The Dig

by John Preston Narrated by Simon Vance, Kate Reading, Derek Perkins, Fiona Hardingham

Overview

Reimagining the Sutton Hoo dig, the greatest Anglo-Saxon archaeological discovery on British soil, John Preston brilliantly dramatizes three months of intense activity on a small estate when locals fought outsiders, professionals thwarted amateurs, and love and rivalry flourished in equal measure.

In the long hot summer of 1939, Britain is preparing for war, but on a riverside farm in Suffolk there is excitement of another kind. Mrs. Pretty, a widowed farmer, has had her hunch proved correct that the strange mounds on her land hold buried treasure. As an archaeological dig proceeds against a background of mounting national anxiety, it becomes clear that this is no ordinary find, and the discovery leads to a host of jealousies and tensions.

Elegantly crafted with great tenderness and a poignant attention to detail, The Dig is more than a novel about archaeology. At its very core, this is a novel about the traces of life we all leave behind.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Michael Pye

You dig things up at your peril, and a thousand movies tell you why: Buried scandals come back, along with half-dead monsters, jewels with curses and far too many Egyptian queens. John Preston's subtle new novel, The Dig, imagines something even more remarkable: an excavation that carefully, gently exposes the searchers' own lives and feelings to the light, just as they brush sand away from buried treasure. He has written a kind of site report that shimmers with longing and regret…Preston writes with economical grace. He shows the start of love delicately and also its failure. He is witty about the true English vice, which is pointless, pompous snobbery. He never stresses; he allows his people to live. He lets nightingales sing sadly without training them to be metaphors. He has written a kind of universal chamber piece, small in detail, beautifully made and liable to linger on in the heart and the mind. It is something utterly unfamiliar, and quite wonderful.

Publishers Weekly

02/22/2016
The real 1939 excavation of an Anglo-Saxon burial site becomes a moving tale of mortality and the passage of time in Preston’s affecting novel. As war with Germany nears, aging widow Edith Pretty decides to have the mounds on her Suffolk land excavated. Self-taught archaeologist Basil Brown leads the dig, and Edith’s young son, Robbie, is eager to assist. However, as the remains of an enormous ship and elaborate objects are unearthed, word reaches the British Museum, and Cambridge archaeologist Charles Phillips replaces Brown as head of the exploration. Stakes are high for all involved; Mrs. Pretty is realizing a dream shared with her late husband, whom she attempts to contact through a London medium; Brown is determined to finally make something of himself; and newlywed Peggy Piggott, brought in with her husband and erstwhile professor Stuart, finds in her work the fulfillment she’s discovering won’t come from her marriage. Preston is subtle but precise in his characterizations, and meticulous with period detail, weaving in newspaper advertisements and descriptions of Suffolk earth, to occasionally laborious effect. The novel is redeemed by his deep investment in his characters: they in turn become invested in the history of the ship, just as their way of life faces its greatest threat. Agent: Natasha Fairweather, United Agents. (Apr.)

From the Publisher

"All the elements are here for a corking adventure yarn, perhaps in the style of Howard Carter's account of the discovery of King Tut's tomb, which we see Mrs. Pretty reading. Yet despite the fact that most of the characters are real people...the novel's interests are psychological rather than factual. Even as marvels are uncovered, an insistent strain of melancholy blows through these pages...The ambient dread is partly due to the gathering storm of World War II...But the apprehension is also metaphysical, connected to the fact that the archaeologists are not digging for buried treasure so much as disturbing a grave. Mr. Preston delicately portrays the effect the specters of mortality and decay have on each narrator. As it brushes away the soil from the remarkable ship, The Dig stages understated excavations of marriage (both Basil's and Peggy's) and parenthood (Mrs. Pretty, who became a mother at 47, fears she won't live to see her son grown up). Thus Mr. Preston creates an intriguing and ultimately moving concoction, a true-life chronicle that delves into secrets of the heart." --Wall Street Journal

