The Key to Hiding

by Wendy Reakes

  She found some brown paper bags hanging from string and hooked over the corner of a shelf, just like the ones they had in shops. She tore one off and used her hand to scoop up some sugar, stored in a jar next to the tea. She rolled up the bag in its two corners, just like they did in the local grocery shop, then she placed it inside her sack. In a far corner, was a dusty jar of pickled onions…her favourite! In front were larger jars that looked newer, so she calculated the little one had been missed somehow and that maybe it was meant for her. She gathered four apples and filled a bag with dried beans. Finally, she took a jar of plum jam. Let that be the last, she thought when she realised she’d been enjoying herself and that she should be ashamed for feeling that way. After she collected her sack, in one last defiant act, she grabbed a small cheese knife left abandoned on the counter. It would come in handy and it could easily be returned.

  Realising her thief-like aptitude, she struggled with her conscience when she went back the way she came. The attic was a welcome refuge for her to throw down the goods she’d scavenged so pitifully.

  With her head hung in shame, suddenly the realisation of what she had done hit her. Stealing! The shame. Now tears were streaming down her miserable face and her lips were curled into a ghastly shape, making her look as ugly as she felt. That’s when she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

  She allowed herself five minutes to wallow in her self-pity, before she wiped away her tears. She had lived thirteen-years under the rule of her uncle, but there had never been a time when she’d felt like a victim. She wasn’t about to let that happen now.

  Marley stood up and surveyed the space she was in. Maybe she could make the place cosy for the duration of her stay, until Celia came back. If she was to be discovered, hiding away up there like a trapped rat, there was no reason to think they would object to her moving a few things around. Her eyes fell on the brass bed leaning in pieces against the wall near the second space. She’d seen the mattress somewhere and blankets too.

  Suddenly, she was resolute. She would make herself a little home in that small space, just until Celia came back to rescue her.

  Chapter 4

  The bed in the attic was made of solid brass, stained black under a coating of green. She ran her hand along the cleverly moulded decorative lines and saw in the middle of the headboard a coat of arms with scrolls and wreaths, and a figure of a rearing horse and a stag. The motto underneath read Carpe Diem but she struggled to grasp its meaning. She’d picked up a few words of Latin when she’d learned her letters at quite a young age, but that slogan seemed to say Seize the day. If she was right, then she’d ne’er heard a truer word. Now, it would be her motto too and when she laid down to sleep, she’d be reminded that she should use all her resources and make the most of what she had left, which wasn’t very much in the scheme of things.

  Driven by the desire to seize everything available to her, she took a tight hold on that collapsed bedstead and moved it bit by bit across the dusty wooden floor to where she wanted it. With its rusted wheels, she shuffled it one side after the other as if she was dancing a waltz with it. She propped it against the base leaning six inches from the wall and found a small bag with screws and attachments taped to its underside. She mentally thanked the person who had put it up there for saving them. Now she could assemble it properly and sleep content.

  It took her three hours to put that bed together, including fishing out the mattress in the next section of the attic and dragging it little by little through the obstacles on the way. She couldn’t find a tool of any fashion to fix the bolts and screws, so she was left with no choice but to use her fingers until they were as tight as she could get them. The blade of the cheese knife came in handy for making one final turn but it was too flimsy to tighten them properly. The bed wasn’t rock solid, in fact it leaned a bit to one side, but for now it was good enough. When she placed the mattress atop the spring base, she fell upon it front first and stayed there for a good ten minutes until the dust began to intrude upon her nostrils. She sneezed. She stopped as she took a moment to listen for any signs of life in the quarters below. Then she sneezed again. She couldn’t prevent it. Please, God, don’t let her be caught for the sake of a sniffle.

  Down the far end, near the entrance, she found a solid chest packed full of bed linen and blankets. She’d discovered it earlier when she was making her way with the mattress, through the forest of furniture. When she opened the lid, and delved for two clean sheets, she realised she hadn’t seen a pillow to fill the coverlet, but she didn’t mind about that. She was used to sleeping with her head flat on the bed, since uncle wasn’t one for purchasing such luxuries. With her arms laden with sweet musty smelling sheets, incensed by the aroma of starch, homemade bags of potpourri and moth balls, she went back to the newly assembled bed in the back section of the attic, near the glass windows leading to the roof terrace.

  She had a distinct feeling of joy at the prospect of slipping between those sheets very soon, but first she needed to eat since her appetite had returned with a vengeance.

  She looked inside her sack of stolen food and pulled out an apple. She savoured the sweet taste reminding her of the orchard down Hawthorn Way. Then, suddenly, she remembered the fair and the black-haired lout who had unashamedly robbed her of her innocence and dignity.

  Feeling sorry for herself, a single sob broke from her mouth, as she opened the stolen jar of pickles and dipped her fingers inside to pull out an onion. A scream escaped her lips when the vinegar seeped into her open wounds of her fingers, made when assembling the bed. Trying to hold back tears of frustration and burning pain, exhaustion seized her body as if her bones were made of mush. She turned her head as she sat on the floor, looking through the dirty glass windows to see the sun with hues of red and yellow and bright orange setting beyond the turreted terrace and the grimacing gargoyles.

