I'm digging a trench for a war game," Will replied. Taking a swig from his bottle, he swallowed noisily. "What do they care, anyway? To them we're just a bunch of dumb kids with buckets and shovels," he added dismissively.
"They would care if they saw this — this isn't what ordinary kids do," Chester said, his eyes flicking around the chamber. "Why do you do it, Will?"
"Take a look at these."
Will gently lifted a plastic crate for the side of his chair and onto his lap. He then proceeded to take out a series of objects, leaning across to place them one by one on the tabletop. Among them were Codswallop bottles — Victorian soft-drink bottles with strangely shaped necks that contained a glass marble — and a whole host of medicine bottles of different sizes and colors, all with a beautiful frosty bloom from their time in the ground.
"And these," Will said reverentially as he produced an entire range of Victorian jars of differing sizes with decorative lids and names in swirly old writing that Chester had never seen before. Indeed, Chester seemed to be genuinely interested, picking up each jar in turn and asking Will questions about how old they were and where exactly he'd dug them up. Encouraged, Will continued until every single find from his recent excavations was laid out on the table. Then he sat back, carefully watching his newfound friend's reaction.
"What's this stuff?" Chester asked, probing a small pile of heavily rusted metal with his finger.
" Rosehead nails. Probably eighteenth century. If you look carefully, you can see that each one is different, because they were handmade by—"
But in his excitement Chester had already moved down the table to where something else had caught his eye.
"This is so cool," he said, holding up and turning a small perfume bottle so that the light played through its wonderful cobalt blue and mauve tones. "Incredible that someone just chucked it out."
"Yeah, isn't it?" Will agreed. "You can have it if you want."
"No!" Chester said, astonished by the offer.
"Yeah, go on, I've got another one just like it at home."
"Hey, that's great… thanks," Chester said, still admiring the bottle with such rapture that he didn't see Will break into the widest grin imaginable. Will practically lived for the moments he could show his father his latest crop of finds, but this was more than he could have ever hoped for — someone his own age who seemed to be sincerely interested in the fruits of his labors. He surveyed the cluttered tabletop and felt a swell of pride. This was what he lived for. He often pictured himself reaching back into the past and plucking out these little pieces of discarded history. To Will the past was so much nicer a place than the grim reality of the present. He sighed as he began to replace items in the crate.
"I haven't found any fossils down here yet… anything really old… but you never know your luck," he said, glancing wistfully in the direction of the branch tunnels. "That's the thrill of it all."
4
Dr. Burrows whistled, swinging his briefcase in time with his brisk pace. He rounded the corner at precisely 6:30 p.m., as he always did, and his house came into view. It was one of many crammed into
Broadlands Avenue
— regimented brick boxes with just enough room for a family of four. The only saving grace was that this side of the road backed onto the Common, so at least the house had views of a big open space, even if one was forced to see them from rooms barely large enough to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.
As he let himself in and stood in the hall, sorting the old books and magazines from his briefcase, his son was not far behind. At breakneck speed Will careened onto
Broadlands Avenue
on his bicycle, his shovel glinting under the first red glow of the newly lit streetlights. He skillfully slalomed between the white lines in the middle of the road and banked wildly as he shot through the open gate, his brakes reaching a squealing
"They would care if they saw this — this isn't what ordinary kids do," Chester said, his eyes flicking around the chamber. "Why do you do it, Will?"
"Take a look at these."
Will gently lifted a plastic crate for the side of his chair and onto his lap. He then proceeded to take out a series of objects, leaning across to place them one by one on the tabletop. Among them were Codswallop bottles — Victorian soft-drink bottles with strangely shaped necks that contained a glass marble — and a whole host of medicine bottles of different sizes and colors, all with a beautiful frosty bloom from their time in the ground.
"And these," Will said reverentially as he produced an entire range of Victorian jars of differing sizes with decorative lids and names in swirly old writing that Chester had never seen before. Indeed, Chester seemed to be genuinely interested, picking up each jar in turn and asking Will questions about how old they were and where exactly he'd dug them up. Encouraged, Will continued until every single find from his recent excavations was laid out on the table. Then he sat back, carefully watching his newfound friend's reaction.
"What's this stuff?" Chester asked, probing a small pile of heavily rusted metal with his finger.
" Rosehead nails. Probably eighteenth century. If you look carefully, you can see that each one is different, because they were handmade by—"
But in his excitement Chester had already moved down the table to where something else had caught his eye.
"This is so cool," he said, holding up and turning a small perfume bottle so that the light played through its wonderful cobalt blue and mauve tones. "Incredible that someone just chucked it out."
"Yeah, isn't it?" Will agreed. "You can have it if you want."
"No!" Chester said, astonished by the offer.
"Yeah, go on, I've got another one just like it at home."
"Hey, that's great… thanks," Chester said, still admiring the bottle with such rapture that he didn't see Will break into the widest grin imaginable. Will practically lived for the moments he could show his father his latest crop of finds, but this was more than he could have ever hoped for — someone his own age who seemed to be sincerely interested in the fruits of his labors. He surveyed the cluttered tabletop and felt a swell of pride. This was what he lived for. He often pictured himself reaching back into the past and plucking out these little pieces of discarded history. To Will the past was so much nicer a place than the grim reality of the present. He sighed as he began to replace items in the crate.
"I haven't found any fossils down here yet… anything really old… but you never know your luck," he said, glancing wistfully in the direction of the branch tunnels. "That's the thrill of it all."
4
Dr. Burrows whistled, swinging his briefcase in time with his brisk pace. He rounded the corner at precisely 6:30 p.m., as he always did, and his house came into view. It was one of many crammed into
Broadlands Avenue
— regimented brick boxes with just enough room for a family of four. The only saving grace was that this side of the road backed onto the Common, so at least the house had views of a big open space, even if one was forced to see them from rooms barely large enough to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.
As he let himself in and stood in the hall, sorting the old books and magazines from his briefcase, his son was not far behind. At breakneck speed Will careened onto
Broadlands Avenue
on his bicycle, his shovel glinting under the first red glow of the newly lit streetlights. He skillfully slalomed between the white lines in the middle of the road and banked wildly as he shot through the open gate, his brakes reaching a squealing
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