"Shimmers with longing and regret...Preston writes with economical grace...He has written a kind of universal chamber piece, small in detail, beautifully made and liable to linger on in the heart and the mind. It is something utterly unfamiliar, and quite wonderful." --New York Times Book Review

"A timeless tale of ancient English treasure...Beautifully understated." --Seattle Times

"As homey at times as chamomile tea but spiked with pointed undercurrents, this is a real treat for a reader who can appreciate its quiet pleasures." --Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"A very fine, engrossing, and exquisitely original novel." --Ian McEwan, author of Atonement

"Wistful and poignant. A masterpiece in Chekhovian understatement." --Times Literary Supplement

"An enthralling story of love and loss, a real literary treasure. One of the most original novels of the year." --Robert Harris, author of An Officer and a Spy

"A moving tale of mortality and the passage of time...affecting...Preston is subtle but precise in his characterizations, and meticulous with period detail." --Publishers Weekly

"The Dig offers both a vividly reimagined slice of history and a tantalizing rumination on what remains after we cease to exist." --Booklist

"Intensely human...[The Dig] constantly reminds us, rediscovering the past is a deeply equivocal pursuit...Preston keeps an iron grip on the reader's attention...a wonderful, evocative book. From his simple tale of dirt, Preston has produced the finest gold." --The Guardian

"A rich vein of dry humor runs throughout." --Evening Standard

"Intriguing, tender and entertaining...easily Preston's best." --The Independent

"A delicate, quietly affecting human drama." --Daily Mail

"A moving novel that coheres wonderfully as it progresses." --Spectator

"A delicate evocation of a vanished era." --Sunday Times

"Beautifully written...there is a true and wonderful ending to the story." --Bill Wyman, Mail on Sunday

"Exciting, evocative and beautifully written...A treasure in itself." --Griff Rhys Jones

"So absorbing that I read right through lunchtime one day, and it's not often I miss a meal." --Nigella Lawson

Library Journal

03/15/2016
Reading this fourth novel by the arts editor of the Sunday Telegraph means you'll never again need to ask, "Sutton who?" This is a lively and informative fictionalized account of the 1939 excavation that unearthed the Anglo-Saxon royal treasure hoard, known as Sutton Hoo, in Suffolk, England. Told by multiple narrators, the story unfolds gradually, revealing its essence, much like, well, a dig. The stately home, Sutton Hoo, on whose grounds the treasure is found, is overseen by an older widow with a young son, whose scampering about lends a bit of lightheartedness to the proceedings. There's also an efficient butler tidying up the place. The excavation is initially undertaken by an amateur archaeologist living in the area. This being prewar Britain, however, once the importance of the cache is recognized, class and power rear their influential heads, and the locals get elbowed aside by the big boys from Cambridge and the British Museum. The site itself, its multicolored sands and clays and levels, is one of the major characters. VERDICT With its sense of a magical land, awareness of class concerns, and unrelenting understatement and reticence, this tale is as English as a picnic by the side of the road in a light drizzle. As Downton Abbey sinks into the sunset, bereft Abbots might find some consolation here, and, added depth, naturally.—Bob Lunn, Kansas City, MO