  Without anything more to torture her mind, Marley lifted herself off the floor and with her fingers stinging like she’d dipped them into a hive of bees, she got upon the bed and slipped her weak and painful body between those welcome sweet smelling sheets.

  Another day began when she opened her eyes to see the sun streaming though the dirt on the window, peppering the floorboards with yellow lines and dots. Her night of undisturbed sleep had been greatly appreciated, because now she felt as if I could conquer her new world, small as it was. She regarded her filthy fingers. She needed to clean up, to find water so that she could bathe her wounds. Her hunger was painful now, making her stomach growl and she also needed to empty her bladder, badly.

  She went to the glass door and stepped out onto the lead covered terrace whereupon she frightened the birds, making them scatter in a flustered frenzy into the air. Then it occurred to her that the groundsman, from below, if he were looking up, might have observed their sudden flight. Would it be the pigeons that exposed her presence? She wondered. Would it be the birds? Putting her worries aside, she looked for a valley in the stone where water could have settled, but she found nothing. The chances of it raining were slim, since the sky was as blue as a peacock’s tail. The sun offered her warmth and nourishment on her skin, but she was still filthy dirty, so the sensation held no joy.

  Where could she get clean? And where could she relieve herself? Without further consideration, since her bladder was fit to burst, she crouched in the corner of the terrace and relieved herself. When she found water, she could wash it away.

  Once again, she left the attic and closed the door behind her, creeping down the wooden stairs to the lower landing. Which room? Which door could she open and be absolutely sure she wouldn’t bump into another human being?

  Dispelling the panic threatening to overtake her she looked along the corridor, still dark, with just a small window at the far end allowing a narrow beam of light through the gap in the shutters. She inched slowly along, going past the door to the room she had hidden inside yesterday. She tried the door next to it, turning the brass knob. It was exactly like the
room before, housing two single beds and a chair in the corner. She closed that door and went to the next. Another room…then another, until she came to the final door.

  She’d expected to find another like the last, but gladly, she was confronted by a chequered floor of black and white tiles, yellowed and cracked with age. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. In the corner, she saw a latrine with a pipe running up to a black box fixed high up on the wall above ornately scrolled brackets. From that dangled a chain with a wooden pulley at its end. It was the cleanest lav’ she had ever seen! What luxury! To have a privy inside the house, and one with a warm wooden seat atop the bowl too.

  Against the far wall was a white bath with taps over one end made of unpolished brass. She was awestruck by the luxury of the room. All she had ever known was the tin bath uncle dragged in from the yard once a fortnight and put in front of the fire. Uncle always used it first, then Brent, and then Marley was left with the dirty water as they left her to bathe in peace. The water was usually cold by then, and grey, so there was no joy to be had from it.

  She leaned over and inserted the plug attached to a silver chain. She turned on the tap marked hot. The sound of the gushing water startled her. She quickly turned it off again and opened her ears to listen for any untoward response to her careless noise. Then she thought about when she had to empty the bath. Would the noise of it draining through the pipes alert the groundsman?

  She decided to risk it. It was still early. Maybe the groundsman wasn’t around yet, thereby allowing her to make as much noise as she liked. She turned the tap back on. Once some water had settled on the bottom, she was pleased to hear the gushing sound wasn’t so violent. The water was icy cold, but that wouldn’t deter her. She wasn’t used to warm water anyhow.

  She took off her dress and left it on the floor at the side as she stepped in. She saw the bruises and cuts on the flesh of her arms and legs, and the dried blood on her thighs. The boy’s face come into her head as she imagined him pinning her to the dirt floor at the side of her uncle’s house. He’d secured her arms in front of her, and after unbuttoning his britches, he’d pushed up her skirts and stuck his thing in her. She’d screamed from the pain before he placed his rough and smelly hand over her mouth. In and out he went with his eyes closed and with a look of urgency on his face. When his body shook, she knew he was finished and when he relaxed his hold on her, she managed to push him off with a strength she never knew she possessed.

  Then he ran away.

  Now she was rubbing the place between her legs with a loofah she’d found, cleaning away the smell and the filth and the degradation of the rape.

  When she was clean - clean as she’d ever feel- she decided to push the lout’s face out of her mind and concentrate on getting the rest of her washed. The thin slab of soap left on a dish on the wall was the most welcome of finds. It lathered her up good and cleaned her cuts as if she had covered them with soft soothing cream. Her hair was matted badly, so she rubbed and rubbed and combed her fingers through it until it fell in strands down her back. It was a relief when she was finally able to push her head back into the shallow water and rinse away the dirt and the excess soap. She grabbed her dress and threw it into the water between her bent knees. She tried scrubbing it with the same soap, but the stains of grass and mud were unshifting. She rinsed it as best she could, wrung it out and threw it over the side of the bath.

