The Rings of Poseidon (3 page)

'John O'Groats?' he thought. 'I've heard of
that back home. May as well see it on the way, I guess.' and he
boarded the bus.

No such thought crossed the mind of Alan
Wainwright. He watched the John O'Groats coach leave and caught the
service bus to Scrabster.

The train ride from Inverness had been
spectacular at times but the scenery here was rather dull and the
landscape was, if not entirely flat, then certainly not
mountainous. John O'Groats was disappointing. A large car park and
a small harbour with a cafe selling souvenirs and claiming to be
the 'northernmost house in Scotland', which it didn't seem to be.
Frank eyed a house next to the lighthouse which certainly looked
further North.

'Maybe I've got my bearings wrong.' he
thought charitably. In fact he was giving a lot more thought to the
harbour than to the last house in Scotland. 'Any boat small enough
to get into that harbour is on the small side for a ferry,' he
thought. He was right.

* * *

Alicia, Gill, Manjy and Steve lunched early,
so as to be ready for the workers arriving later. The birdwatcher
parked his estate car and walked into a sturdy looking farmhouse,
just over the fields from the dig. He took off his boots in the
kitchen and walked through into the living room to the phone in
stocking feet.

"Robert?" he said. "They've made a start
already ... Yes, I'll be keeping an eye on them ... Ring again if
they show signs of turning up anything of interest? Naturally,
that's the whole point of my being here. Yes, ...'Bye."

* * *

"It's a real good thing this is the short
crossing," thought Frank. "The back end of this boat's barely an
arm's length out of the water. And that may be radar, but there are
so many bigger vessels in this stretch of water that I'm half
afraid of getting run over. And there doesn't look to be much at
Burwick."

In truth there wasn't much
at Burwick, apart from the landing stage at which the ferry tied
up. There was a not entirely abandoned church and a more modern bus
shelter, with a toilet unvisited by Kilroy or any other graffiti
artist. And that was about all there was to Burwick. There was a
field marked
'NO PARKING - BUSES TURN
HERE
' Well, yes they did. But only when a
ferry unloaded!

Frank watched his rucksack and holdall go
into the boot of the bus and stood looking around Burwick. "So this
is South Ronaldsay," he thought. "I've seen livlier places in my
time."

From South Ronaldsay a causeway built on
slabs of anti-submarine concrete led to the next island. Bursay was
much the same - undulating and treeless but smaller and slightly
more populous. The bus rumbled across yet another causeway onto the
island of Mainland, and Frank stared at the grey sea and greying
clouds, both stirred by a chilly wind.

The roll-on roll-off ferry journey was longer
but more convenient and more comfortable than the short crossing.
Alan Wainwright was able to take his time finishing his coffee and
his book in the ship's canteen before he went on deck to watch the
rounding of Hoy.

It was hard to say why Stromness felt like a
Viking town. Perhaps it was the way the houses clung rather in a
Norwegian style to the sides of the steep, though not high,
hillside. Possibly it was the archetecture of the houses themselves
that had a sort of Scandinavian feel to them. In any event,
suddenly you found it hard to remember you were still in the
Northern Islands of Scotland.

Alan watched the lorries roll off before he
wandered along the quayside to the Islands Information Centre.

The Information Office was a newish building
on the harbour. The people in it were helpful and friendly, though
that was, Alan reflected, their job. Learning that the ferry to Hoy
for that day had gone earlier he decided to take in the sights and
sounds of Stromness.

Kirkwall, which was a port of call for
sizable ships, faced north. The bus rumbled downhill towards the
centre of town and stopped in front of the cathedral of St. Magnus.
The sandy-red coloured building dominated the square where Frank
recovered his holdall and his rucksack.

The town centre was something of a nightmare.
It looked like a pedestrian precinct but cars had the right of way.
They stopped anywhere and pulled off without warning. He was not
sorry to reach the safety of the bus which called at Skara Brae
before it went on to Stromness.