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2016-01-21
A historical novel that looks at the foibles and emotions of people involved in an archaeological dig on the grounds of a Suffolk, England, estate in 1939. When Edith Pretty wants to know what lies beneath the earthen mounds on her property, she hires Basil Brown, a soil expert recommended by the local Ipswich Museum. Brown soon realizes he's working on one of the most important finds in England. But word gets out, and all too soon an oversized figure is descending the ladder into Brown's dig. It's Cambridge archaeologist Charles Phillips, bow-tied and bumptious, who bullies his way into control of the site. Cut to a coastal hotel where Stuart and Peggy Piggott are but a few days into their tepid honeymoon ("After breakfast Stuart went for his morning walk") when a telegram from Phillips summons them to the dig. The two archaeologists hasten to Brown's mound and soon come upon gold ornaments and other evidence of a kingly interment that may well "alter our entire understanding of the Dark Ages," Peggy opines. Signs of the approaching war slowly accumulate: trenches dug in Hyde Park; barrage balloons above Suffolk. Using the voices of Edith, Basil, and Peggy, Preston (Kings of the Roundhouse, 2005, etc.) gives different views of the project while working in diversions and digressions: a cave-in that almost kills Basil; Edith's weakness for spiritualists; the unspoken tale behind the untidy bed in an unused guestroom and a servant's sudden departure. There's a bittersweet aside in which one of Edith's nephews and Peggy so quickly warm to each other that romance seems about to bloom amid the artifacts. As homey at times as chamomile tea but spiked with pointed undercurrents, this is a real treat for a reader who can appreciate its quiet pleasures.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169548822
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	04/05/2016
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Basil Brown 14 JUNE 1939
 
That evening I came back and worked on alone. The rectangle of darkened earth at the entrance to the burial chamber showed up quite clearly in front of me. I scraped away with the trowel and then I switched to the bodkin. It wasn’t long after starting that I came across this greenish band. It was running through the soil like a grass stain. At first, I thought my eyes were playing up. I had to blink a few times before I’d allow myself to believe it.
With the pastry brush, I swept the earth away, taking off as much as I dared. I was worried that if I took any more away the whole thing might vanish completely. But far from disappearing, the green band showed up even more distinctly than before.
Then, to the left of the first one, I found another green band. The color was a little duller than before — more speckled too — but still impossible to miss. I took these to be the remains of bronze hoops. Possibly belonging to a barrel, or some sort of wooden container.
When I looked at my watch, I saw that it had already gone nine o’clock. I was astonished — I thought I’d been going for about fifteen minutes. The light was fading now. Even so, I was in a muck sweat. I kept having to wipe my forehead with my sleeve. I knew I was going to have to give up soon. But I couldn’t bear to stop. Not yet.
I kept on brushing. More than anything else I wished I’d brought a torch and I cursed myself for not thinking of it before. Just when I had decided that there was no point carrying on, I came across something else. A piece of timber.
To begin with, I assumed this must be the barrel, or what was left of the barrel. It wasn’t long, though, before I had second thoughts. The piece of timber was about the size of a large book. Like a ledger, or a church Bible. As far as I could tell, it was perfectly flat. In places, it was so decayed that even my pastry brush was too rough. All I could do was put my lips as close as possible and blow the earth away.
In one place, though, it was quite solid. When I tapped the wood with my finger, it gave out a soft, hollow sound. In the top left-hand corner, I could make out what I thought was a knot. Peering at it more closely, I saw it was a small hole. A dry, papery smell rose from the ground. It caught in my nostrils as I sat staring at the piece of wood, and at the hole in particular.
Then I did something shameful. Something I can never excuse, or properly explain. I pushed my finger through the hole. It went in quite easily — the timber fitted snugly round my knuckle. Beyond was a cavity. Although I couldn’t be sure, I felt the cavity to be a large one. There was a kind of emptiness around my finger, like an absence of air.
I stayed where I was for several minutes. By now I could hardly see the wood in front of me, it was so dark. But still I sat there, not moving. And when at last I took my finger away, all the excitement I’d felt before vanished in an instant. In its place came a great wash of sadness. So strong it quite knocked me back.
After I’d covered over the center of the ship with tarpaulins and secured the corners with stones, I set off for Sutton Hoo House. The gravel path ran pale and straight in front of me. On one side was a yew tree. I could see its silhouette looming up before me, its branches almost touching the ground. The sky was black as hogs.
When I rang the back doorbell, I could feel the sweat, cold and drying, on my skin. Grateley answered the door. Although he’d taken off his collar, he still had his tail coat on.
“Basil? What are you doing here?”
“Would you tell Mrs. Pretty I need to see her?” I told him. “Now?” He swayed back in surprise. “Do you know what time it is? Mrs. Pretty will be preparing for bed.” “Even so, I need to see her.”
Behind him, light bounced off the white tiles. Grateley gave me a look. Frowning mostly, although there might have been some sympathy in it.
“I’m sorry, Basil,” he said. “You’ll just have to wait until morning.”