  She pulled out the plug and stood naked while she leaned over and scrubbed the sides of the bath with the soap and the loofah. By the time she placed them back on the dish her skin was almost dry but her frock was still dripping wet. Fearing catching a chill, she decided not to put it back on while it was soaked through. She had no choice but to run back to her new home in the attic with not a stitch on. Leaving the blessed room, she padded along the corridor with the dress over one arm and the other covering her breasts.

  Then she heard a sudden noise.

  Swiftly, she opened a door to one of the servant’s rooms and slipped inside, placing her ear against the wood, desperate to hear what she could be up against.

  Footsteps!

  She held her breath as she heard the heavy thud of feet pacing along the corridor as each door was opened and closed on after the other. She looked around but there was nowhere for her to hide. If she crossed the room to crawl under the bed, she could make a floorboard creek and then she would surely be discovered. Her nakedness was a concern. To be caught was one thing, but to be caught naked was something else. Just as she was about to step into the wet dress, she drew in her breath when she saw the handle turn and the door open inwards. As if she was dancing with the door, she stepped back towards the wall, and through the crack, she saw the groundsman.

  She surely resembled a scared rabbit as her eyes opened as wide as she could stretch them. He took one step into the room. She couldn’t see him now since she was shielded by the door, but she knew if he happened to look around it, then her naked presence would be finally and shamefully exposed.

  Seconds later, she thought her heart had stopped beating when he stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Her body relaxed as I she squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in her breath, the beat of her heart pounding her head like a soldier’s rhythmic drum. She heard his footsteps go along the rest of the corridor and when she was sure he had gone, she bent her knees, letting her bare back slide down the wall until she reached the security of the floor.

  Back upstairs in the attic, Marley whipped a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her body. She’d discovered an old wooden clothes horse leaning against a wall in the second section, so she lifted it up and carried it through the glass doors to outside. The sun had come up over the terrace now and she could at last relish in the energising rays on her shoulders and face. She didn’t think she had ever appreciated the sun as much as she did that morning. It was truly heaven-sent.

  Her wet frock hung dripping from her arm, so she threw it over her shoulder while she erected the clothes horse. The contraption was covered in dust, but she would have to see to that later. For the moment, she tossed her dress over the top rung and set it to dry in the sun.

  Now she was starving. Her stomach growled so fiercely, she feared the whole of Mells would hear it echoing over the valley. If she was to spend a few days up there, awaiting the arrival of her friend and saviour, she should work out how she could best provide food for herself from her stolen provisions. She was dying for a nice cup of tea.

  She looked inside her sack, to the aromatic leaves waiting to be brewed. Boiled water was what she needed. But how? Where would she acquire some? She wished she’d thought of taking some from the bath taps, but now she once again found herself waterless.

  She decided to put the matter on hold. She would think about the problem after she’d eaten a morsel to sustain her. She took an apple from the sack along with the salami sausage. She was glad of the knife she had swiped from the larder, since she could now cut the salami in small pieces to nibble at leisure and preserve the rest. The apple was juicy and for a moment it quenched her thirst, but she was still needy of a calming cup of tea.

  She munched on a savoury biscuit and despite her reluctance to open it, her eyes fell on the jar of blueberry jam. Saving it for later to relish as a variation to her diet, was just wishful thinking. She twisted off the lid. The homemade preserve smelled as sweet as a tree laden with ripe fruit as she dipped the last of the biscuit into the jar and scooped out some jam. She put the whole lot into her mouth, closing her eyes and swooning with desire as the sugar rushed through her blood like a tide on a slow stream. It was more delicious than anything she’d ever tasted before.

  Satisfied she’d eaten enough to fill that gaping hole in her stomach, she knew she had to get better prepared if she was to survive up there alone in the attic for a few days. Soon the family would be back, and Celia would help her find a place to go, or at the very least put her on a train.

 
Chapter 5

  Dressed in dry clothes and with food in her stomach, as the sun continued to shine outside, Marely went for a scavenger hunt amongst the numerous items in the attic.

  At the front section, near the entrance, she came across a dresser made of fine mahogany holding a mirror covered in dust. An old rag had been discarded on the floor at the side, as if someone had tried to polish up the wood before abandoning the project in haste. She picked it up and crunched the cloth between her two hands, and only after she managed to salvage a clean corner, she wiped it over the mirror in a circular motion. The mirror wasn’t yet clean, but she could see her face in the circle and what she saw shocked her. She appeared pale and not in an attractive way. Dark round shadows tinted the skin under her eyes, making her look sick, as if she had the consumption and she’d be popping off any day. Her hair needed brushing. It was long and loose about her shoulders, which wasn’t the most attractive state to be in. Uncle had often said, ‘a girl who let her hair go loose is loose herself.’

  She opened one of the drawers of the dresser, but it was empty apart from a discoloured length of paper lining the bottom. The inside had a not-unpleasant musty smell generated by aging wood and cleaning wax and something else which she couldn’t yet identify. When she opened the drawer on the right, that third aroma made her imagine running through fields of purple lavender. Inside was a handmade pouch of mixed herbs, florals and spices still holding its bouquet, even after all that time abandoned in the attic. Abandoned, just like her!