I consider their actions. Either they would start at the bottom house of the village and work their way up, or head straight for the church to question the Reverend. Unless they saw us, in which case they would be heading straight here.
“What shall we do? Shall we stay here or shall we make a break for it? If we jump in the carriage, we might get a good enough head start before they realise we have gone. Jojo? What do think?”
Again, Jojo stares at me blankly.
I begin to demand he answer me when the bakery door creaks open.
Jojo tenses. I hold my breath, relieved I do not have a cold so that I can breathe quietly through my nose.
Soft, light footsteps hurry across the floor. They seem too light to belong to a full grown man, but it is impossible to be sure.
I crouch down lower and Jojo follows suit. Has Father found me already? My pulse drums. My armpits begin to sweat.
But it is only the black cat from earlier, who slinks behind the counter and rubs itself against Jojo's back. We both exhale, only to inhale sharply as the door bangs open with such force that a kitten painting falls off the wall and onto the table, shattering into little shards. Terrified, the cat dashes out from behind the counter and disappears into the back of the house.
We listen. One heavy footstep. Another. Silence. Someone, definitely a person this time, has entered the bakery.
From this vantage point, I dare not lift my head to see who it is in case the person spies me.
My hands begin to tremble even worse than Jojo's. My breathing grows faster and faster and I can feel myself becoming light-headed. Suddenly there is pressure on my hand. I glance down; Jojo's hand rests on top of mine. His no longer shakes. He looks at me and nods calmly. He is saying that we will be fine. As long as we do not panic, we will not be discovered.
Another step. And another. Each step brings the intruder closer to the counter. Soon he will be able to look over the top and see us. I brace myself for the sight of Father's burning eyes or Jean-Bernard's lustful smirk. Jojo's grip on my hand tightens. I look at him. He smiles slightly then lets go of my hand and leaps over the counter, making a long guttural sound deep in his throat.
This is my cue to run.
I hear the two men wrestling as I dash through the door into the rest of the house. I pause; to the left: a flight of stairs, to the right: a door which presumably leads down to the basement. Decisions. My mind freezes and I stand there for so long, too long, trying to decide whether to go right or left, up or down. What would Father expect me to choose? Which choice would offer the greatest chance of escape? Another question pops into my mind: should I go back for Jojo? What if they hurt him? What if he needs my help?
I hear a loud groan like that of a speared bull then heavy, pounding, quick footsteps coming my way.
I choose right; wrench open the basement door and plunge down the frail steps two at a time. It is almost pitch black. A little light comes from the doorway above which I failed to shut.
I dive under the stairway, feeling cobwebs and dust on my hands and face. A spider crawls across my head and I flick it away, choking down a scream.
The basement door edges open with one long screeeeeeeeeeeak. Footsteps descend the steps slowly, heavily. Each one creaking underfoot, sending huge balls of dust dropping onto my hair, dust whirling around me, clogging my throat, tickling my nose. The urge to sneeze comes on, strong, tantalising, inevitable. I snap my fingers down on my nose, try to stop myself, but I cannot. There is too much dust. I sneeze. Once, twice. Small squeaks but it is enough to tell Father or Jean-Bernard my whereabouts. The footsteps gain speed, running down, running to grab me but there is a sound of breaking wood, a strangled yell, a body falling through and landing in a dark writhing heap at my feet.
I cannot believe my luck and I am not going to waste it. I scramble up in the darkness, and, taking a wide berth of the moaning figure, I grab the banister and haul myself up, trying to step lightly, jumping three steps in one to avoid my assailant's fate. I reach the basement door and push it open slowly, poke my head out, check the way is clear. No-one appears to be around, but I know that either Father or Jean-Bernard still roams around Old Firsden hunting me. Another decision is needed: stay and hide or make a run for the carriage?
I hear movement behind me. The man in the basement has already recovered and is running up the stairs! Now there is but one choice: stay and hide, but where? I can either go upwards to the bedrooms or right, to the back garden. Thinking the back garden will be more exposed in the daylight, I opt for upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
As I reach the landing, the basement door slams.
There is no time – I dash into the first room I see, which happens to be the main bedroom, containing more kitten paintings, a double mattress with red woollen blankets and a huge wardrobe. I quickly assess my hiding options. There is no bed frame so I cannot hide under the bed. The only place is the wardrobe. Or...footsteps on the landing. I dash behind the bedroom door. Hold my breath.
Someone stands right outside the door. I hear their frantic breathing.
I tense my fists; my only weapon. If I have to, I will fight. If I have to, I will hit and hurt Father or Jean-Bernard, and then I will run.
The door begins to move inwards. The white wood is frayed and peeling. It moves closer like a gloved hand edging towards the eyelids of the deceased. The door is silent, well-oiled. The only thing audible is his heavy breathing.