Edith Pretty APRIL–MAY 1939  
 
There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”
“Mr. Brown, ma’am,” said Grateley, and then stood aside to let him in.
I am not sure quite what I had been expecting, but it was not this. My first impression was that everything about him was brown — dark brown. His skin was mahogany-colored. So were his clothes: a cotton tie, a tweed jacket with the top button fastened and what appeared to be a cardigan beneath. He was like a kipper in human form. It seemed absurd that his name should be Brown too.
The only things about him that were not brown were his eyes. Gray, like two polished tacks, they gleamed with alertness. His hair stood up in tufts. He was holding an object in his left hand — brown, inevitably — mashed between his fingers. The other was jutting out in front of him.
“Mrs. Pretty,” he said.
“It was good of you to come, Mr. Brown.” 
“No, no, no . . .”
His handshake was dry and firm.
“Won’t you sit down?” I indicated the sofa.
He did so, but only just, perching on the edge of the seat with his elbows on his knees. The brown object was still in his hand. My gaze was drawn to it. I thought — I am afraid I thought it might be an animal of some sort. Then I realized it was his cap. He must have seen me looking, because he unclenched his hand, placing the cap on the cushion beside him.
“Mr. Brown, you have been recommended to me as someone who knows about soil. Suffolk soil. Mr. Reid Moir, the chairman of Ipswich Museum Committee, spoke highly of you.” He twisted slightly at the mention of Reid Moir, I thought, but nothing more than that. I remembered how Reid Moir had described him as being somewhat unorthodox in his methods. I remembered too how he had also referred to him as a local man, laying a good deal of stress on the word “local.” At the time his meaning had passed me by, but now I saw it clearly enough.
“As you may know,” I went on, “I have a number of mounds on my land. I have been thinking for some time of having them excavated. Mr. Reid Moir told me that you might be the man for the job.”
There was no reaction — not at first. Then he said, “What do you think might be in your mounds, Mrs. Pretty?”
His accent was broad Suffolk, with scarcely any vowels coming through and the consonants all clattering into one another.
“I am assuming they are prehistoric. Probably Bronze Age. As for what, if anything, may be inside, I would not care to speculate. From what I can tell, they do not appear to have been excavated before. It is rumored that Henry VII dug for treasure in a mound here. We also know that John Dee, Elizabeth I’s Court Astrologer, was commissioned to search for treasure along this stretch of coast. Some people say he came here too, although there is no evidence of his having done so.”
Again he said nothing. Despite his clothes, there was something oddly spruce about him. Possibly it was his air of containment.
“Would you care to have a look for yourself?” I suggested.
 