"They drive on the wrong side of the road,"
he thought, "but you can't even tell which side they're supposed to
be driving on most of the time."

* * *

"Right, we'll dig from here," said Alicia, "I
think we can go down to about three feet up to this point without
treating it as part of the dig proper. From here," and she made a
sweeping movement of her hands, "I'd like to sift each bucketful of
sand with a view to seeing whether there is anything worth keeping
and recording."

The tussocky ground was not conducive to easy
digging. In fact Gill's shovel, sharp though it was, would barely
cut through the roots of the grass. And even when the grass itself
was taken out and laid to one side, the soil was sandy and a steep
sided trench difficult to make. The soil kept slipping back into
the trench. "Throw it further!" said Alicia, a trifle
unsympathetically, when Gill mentioned it to her.

The new trench hit the existing one at right
angles. Ali had them continue it to form a 'T' shape and extend the
old trench as well. She was pleased with the single day's digging,
but insisted they didn't rush. Manjit's back felt as if it was
breaking. She sifted out several pebbles, a fish bone that might
have been a needle, a flake of rust and what Alicia said looked
like a bronze arrowhead, also well corroded by time. But the most
exciting thing of all was the wall. It was made of the kind of flat
stones that could be picked up on the beach. Stones that bore
evidence of being smoothed and shaped by the tide as much as by the
hand of man. And yet they were fitted together skilfully, so that a
shaped dry-stone wall was not only made, but made secure.

"How on earth did it keep from falling down?"
Manjy wanted to know. "You'd think it would collapse as soon as
anyone blew, like the little pigs' houses when the wolf huffed and
puffed." she said, surprising the Scottish diggers who were unused
to the idea of someone who looked Indian but thought (and was)
British.

"Well," said one of the local men, "if it's
anything like Skara Brae they will have piled dirt and sand on the
outside to keep it stable."

"That's right," said Alicia authoritatively,
"although there are complete buildings above ground that have
lasted thousands of years. There's a chapel in the west of Ireland
built the same way with dry-stone walling around 800 AD and that
one is still completely weatherproof. Admittedly that's a lot
later, but there's been no work of any kind done on it."

"Grief!" said Manjy.

Without adding anything to the conversation,
Gill nodded. It had been mentioned in one of her textbooks.

"The Pennines are covered in dry-stone walls
too." Alicia continued. "I'm not really sure how they did it, but
the walls of the buildings slope in. On the other hand, they don't
slope all the way in because they used whalebones to help support
the roof and, anyway, there must have been an opening for the
smoke. All the houses will have had a fireplace in the centre," she
continued.

"Sort of central heating?" said Manjy with a
grin.

"Sort of," said Alicia, "Now I think we'll
stop. The light's still good of course, but the whole team isn't
here yet and this is the first day's digging."

"Will you and Jamie have a bite to eat with
us, Andy?" Alicia asked one of the local men, almost as an
afterthought.

"No, thank you kindly," he replied. "I think
we'll be off and come back in the morning."

"As you wish," said Alicia, "I'll be seeing
you tomorrow then. If Steve doesn't mind putting the soup on and
fetching the camera we'll have some photographs of the day's work
alongside the meal. Gill, you go and give him a hand with
dinner."

As they strode across the rough grass towards
the little cluster of caravans, Gill said, "I'm glad to-day's over.
I know it's only the first day, but the first day was always going
to be the worst for me. Now that it's over I'm sure I'm OK
again"

Steve glanced at her, before remarking
casually, "One thing prison taught me was to take each day as it
comes."

"I do try," said Gill wistfully, "but it
hasn't been easy, putting back together a life and building new
relationships. Still, like I said, I do try and you're very easy to
get on with."

There was a pause as the penny dropped and
Gill considered it. "You've spent some time in prison then?" she
asked.

"Yes. Seven months inside after time off for
good conduct. My Probation Officer thought it would be a good idea
if I kept well away from football and the terraces. That's why I'm
here."

