Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The ground was definitely humming, thought Wickham. He lay spread-eagled on the rough grass of the paddock and pushed the side of his head down as far as he could. No, it wasn’t so much a hum. More of a throb. Either way, it was more noise than paddocks usually made. And now that he pressed both of his palms flat against the grass he could feel the slightest hint of a vibration.

Kneeling up again, he carefully looked around to see that no-one was watching. He reckoned he was pretty safe, as the paddock foreman tended to nip off for a swift half or two round about lunchtime. He wouldn’t return for a couple of hours yet – if he managed to stagger back at all, as he seemed to measure his halves in gallons. Satisfied that he was unobserved, Wickham began to scratch away at the ground with his bare hands.

As he dug further and further into the earth, the vibrations increased and his hands began to tingle. Then, about six inches down, he came across something solid. It was smooth and warm to the touch. Encouraged by this discovery, he scrabbled away at the hole until he had uncovered an area about a foot square. The surface underneath was unbroken, dull and metallic. But it was no metal that he’d ever come across, and he wondered if he’d manage to get a sample back to H for analysis. Unfortunately, that would mean trying to saw a piece of it off, and that could prove difficult. He’d have to come back under the cover of darkness.

He became aware that he was being watched. Slowly he turned around and looked up, straight into the face of the estate manager, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

“Been diggin’ for buried treasure, ’ave we?” he said.

“Er … n-no … no. I dropped my felching trowel down a rabbit hole – ”

“A rabbit ’ole, eh?”

“Yes, and you know what rabbit holes are like, once you dig away at them, you just go further and further down. There’s a whole matrix of tunnels down there – ”

The estate manager squatted down next to Wickham and peered at his excavations.

“Funny ol’ rabbit ’ole,” he said, looking at Wickham with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” said Wickham. “Isn’t it?” There was a long silence. Then the estate manager stood up and methodically kicked all the earth that Wickham had dug up back into the hole.

“Wouldn’t want any of ’er ladyship’s fine ’orses catching their feet in that, would we now?” he said.

Wickham stood up. “I suppose not,” he said.

The estate manager looked hard at Wickham and tilted his head on one side. “Y’know, you’re not soft, are you? But there’s things go on here that don’t concern the likes o’ you and me. And if you take my advice, you don’t want to go pokin’ yer nose where yer nose ain’t supposed to be poked. Right?” He tapped the side of his nose at this point.

“Right,” said Wickham. “Right.” He really couldn’t tell how much the estate manager knew.

“So, do we have an understanding?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Like I said, you’re not soft, are you?” The estate manager relaxed a little. “Anyways,” he said, “The reason I came over was to say we need an extra ’and over by the cobber-mangling shed. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be getting your arse over there right away.” He paused, as if trying to remember something important. “Oh,” he said, “An’ I’ll be dockin’ you ’alf a day’s wages for losin’ a felchin’ trowel, by the way. Those things cost a bleedin’ fortune.”

As he said it, Wickham thought he caught the faintest ghost of a wink.