From Higher Places

by Roger Curtis

  There is a kind of collective boredom that sets in somewhere around the time of cutting the cake. Jokes are done, insults hurled, embarrassments survived. People that have not seen each other for years begin to realise why. There is an intense urge to get up and wander, constrained to the limits of endurance by not being able to leave before the bride.

  Children, of course, are affected in a similar way but at a much earlier stage. They fan out like Indian scouts, secreting themselves into holes and crevices in the landscape. For that, this garden, with its perfection and neglect in equal measure, spelt paradise. For Marguerite’s boy the adventure was doubled, because it was foreign and therefore mysterious. The threat of the unfamiliar language might just have driven him a little further than the others.

  At first – as she would tell Sarah afterwards – Marguerite asked the other children if they had seen him. Then she went off by herself to search. She crawled under the bizarrely twisted laurels, possible only because they were old and bare near the ground. The light was beginning to fade and her heart pounded as only a mother’s can. She struck what remained of an ancient fence and welcomed it like a lifeline. After a few paces there was an opening to a narrow strip of grass and low vegetation dappled in the sunlight that was once a path. It was there she found them, chatting in a French that was as child-like on the one side as on the other. Hearing her name was more than just a surprise, because even when she looked again she hardly recognised him.

  It was not easy for Marguerite to catch Sarah’s eye, discreetly, to say what she had been told to say. There was a jug on a nearby table. She made it fall, causing it to shatter, its contents soaking the matting floor. It was enough to draw attention from Sarah.

  ‘Miss, there’s someone in the garden who wants to see you.’

  ‘Oh, who?’

  ‘I promised not to say.’

  ‘Then why should I want to see them?’

  ‘Him. Someone you know.’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But changed.’

  ‘Stop being mysterious!’

  ‘He asks you to go alone and not tell anyone. I’ll take you.’

  The path had changed since she had walked that way to Beacon Hill a decade before. The trunks of the laurels were more twisted, the undergrowth – where there were gaps – was more exuberant. The way to it would have been obliterated had not one of the gardeners preparing for the reception ridden with his mower a little way along it. What it signified sent a bitter chill through her body. She stood for a moment to let the feeling pass.

  ‘Are you alright, Miss?

  ‘I’m fine. Are we nearly there?’

  He stepped out from the shadows in front of them.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  She had not meant to stare, and it had only lasted a second. When she turned in confusion for support Marguerite had gone.

  ‘Brian? Are you Brian?’

  ‘Unhappily, yes.’

  There were so many thoughts and questions. A sensible response was impossible. She turned and grasped the bough of an ancient laurel with both her hands and rested her forehead against them.

  ‘Brian, it’s been five years!’

  ‘And two months. I’ve kept count.’

  ‘It’s wonderful you’re alive. We all thought…’

  ‘… that I died in the blaze? Well nearly, as you will see. Sarah, time is short and it’s getting dark down here.’

  ‘Brian, I’m supposed to be changing. The car comes for us in an hour.’

  ‘Sarah, I have things to tell you and show you.’

  The brambles and nettles worked on their legs as they had a decade before. It seemed to Sarah he was trying not to go ahead of her when he should have led the way. The top of the hill was still bathed in the yellow light of the evening sun while all around was a muted sea of dark green and grey. The wooden seat was still there, miraculously unchanged. They sat.

  ‘There are facts, Sarah, you need to know.’

  She realised he had been keeping the left side of his face from her. Now he turned his head deliberately so that the light fell directly upon it. She recoiled in horror. Momentarily his expression was of an animal at bay, broken and hopeless. Then, slowly, he turned the damaged side of his face away.

  ‘It was the first blast of flame, when all the fireworks accidentally went off, after the raft had beached at the jetty and your friends had spirited you away. Edwin was standing by me. He was more fortunate.’

  ‘He’s alive?’

  ‘He died that night – of his burns.’

  Sarah walked to where she could see the lights of Oxford beginning to twinkle in the darkening expanse around them. She turned and looked back at him.

  ‘And Tom?’

  ‘I… killed Tom.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please don’t ask. It was between us two, no-one else.’

  She thought for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Why?’

  ‘To get an answer to your question… your face… who did it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A teacher in Lebanon, he said…’

  ‘It was Pierre then.’ She whispered it to herself, having known, yet still reluctant to believe. She doubted that he had heard.

  ‘It was all he would say.’ His voice rose in remorse. ‘It meant nothing. It was not enough to stop me…’ He raised his hand to stifle any further discussion. ‘Then I escaped and went to ground, but all that need not concern you. Khasoni helped arrange treatment and the papers. Eventually, with a new identity, I reached the States. As you might imagine, there was a market for my skills. I did well. Very well, in fact, considering that all sense of purpose had gone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘After the things I did? You wouldn’t have wanted that. But I’ve followed your progress, Sarah. I’ve watched you at meetings and conferences. Read your research papers. I’ve even visited the Institute, and your own office and – please forgive me – sat at your desk. But always alone, always in disguise. Anyway, I can tell you I’m pleased that my ill-gotten money wasn’t wasted. It’s fortunate that Khasoni is a decent man at heart and honoured the bargain.

  Sarah’s hand went instinctively to her cheek. ‘I still wonder about that.’

  ‘It was to have been for both of us, you see. My dream.’

  ‘That’s still not impossible.’

  ‘It’s quite impossible. And when I heard what was to happen today. Well, somehow the door finally closed. This time, Sarah, I intend to allow myself no escape. You understand now why I had to see you.’ His head was bent forward, almost to his knees. Sarah felt a faint tremor of the wooden seat. ‘The funny thing is I hadn’t bargained for what’s come flooding back to me now. You didn’t realise, of course. This hill once seemed like a stairway to the stars.’

  Sarah drew herself closer to him and gripped his hand. ‘Brian, I’m sorry. So very sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Everything is complete. In spite of the evil that was done it gladdens me to think that in the end only one of us was scarred by it. Stay as you are, Sarah. Never go back to what you were.’

  Brian stood up and looked towards the faint carpet of light in the distance. ‘Oxford! It once beckoned to me too you know, after London. Who knows what effect a cloistered college existence might have had? Anyway… ’ He slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs as a gesture of closure. ‘You mustn’t look for word of me or ever dream of investigating. It would be pointless. All the arrangements have already been taken care of. Don’t be surprised if you find a little money coming your way – just accept it with grace. At least it will ensure the future of the Institute for your lifetime, if that is what you want. Oh, and there may be a few paintings. I would like to think you
would wish to keep them yourself.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s all I can think of to say.’

  ‘Just one other thing.’ She thought she caught a fleeting smile. ‘You can thank Jack Adams for that brief loan of his pen. I’m sure he’ll understand.’

  ‘So long ago! But I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Then goodbye, Sarah.’

  She had turned away from him to hide her tears and choose her words. But when she looked back there was only an empty seat and nothing left for her but fleeting memories from years before.

  It was really dark now. Down below voices were calling for her. There was agitation there, and a little anger. But it was within the bounds of business of ordinary people living ordinary lives. For a few more minutes, surely, she could remain apart. It was so little to ask when set against the greater canvass.

  Her drawn-up legs grew cold in the wind. The hair caressing her bare knees seemed to be trying to dry the wetness there. The dampness of the bench was beginning to seep through the thinness of her dress.

  She turned her back on the brightening lights of the distant city. Something impelled her to look down into the black well in which the memory of her sister was still contained. A minute passed, then two. The stars dimmed.

  For the last time she followed in her mind the progress of that faint processional light along the hidden path until it was received and the doors finally closed upon it.