that’s not really even necessary because what I’m actually supposed to do is marry an upwardly mobile man, deliver two or three perfectly spaced children, and throw a party or host a dinner every season. Volunteer on a charity board, join a bridge club. That sort of thing. I’m not supposed to stumble onto archaeology sites, and I’m certainly not supposed to become swept away when I do.”
“Have you?”
Catherine took another drink, a big one. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “Been swept away? It’s sort of looking that way. Not surprising, really. Not if you know me.”
“Darling, you mustn’t take this the wrong way. In the long view this isn’t your parents’ life. It’s not even your culture’s life. It’s your own.”
Catherine blew her bangs up from her forehead and looked through the current of smoke at the ceiling, like looking at the floor of a brook through water. The ceiling itself seemed to move. She said, “That’s a somewhat dangerous subject.”
Audrey Williams shrugged. “If history’s taught me anything it’s that life is short, alarmingly so. There’s not enough of it to waste. Or to let others waste for you.”
“Sometimes I think life would be simpler if I’d been born a man.”
“Oh rubbish. Life is what it is. Your life’s work, on the other hand—that you might exercise some control over.”
Catherine felt put in her place. The pub had filled with workingmen in the last few minutes and despite the accompanying din she knew with a sudden clarity that she could complain about her upbringing only so long because at some point the fault would simply become her own. “Did you find much resistance when you set out? Within the profession, I mean?”
“Everyone encounters resistance. It makes you stronger. In his own day Pitt-Rivers was regarded as a crackpot. Thankfully it didn’t stop him. He’s admirable for that as much as anything.”
Catherine’s beer stein had been taken away and replaced with another. She hadn’t noticed the switch. She was already tipsier than she’d ever been. “Thank you,” she said.
“Whatever for?”
“Actually I’m not sure. Taking me seriously, I suppose. General Pitt-Rivers may have been stoical, but I don’t quite know that I am. I think I crave approval.”
“Everyone does that as well, to one end or another. Probably even the general himself.”
“Well. I imagine he would have approved of you.”
Audrey Williams gave her a look. “I like to think so.”
Her courses began and she spent a week trying to channel her concentration, with limited success. She knew what the problem was.
She took the train back to London on Saturday morning and made her way to Walbrook. Audrey Williams was there, and a pair of volunteers cutting a new trench with shovels. Most of the paid crew was gone for the weekend but in their place was a man she’d heard much about in the previous weeks. The man the crew called the Professor.
Audrey Williams beckoned across the rubble. Her thick hair was disheveled and she wore a smudge of mud on one cheek, a slash like war paint. “Catherine Lemay, my American friend. This is Peter Grimes.” She winked. “The Professor.”
Grimes wiped his right hand on his trousers and then held it toward Catherine. He had a quiet half smile and a full head of graying hair. His shoulders were slightly stooped, like one of the wounded buildings that allowed him to see beneath the surface of the city. Catherine could not imagine a less intimidating human being.
“On tour here, are you?”
“No, I’m studying at Cambridge.”
“Archaeology, then?”
She shook her head. “I wish I were. The piano.”
Audrey Williams reached out and seized one of her hands. “You’ve lovely piano fingers. Long as tuning forks. Dig around in this dirt for a week, they won’t stay so lovely.” She looked at Grimes again. “Still, you can’t beat her back with a stick . . . She wrote letters to Mortimer Wheeler when
“Have you?”
Catherine took another drink, a big one. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “Been swept away? It’s sort of looking that way. Not surprising, really. Not if you know me.”
“Darling, you mustn’t take this the wrong way. In the long view this isn’t your parents’ life. It’s not even your culture’s life. It’s your own.”
Catherine blew her bangs up from her forehead and looked through the current of smoke at the ceiling, like looking at the floor of a brook through water. The ceiling itself seemed to move. She said, “That’s a somewhat dangerous subject.”
Audrey Williams shrugged. “If history’s taught me anything it’s that life is short, alarmingly so. There’s not enough of it to waste. Or to let others waste for you.”
“Sometimes I think life would be simpler if I’d been born a man.”
“Oh rubbish. Life is what it is. Your life’s work, on the other hand—that you might exercise some control over.”
Catherine felt put in her place. The pub had filled with workingmen in the last few minutes and despite the accompanying din she knew with a sudden clarity that she could complain about her upbringing only so long because at some point the fault would simply become her own. “Did you find much resistance when you set out? Within the profession, I mean?”
“Everyone encounters resistance. It makes you stronger. In his own day Pitt-Rivers was regarded as a crackpot. Thankfully it didn’t stop him. He’s admirable for that as much as anything.”
Catherine’s beer stein had been taken away and replaced with another. She hadn’t noticed the switch. She was already tipsier than she’d ever been. “Thank you,” she said.
“Whatever for?”
“Actually I’m not sure. Taking me seriously, I suppose. General Pitt-Rivers may have been stoical, but I don’t quite know that I am. I think I crave approval.”
“Everyone does that as well, to one end or another. Probably even the general himself.”
“Well. I imagine he would have approved of you.”
Audrey Williams gave her a look. “I like to think so.”
Her courses began and she spent a week trying to channel her concentration, with limited success. She knew what the problem was.
She took the train back to London on Saturday morning and made her way to Walbrook. Audrey Williams was there, and a pair of volunteers cutting a new trench with shovels. Most of the paid crew was gone for the weekend but in their place was a man she’d heard much about in the previous weeks. The man the crew called the Professor.
Audrey Williams beckoned across the rubble. Her thick hair was disheveled and she wore a smudge of mud on one cheek, a slash like war paint. “Catherine Lemay, my American friend. This is Peter Grimes.” She winked. “The Professor.”
Grimes wiped his right hand on his trousers and then held it toward Catherine. He had a quiet half smile and a full head of graying hair. His shoulders were slightly stooped, like one of the wounded buildings that allowed him to see beneath the surface of the city. Catherine could not imagine a less intimidating human being.
“On tour here, are you?”
“No, I’m studying at Cambridge.”
“Archaeology, then?”
She shook her head. “I wish I were. The piano.”
Audrey Williams reached out and seized one of her hands. “You’ve lovely piano fingers. Long as tuning forks. Dig around in this dirt for a week, they won’t stay so lovely.” She looked at Grimes again. “Still, you can’t beat her back with a stick . . . She wrote letters to Mortimer Wheeler when
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