"Well you aren't likely to find much football
here, I shouldn't think," she said. "You'd probably be well away
from trouble on Hoy."

"Hoy is well away from just about
everything," Steve observed drily. "Only things you can do here is
read books, dig holes in the ground or watch birds."

Gill laughed "According to Manjy, Hoy is a
birdwatcher's paradise," she remarked.

"Huh. As far as I'm concerned, bird watchers
are just train spotters who don't have a railway line anywhere
near," said Steve. "I don't go a bundle on holes in the ground
either," he added.

"You don't have to dig them, only see the
diggers fed."

Steve only said, "Talking of which, let's get
to it - my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

* * *

Frank looked over the wall at the homes built
into the ground, and thought he would leave his rucksack and bag
near the wall. He dumped his things unceremoniously and wandered
over for a closer look.

"They can't have been more than about four
feet tall," he said to the only other visitor, a younger man in his
early twenties. "Either that or they walked with a permanent
stoop."

"It does rather look as if they were small by
modern standards," said the other visitor. "But this part of the
world is full of stories about 'little people', so I suppose it's
not that unreasonable,"

The face of Alan Wainwright bore a few scars
of acne on it, but was hardly the 'pimply pratt' Alicia had
referred to when she lost her temper with the Professor. He was up
from Stromness, a short bus ride away, and thinking about where to
spend the night.

The sea was grey. The setting sun was trying
to get through the quickly moving clouds and, although the rain had
stopped, it was going to be a chilly night. The hotel looked
inviting to Frank.

Each of the houses was built from much the
same flat stones you could pick up on the beach, but shaped.
Larger, flatter stones were used to form primitive furniture -
shelving, a bedding area, a pit for the fire and so on.

"I'd like to get down and measure that
doorway." said Frank in a tone which indicated that he might do
just that.

"Are you Frank Baxter by any chance?" Alan
wondered out loud.

"Yeah. You must be Alan Wainwright," answered
Frank, holding out a hand that was more like a paw. "I figured I'd
run into you some place along the way."

"I thought I'd see you on the ferry," said
Alan shaking it, "but you must have come the other way."

"That's right," answered Frank. "Say, that
hotel seems a better place to get acquainted. It's the only place
around here with a light on."

"It's the only place around here," Alan said.
They turned towards the lights and their suggestion of hospitality
as the sun went in behind the clouds again.

Chapter 3

While Steve waited by the Landrover, the
ferry came alongside with practised ease. Frank thought, watching,
that the sailor standing in the bows of the ferry with the mooring
rope looked a rather seedy young man. He was scruffy with a greasy
face in need of a shave and hair that was too long and needed a
wash. Even his dark blue sweater had seen better days. However,
Frank could not fault his skill as he dropped the rope over the
mooring bollard and walked to the stern while his 'boss', the only
other sailor aboard, used the engines and the wheel to get the back
end alongside.

As the scruffy looking individual dropped
another rope over another bollard, the other killed the engines and
Frank, seizing his hold-all and backpack, sprang ashore. He was
followed more cautiously by Alan who, while finding it
straightforward, still looked askance at the water slopping over
the step. He was followed by four other youths who had a great deal
of baggage with them - rucksacks and tents and so forth - which
they fussed about unloading. By the time they reached the top of
the steps Frank had introduced himself to Steve.

"This is Alan," he said, "and here are four
members of the Orkney Archaeological Society who are coming as
volunteers to help with the dig. I don't know much about them, but
they're wanting a ride to the site for themselves and their gear. I
said it would be okay."

"Well I suppose I can squeeze them in," said
Steve, eyeing the gear, "but it will be a squeeze and there's a lot
of stuff to pick up from this ferry already."

The scruffy looking sailor was busy unloading
some freshly baked bread that had been warm when it left Stromness,
a crate or two of sterilised milk as well as several boxes
addressed to the General Store, which went straight into the back
of the Landrover.

Steve noticed Frank looking dubiously at the
various labels on the boxes and grinned. "All arranged," he
said.