I wait until the door is a hand's width from my face, then I slam my body against it. An anguished, pained cry. He stumbles backwards. I dart out from behind the door, prepared to kick and punch but I freeze. Lying on his back I see, not Father, not Jean-Bernard, but Jojo!
“Jojo! My goodness! I am so sorry! What happened? Where are they?” I kneel down beside him, help him up.
He smiles. A smile from him is the last thing I expect. I grab his shoulders, shake him, “Where are they Jojo? Are they here?”
He shakes his head, but will not speak.
Crying out with frustration, I shake him some more, “Please Jojo, speak to me. Tell me who you jumped back there. Was it Father?”
He shakes his head again.
Realising that he only answers to yes or no questions, I snap, “So, it was Jean-Bernard then?”
Jojo shakes his head.
“Well then, who on earth was it?”
Jojo smiles and gestures for me to follow him downstairs. I hesitate, utterly confused, fearful that Father or Jean-Bernard will appear at any second.
Reluctantly I allow him to guide me down the stairs and back into the bakery. There, sitting at the round table smelling the yellow crocuses, is the old man with the three-legged collie that I saw this morning.
“Hello,” he grunts, “what has a man gotta do to get a good cuppa tea around here then?”
“I, I do not understand. Please, Sir,” I say urgently, “do you know to whom that carriage out there belongs? The one with the brown horses?”
He swivels around stiffly to look through the window, “I do know, as a matter of fact. That there carriage belongs to the priest of this fine village, Father Hugh Blackburn the Second. Good man he is. Good and traditional. He has probably been off on one of his shooting jaunts.
“Now, do not mention this to a single soul Miss, but I do not care much for that Reverend Pettigrew with his new-fangled ways. That is why I comes here for a cuppa and what does I get? Pounced on by this here young scallywag! Just as well I have my Bessie to protect me.”
I stare at Jojo open-mouthed. Look down at his hand, which is bleeding. The collie must have bitten him. But Jojo smiles back at me. He does not appear to be in too much pain.
My muscles begin to relax. So Father and Jean-Bernard are not here after all? In somewhat of a daze, I slump into a chair and begin to laugh.
Jojo and the old man look at me as if I am insane, but I care not. I am free. Father and Jean-Bernard have not found me and that is all that matters.
Dear Diary,
I am incensed! Sick to my very gut. Anger is a hell pit within that scolds and cracks and ravages my mind! My hands shake as I ink these words. It is all I can do to refrain myself from grabbing the nearest man and beating the living hell out of him!
That conniving old bastard Father Shepherd lied to us. He actually lied. Sent us on a wild goose chase. And thus our hopes of capturing her today are obliterated. Tossed to a savage wind, torn to pieces. Obliterated by the deception of one who has sworn never to commit the sin of dishonesty.
I swear, when I return to Grousehill, I shall make Shepherd pay for his lies! Lower Bridgeton – pah! She is not here. She is not in Lower Bridgeton – she is in Old Firsden, a village that lies at least a day's journey east of here. The priest here, Father Biggs, informs us that Reverend Pettigrew visits Lower Bridgeton once every two years. This year he visits Old Firsden. That is, unless Father Biggs is lying also. But I cannot believe that. The very idea that he is involved is simply too far-fetched.
Damn Shepherd and all his trickery! Damn him to hell! We have wasted the last three hours searching this village; precious time that we should have spent elsewhere.
Now we must journey to Old Firsden in the hope that the Reverend has decided to lengthen his stay. Jean-Bernard remains confident, but I confess, I cannot.
My head swells with the pain of fury. I can write no more.
C.C
CHAPTER 17
MEMORIES
Dear Mama,
I hope you are well. You may be content to hear that I miss you still, but your memory fades a little, which perhaps means that I am growing stronger, more independent. Indeed, much has happened since my last letter.
You will be glad to know that I have avoided Father and Jean-Bernard and thus, thankfully, I am free and safe. This I owe in large part to the actions of Reverend Pettigrew and his driver Jojo, a curious, young, black-skinned man whom I must admit I am growing rather fond of. Indeed, thinking that Father pursued me, and, fearful for his own safety, Jojo did all in his power to protect me. It turned out, much to our surprise and amusement, that neither Father nor Jean-Bernard were present in the village and that all was well.
However, the threat of their approach still lingers. It is an ever-present burden on my mind. Though they seek me elsewhere, I fear that they shall soon discover my whereabouts. They will not concede defeat. Father is too stubborn for that.
The good Reverend disagrees with me, as do Mary and Todd Hopkins, the owners of Old Firsden bakery. Mary chastised me for my negative outlook. She lectured me for nigh one hour over our supper on the virtues of maintaining a positive mind-set. And, though I see sense in her kind words, I cannot dismiss the notion that they will not stop until they have me.
