Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 8.

Chapter 8.

 

Von Vrooms dig.

 

The big car came juddering down the lane into Nether Bramblewick with the air of a machine that had been asked to do more than it considered reasonable. A few villagers looked up as it passed, not out of curiosity, but in the resigned way of people who had already heard the morning’s news and were now waiting to see how much amusement it would give them.

Von Vroom braked outside Joe Pye’s pump with an unnecessary flourish. The horn gave a final, triumphant bleat, as though announcing the arrival of a man of consequence.

Joe Pye, polishing a spanner, did not look up.

Von Vroom climbed out, goggles perched on his forehead like a pair of oversized, glassy eyes., notebook already in hand. He surveyed the village square with the solemnity of a man preparing to make history.

“Good morning!” he declared to no one in particular.

No one in particular replied.

He strode towards the old sheep field with the purposeful gait of someone who believed he was being watched by posterity. In reality, he was being watched by Mrs Bracknell’s dog, which had followed him from the Arms out of habit rather than admiration.

Von Vroom paused at the gate of the sheep field, took a deep breath, and consulted his notebook. He tapped the page with his pencil.

“Phase One,” he murmured. “Preliminary assessment of terrain.”

He stepped into the field.

The ground, soft from last night’s dew, accepted his boot with a quiet, sucking sound. He extracted himself with difficulty, leaving behind a small crater that he immediately examined with interest.

“Subsurface disturbance,” he said, writing it down.

Joe Pye, who had wandered over at a leisurely pace, leaned on the gate.

“That’s mud,” he said.

Von Vroom ignored him. He paced out a line across the field, counting under his breath. At the far end, he turned sharply, paced back, and nearly tripped over a tussock of grass.

“Uneven strata,” he announced.

Joe Pye said, “That’s a mole hill.”

Von Vroom made another note.

He then produced a small folding ruler, extended it with a flourish, and began measuring the angle of a slight dip in the ground. The ruler slipped. He retrieved it, dusted it off, and tried again.

Mrs Bracknell, passing with her shopping basket, paused to observe.

“He’s measuring the hollow,” she said.

Joe Pye nodded. “He thinks it’s Roman.”

Mrs Bracknell considered this. “It’s where the sheep lie down out of the wind. Blows summat fierce across that field”

Von Vroom, unaware of this commentary, crouched beside the dip and tapped the earth with the end of his ruler.

“Acoustic resonance,” he declared, tapping the dirt as if expecting it to ring like a bell.”

Joe Pye said, “That’s a thump.”

After several minutes of tapping, pacing, and muttering, von Vroom let out a triumphant exclamation.

“Aha!”

He held up a small, mud‑covered object.

Joe Pye squinted. “That’s a stone.”

Von Vroom brushed it off with reverence. “A shaped stone.”

Mrs Bracknell said, “It’s round.”

Von Vroom brightened. “A Roman sling stone!”

Joe Pye said, “It’s a pebble.”

Von Vroom wrote something down with great energy.

By now, two children had appeared at the gate, whispering to each other. Mrs Bracknell’s dog sat down with the air of one prepared to stay all morning. The butcher, passing on his bicycle, slowed to observe the proceedings.

Von Vroom, oblivious to the gathering audience, planted his shiny new spade in the ground with a flourish. It gleamed in the morning light, a recent purchase, by the look of it, and one he had not yet learned to use with any degree of competence.

He pressed down on it with his boot. The blade slid sideways, skimming the surface of the turf rather than entering it. He tried again, this time with more force. The spade stuck at an angle, refusing to go further. Von Vroom wrestled with it, muttering something about “unexpected resistance.”

Joe Pye, leaning on the gate, said, “He’s not used to that spade.”

Mrs Bracknell replied, “He’s not used to any spade.”

Von Vroom finally managed to extract the tool, nearly overbalancing in the process. He examined the blade as though suspecting it of personal betrayal, wiped a smear of mud from its polished surface, and attempted a third insertion.

The spade went in this time, only to wedge itself firmly in a root. Von Vroom tugged. The spade refused. He tugged again. The spade remained unmoved.

Mrs Bracknell’s dog watched with mild interest.

Joe Pye said, “He’ll pull something if he keeps that up.”

Mrs Bracknell nodded. “Probably the spade.”

Von Vroom, red‑faced but determined, gave one final heave. The spade came free with sudden enthusiasm, sending him staggering backwards into a patch of flattened grass.

He recovered, straightened his coat, and made a note in his book.

“Subterranean obstruction,” he said.

Joe Pye murmured, “That’s a root.”

Von Vroom, oblivious to all of them, planted his spade in the ground with a flourish.

“Phase Two,” he announced. “Excavation.”

Joe Pye said, “He’ll be at that all day.”

Mrs Bracknell replied, “Good. Keeps him out of the gardens.”