Outside, the landscape was drained of color. The water in the estuary looked hard and shiny. It might not have been moving at all. Underfoot, the grass was spongy and already damp with dew. I was careful where to put my feet. Mr. Brown walked with his arms bowed and his elbows sticking out, as if his jacket was too small.
“This whole area around Sutton Hoo House has always been known as Little Egypt,” I told him. “No doubt on account of the mounds. There are a number of legends about them. People claim to have seen mysterious figures dancing in the moonlight. Even a white horse. I believe that local girls used to lie down on top of them in the hope of becoming pregnant.”
 Mr. Brown glanced across at me, his eyebrows rising in two perfectly inverted Vs. “And have you ever seen any of these dancing figures yourself, Mrs. Pretty?” he asked.
“No,” I said, laughing. “Never.”
A coverlet of mist was clinging to the mounds. When we came closer to the largest of them, Mr. Brown made a little clicking sound with his tongue. “They’re bigger than I expected. Much bigger.”
He pointed upwards. “May I?” “By all means.”
He ran up the side of the mound, elbows pumping away. When he reached the top, he stood looking round. Then he promptly disappeared. After a few seconds, I realized that he must have knelt down behind a clump of bracken. Then he straightened up and stamped on the ground — first with one foot, then the other. He stayed up on the mound for several more minutes. When he came back down he was shaking his head.
“What is it, Mr. Brown?”
“You have rabbits, Mrs. Pretty.” “Yes, I am aware of that.”
“Rabbits burrow,” he said. “They’re bad for excavations.
Very bad. They disturb the soil.” “Ah, I didn’t realize.”
“Oh yes, a real menace, rabbits are.”
After that we went round each mound in turn. Mr. Brown paced out measurements, making notes with a stub of pencil in an old diary. At one point a flock of geese went overhead, their necks extended, their wings thumping the air. As he lifted his head to follow them, I saw the sharpness of his profile against the sky.
By the time we had finished the dusk was thickening. Boats were still coming back up the river to Woodbridge, their lanterns lit and their motors chugging. On the slipway, voices were shouting to one another, although only these shreds of sound were audible, not the words.
Back in the sitting room, his hand reached for his jacket pocket. Then it stopped short, hovering above the flap.
“Do feel free to smoke, Mr. Brown.” “It’s a pipe,” he said by way of warning. “That’s all right. I don’t mind a pipe.”
He took the pipe out of his pocket, along with a pouch  of tobacco. Once he had filled the bowl he lit the tobacco, then pushed it down with his thumb — the tip was completely black. A low, bubbling sound emerged from the interior of the pipe. When he sucked on it, something extraordinary happened: his entire face collapsed. The insides of his cheeks must have almost touched in the middle. When he exhaled, his face inflated again.
“Be a big job,” he said, shaking out the match.
“I could let you have one man,” I said, thinking of John Jacobs, the under-gardener. “Possibly two.”
“Two would be better. And scuppits.” “Scuppits?”
“Shovels.”
“I think we could probably run to shovels.”
A cloud of blue smoke rose and settled above his head. “Mrs. Pretty,” he said, “I must be frank with you. These mounds of yours have almost certainly been robbed. Most of the ones around here were emptied in the seventeenth century. I wouldn’t want you getting your hopes up.”
“But would you be willing to try?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would . . . That’s assuming the details could be agreed.”
“The details, of course. You could lodge with the Lyonses. Mr. Lyons is my chauffeur and Mrs. Lyons is in charge of the kitchen. There is a spare bedroom in their quarters above the garage. As for money, would one pound, twelve shillings and sixpence a week be acceptable?”
He nodded, almost brusquely.
“I will arrange for you to be paid each week through the cashier at Footman Pretty’s store in Ipswich. Should you need money for incidental expenses, please let me know. If I am not here my butler, Mr. Grateley, can always pass on any messages. Now then, how long do you think you will need?”
“Four or five weeks should do it. Six at a push.” “That long?”
“I’ll go as fast as I can, Mrs. Pretty. But you can’t rush something like this.”
“No, I understand. My only concern is that we might not have that much time.”
“Best not hang about, then.”
“No, indeed. When do you think you could start? Would next Monday be too soon?” “I don’t believe it would, no.”
The door burst open and Robert ran in. He came towards my chair, then stopped in the middle of the carpet.
“Ugh! What’s that disgusting smell, Mama? Has the silage caught fire again?”
“Robbie,” I said, “this is Mr. Brown.”
Mr. Brown had stood up. His head came through the smoke cloud.
“This is my son, Robert,” I said, standing up myself.
I could sense Mr. Brown’s surprise as his eyes went back and forth, from one of us to the other. A flicker of puzzlement before propriety took over.
“Hello there, young man.”
Robert said nothing; he just kept staring up at him.
“Mr. Brown is an archaeologist,” I explained. “He is going to have a look inside the mounds.”
Robert turned back to face me. “Inside the mounds? What for?”
My hands were on his shoulders. As he moved, I could feel the bones shifting beneath his skin.
“For treasure,” I said.

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