O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare, -
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare-
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other'sarms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

Robert Burns.

CHAPTER 70 FEARN ABBEY

“Now children, say “Thank you Mister Holder,” come along.”

They fidgeted, vaguely looked at Alex and said “Thank you murrrohler.”

“That’s all right” said Alex. “I'm glad you came and I hope you all had a nice time at the Fearn Space Control Visitor Centre.”

“I’m sure they all did,” smiled the teacher. “Right come along now. Everyone outside and into the bus. Come along. Never mind the old lady.”

Alex smiled again, then frowned. The old lady was of course Amelia St Simon. And she wasn't really old. But she was thin, and her hair was a mess. She was almost as filthy as the dogs that always attended her, unbrushed, unwashed and vaguely tethered with bits of string. They would snarl at strangers and bark, or yap and cower. Just like their mistress, though she hadn’t yet taken to biting folk on the ankle. Her chanting was decayed into vaguely anti social mumbles. She had never given up her campaign to halt the space programme.

Alex tried not to remember how she once looked. How she'd made love. How he'd loved her. How she had gone to Hollywood. How fame eluded her. How she was desperate to get on screen. Any screen doing anything. Or maybe she had been tricked into doing those things.

Of course when the down loads became common knowledge, whether she consented or not, her reputation was finished. She could still be a “media” person, a blue movie goddess, but she could not be a political leader. The anti launcher movement seemed to collapse with her.

Thank God for Irene. She was all that kept him sane these days.

Alex walked along the corridor connecting the pre-fabs to his own office. Of course it was all open plan, no privacy, but at least he could hear what everyone was up to.

His computer was flashing an incoming call from Doctor Horsom, one of the archaeologists working up the line. Alex OK’d it and waited for the reply to be noticed. “Hi, Alex here, you called me?”

“Oh yes. Look this is incredible. Can you see these graves here?”

“Um…..”

“Where the soil is a bit darker.” The Archaeologist held his camera lower “You see? It looks like an eighth or ninth century helmet. Do you remember I told you about Macbeth when he was Thane of Cromarty and his battle with Earl Thorfinn Skull Splitter? The Earl of the Orkney's?”

“Yes I think so.” Alex hadn't a clue.

“Well I wonder if this is the mass grave made after the battle.”
“Mass grave?”

“Well only a couple at the moment. But we must also consider Thorfin's father, Earl Sigurd the Mighty and Thorstein the Red. And of course King Duncan and Malcolm Canmore.”

“Yes, well…..”

“The thing is I must have longer to properly excavate this area.

“OK. I can hold the levelling for…..” Alex clicked onto the main calendar. “Four weeks. But that is all. I’ve got Number Ten worrying daily about the schedule.”

“Number Ten? I thought the PM hadn’t made up his mind yet.”

“Not officially, so I suppose the whole thing could still be cancelled. But as of now the Cabinet Office are managing the programme themselves. They don’t trust the MOD to keep it on schedule or on cost. So far they are keeping all the Generals and Admirals in line and it’s working. But as site manager I have very little leeway. The Archaeology must go to a timetable like everything else.”

“But we can’t know in advance what we’ll find?” said Doctor Horsom.

“Sorry. You’ll just have to talk to professor Morphy when she gets back, and get some more people to help you. OK? And in case you wonder, Professor Morphy reports direct to the Cabinet Office, just the same as me. OK?”

“Alice Morphy reports to The PM? Yes, well thank you.”

“Mister Holder?” it was the front reception. “The Reverend Roundhay would like to see you at Saint Michaels after lunch.” Saint Michaels Church in the

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