The Dig by John Preston

Author:John Preston [Preston, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59051-781-9
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2016-04-05T04:00:00+00:00

Peggy Piggott

JULY 1939

After breakfast Stuart went for his morning walk. I sat in the lounge and read the newspaper. Several of the other guests were also there, sitting half-buried in their tatty chairs, staring out with veiled, incurious eyes. They barely moved even when the maid came in with the carpet sweeper. Part of me wanted to pull them to their feet, the women as well as the men, and spin them round, twirl them out of themselves. This thought, though, was immediately succeeded by a sense of guilt. What a troublesome nature I have and how hastily I rush to judge people.

Some judgments, however, cannot be avoided. The matter of the hotel, for instance. When Stuart was a child he had come here on holiday with his parents. Ever since, he had dreamed of coming back. But the place is not what it was. That much was obvious on our first night as we sat in the dining room, struggling to read grease-speckled menus by the light of a flickering chandelier.

“I’m afraid they have rather let the place go, darling,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

Soon afterwards, in an attempt to drive the silence away, a woman began to play the harp. She sat in the corner, plucking away at the strings with thick, inexpressive fingers. We both ordered the pork for our main course. The meat was so tough I had to use my knife like a saw. As we were chewing away, we caught one another’s eye and started laughing. We both buried our faces in our napkins until our convulsions had passed.

Now I looked up to see that a boy had come into the lounge. He was wearing a brown uniform and swinging a silver dish.

“Piggott,” he called out.

A rustle of disapproval passed through the other guests. They did not care to be disturbed by any noise apart from the dinner gong.

“Piggott!” called out the boy again.

The ridiculous thing is I didn’t recognize my own name. Not at first. The boy was about to go out again when I lifted my hand and said, “Here.”

“Mrs. Piggott?” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it either.

“Yes.”

He held out the dish. It was much clouded by fingerprints. A brown envelope was lying there.

“Telegram for you.”

The words “S. Piggott Esq.” were typed on the envelope. I picked it up, wondering who could have died or suffered some terrible accident. Telegrams always meant bad news; everybody knew that. Meanwhile, the other guests were staring at me from the depths of their chairs. All plainly suspecting me of being an impostor, yet willing me to open the envelope just the same.

I sat and waited for Stuart to come back, forcing myself to concentrate on the newspaper. But I could only manage it for a few more minutes before I jumped to my feet and ran from the room — doubtless provoking another rustle of disapproval.

Outside it was raining. I stood beneath the awning and tried to see if I could catch sight of him.

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