The dog thumped its tail once, as if in agreement.

Von Vroom had been digging for the better part of half an hour, producing a shallow, irregular trench and a growing pile of damp turf. His shiny new spade was already losing its polish. His notebook, however, was filling rapidly.

He struck the ground again.

The spade hit something solid.

Von Vroom froze.

He tapped the spot with the blade. A dull, stony sound answered him.

“Ah!” he breathed. “Structural remains.”

Joe Pye, leaning on the gate, said nothing. He had recognised the sound at once. Everyone in the village would have. It was the corner stone of the old shepherd’s hut ,  the one that had blown down in the gale of 1895 and been left where it fell because the shepherd had moved to his daughter’s house and no one had needed the hut since.

Von Vroom knelt, brushing away soil with the reverence of a man unearthing a lost civilisation.

“Stonework,” he murmured. “Angular. Deliberate. Possibly defensive.”

Mrs Bracknell, passing with her basket, paused. She looked at the stone, then at Joe Pye.

Joe Pye gave the smallest shake of his head.

Mrs Bracknell moved on.

Von Vroom cleared more earth, revealing a second stone, then a third, the rough outline of a small, square foundation.

He sat back on his heels, triumphant.

“A Roman outbuilding,” he announced. “A watch‑post. Or a minor fortlet. Remarkably preserved.”

Joe Pye said, “Mm.”

Two children had appeared now, whispering behind the gate.

“That’s the old hut,” one said.

“Shh,” said the other. “Let him.”

Von Vroom took out his notebook and began sketching with great energy, muttering measurements and theories under his breath.

“Orientation suggests a defensive purpose,” he said. “Possibly guarding a trackway.”

Joe Pye said, “Sheep used it.”

Von Vroom didn’t hear him.

He stood, brushed off his knees, and declared to the empty field:

“This is only the beginning.”

Mrs Bracknell’s dog, lying in the shade, flicked its tail once, as if marking the end of the performance.

Von Vroom, still flushed with triumph, struck the earth again. The spade scraped against something hollow with a faint, glassy clink.

He froze.

Slowly, reverently, he knelt and brushed aside the soil with the care of a man unveiling a relic. A dark shape emerged, curved and glinting faintly beneath the mud.

“Aha,” he breathed. “Glass. Roman glass.”

Joe Pye, who had heard the sound clearly, said nothing for a moment. Then, in the tone of a man stating a simple fact, he offered, “That’ll be a beer bottle.”

Von Vroom ignored him. He lifted the object free with both hands, holding it up to the light. It was the bottom half of an old brown bottle, the neck long since broken away. A few stubborn flecks of label clung to one side.

“Note the thickness,” von Vroom said, turning it over. “The curvature. The patina of age.”

Joe Pye said, “Tetley’s.”

Two children at the gate nodded solemnly. One whispered, “Dad throws ’em in the hedge when Mum’s not looking.”

Von Vroom, oblivious, held the bottle fragment at arm’s length, admiring it. “This confirms it. A Roman presence. Possibly a garrison. They were known for their glasswork.”

Mrs Bracknell, returning from the shop with a loaf under her arm, paused. She looked at the bottle, then at Joe Pye.

Joe Pye gave the smallest nod.

Mrs Bracknell moved on without comment.

Von Vroom carefully wrapped the bottle fragment in his handkerchief, which immediately acquired a damp souvenir of 1895 and a large smear of mud.. He tucked it into his coat pocket with the air of a man securing a priceless artefact.

“Phase Three,” he announced, straightening. “Cataloguing.”

Joe Pye murmured, “He’ll be cataloguin’ that all week.”

Von Vroom planted his spade upright in the turf, the blade now thoroughly dulled by roots, stones, and his own enthusiasm. He surveyed the shallow trench, the exposed corner stones, and the handkerchief‑wrapped bottle fragment with the air of a man contemplating a major monograph.

“This,” he declared, “is only the beginning. Once I have secured the necessary equipment, I shall return and conduct a full excavation. The results will be… significant.”

Joe Pye made a noise that could have been agreement, but was more likely a suppressed yawn, “Aye. You do that.”

Mrs Bracknell’s dog yawned as well.

Two more villagers, arriving on the pretence of checking the weather, paused at the gate. They took in the scene, exchanged a brief glance, and moved on with the purposeful stride of people who had already decided what they would tell the rest of the village.

Von Vroom snapped his notebook shut. “I shall prepare my report this evening.”

Joe Pye said, “Best of luck with it.”

Von Vroom nodded gravely, retrieved his spade, and marched back toward the village with the purposeful stride of a man convinced he had altered the course of local history.

The field settled behind him. Joe Pye leaned on the gate a moment longer, watching the dust rise from the lane.

“Well,” he said to no one in particular, “that’ll give ’em something to talk about.”

He closed the gate and wandered back to the garage.