the gout, so Holly had no qualms about reading his post.
Tearing open the first letter, she flipped on the desk lamp and scanned the
header. Another heritage circular which held no useful information and began,
as the last few had, with the depressingly upbeat phrase, “In these challenging
times…”
Holly tossed
the letter on the shredding pile. The next was an invoice from the painter.
She’d compare to the budget later. Until this tea worked its magic, she didn’t
think she could face numbers that high. A quantity of bills followed; she added
them to the file marked “For the attention of the board”.
The last
looked strange. No giveaway sender’s information on the reverse, and a Mount
Pleasant franking mark. The address was simple; Frampton Hall Museum, High
Street, Frampton, Suffolk, IP13 9FP. The envelope was plain, and felt rather
light. Pulling the lamp closer, she tore open the top, removed the single sheet
of folded paper, and read;
‘Dear sirs.’
Holly rolled her eyes, but continued. ‘I am writing in order to advise you of
certain modifications to the organisational structure of the businesses run by
the Frampton Estate (Suffolk) Vineyard Ltd (hereafter referred to as Frampton
Estate). Following recent meetings with representatives for the Frampton Estate
and its holdings, DAC Partners LLC have been appointed as consultants in all
matters of administration with immediate effect. Henceforth, all budgetary
considerations will require the authorisation of Mr Aaron Adams, senior partner.
Should you have any questions regarding this, please do not hesitate to contact
Mr Adams on the number provided.’
Holly
stopped reading, and the letter fell to the desk. A dead feeling was creeping
through her. Was this it? She knew the Estate had been watching the pennies
recently, but was it all over? Jacquie had kept asking on Facebook when Holly
was going to come out to Italy. There was plenty of work, and the visa process
wasn’t too onerous… But Holly was sure she’d burnt that bridge now. Head bowed
over the mug again, she couldn’t tell if the dampness on her cheeks was her
own.
She stood
and moved to the window. The sky was clear, so she could just see the faint
edge of the dawn peeping over the horizon, a cold, thin line. Holly sniffed and
pulled her glasses off to wipe on the hem of her jumper, eyes fixed on the
window all the while. It was too early to call anyone. Not that it would make
much of a difference. The letter, brief and bland as it was, told her it was
too late. Had she missed the warning signs? Slipping her glasses back on, Holly
swallowed and looked around, sniffing again. It sounded very loud in the
silence of the early morning, or was the raging silence just inside her head?
She turned and looked around, looking for the radio, clicked it on, and the
peaceable drone of Radio 4 soothed
her thoughts.
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