Reverend Pettigrew confessed to me that he did a naughty thing. It makes me smile to think of his face as he spoke the words: “Lisbeth, can you fathom why your Father and his friend have not yet progressed to Old Firsden?” I said no, no I could not. Of course, I dwelt on this question many a time throughout the afternoon and could not find an adequate answer. “Well,” he said, “I must confess something to you. Something naughty that I did before we left Grousehill.” I asked him what it was, never in a thousand moons expecting the answer he gave. “I told Father Shepherd, and indeed as many persons of the village as I could find, that we were headed to Lower Bridgeton, not Old Firsden.” He smiled then and his cheeks flushed scarlet, but he looked rather pleased with himself. I laughed and wrapped my arms about his neck. Thank you, I said, your little white lie has saved me.
It is safe to say, therefore, that we have gained some distance from Father, but can we maintain this distance? Even now, as night crushes day, they may be heading this way. But the good Reverend believes it safe for us to sleep here tonight and begin our journey early tomorrow morn. I hope he is right.
Mary has fashioned me a cosy bed in her back room. She has also given me a fresh dress and a shawl that she wore when she was, in her own words, 'a slip of a thing like yourself!' I am immensely grateful for her kindness. You would love her Mama, you truly would. Some moments, I cannot believe my luck. I never would have made it this far without these generous souls to guide me. Reverend, Jojo, Mary, Todd – they are such good people.
I shall endeavour to remain positive, as Mary requests. My wishes for your good health continue. I will be sure to keep you informed of my progress.
Lisbeth
*
“Just two more stops and then we shall journey directly to London to find your brother,” says Reverend Pettigrew.
A Bible balances upon his knees. He holds a scrap of lead as he scans the sacred pages.
The carriage bumps along whirring and grinding incessantly. The weather is wondrous mild. March is come at last. I lift the shawl from my shoulders, fold it, place it on the seat beside me. The sun speaks little for it is cast out by its grey-bearded neighbours, but it is determined; heat soothes my aching skin as I peer out of the window.
Wind breathes on me, runs its fingers through my hair. My hair is a ripped, black flag shimmering atop a haze of green and brown. Sheep speckle the fields, plump with unborn babes, content with tranquil life. Earth and grass and manure; nature's scents silt the air.
Life appears simple. But it is not. On the surface, I appear calm; beneath, I am a girl flailing in a hailstorm. I may have broken out of my cell, but I am not yet free.
I sigh.
The good Reverend looks up, “My dear Lisbeth, are you worried? Speak to me, please.”
He shuts his Bible and places it on the seat. Leans forward, “What is on your mind, dear Lisbeth?”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt your work.”
He laughs, “I needed a rest! Please, tell me your woes and I may be able to help.”
“It is the same concern as before. Father. Jean-Bernard. I fear they may find me before I get to Eddie.”
He gazes into my eyes kindly, “And what shall you gain by concerning yourself with things over which you have no control?”
“Nothing. I see what you mean. It is just that for so long now I have been unhappy. Now I see that there may be hope for some kind of happiness, and I suppose I am scared of losing that hope.”
“I see. Hope does indeed sustain us,” he pauses a moment, “Lisbeth, I think I shall share something with you, something that I have not shared with anybody save Jojo.”
His eyes lose their warmth. They go to an ancient place. His voice loses its power, turns in on itself. Grows quiet, self-contained.
“Fifteen years ago, I lost the person I most valued in the entire world, my wife, Joanna. We were childhood sweethearts. I, a wild youth with strange ideas, she, a calm, gentle creature with the kindest of souls. Indeed,” he pauses, refocuses on me, “there is something in you, dear Lisbeth, that reminds me of my Joanna.”
He takes a deep breath, readying himself to continue, “We were married on Joanna's eighteenth birthday. Two years later, she fell pregnant with our first child, a beautiful boy whom we named Joseph. He died a few months later, one night in his cot. Joanna fell with child three times more, but never carried to term. Alas, for us, it was not meant to be. So, we decided to make ourselves content to be just us two for the rest of our God-given days. We were very happy. Joanna kept house while I guided God's children. Then, one night, Joanna suffered a seizure. Mercifully, it was over in a matter of minutes. I held her hand as I watched her die. I must admit I thought my life over. I even questioned my faith, something for which, for years, I could not forgive myself. But then, not one month after Joanna's passing, I took a walk by the Thames and heard a rather peculiar sound. At first I thought it a cat and nearly walked past, but something moved me to inspect the source. That was when I discovered my hope; he was such a little dot, all skin and bone. I searched for his parents, but of course they were nowhere to be found. So I brought him up as my own and I named him Jojo.”
I touch his kne
e, “I am so sorry about your wife.”
He pats my hand, “No need. She has gone to a good place. My point in telling you was to suggest that perhaps your hope lies just around the corner, out of sight at present, but soon to be revealed.”
“Never give up,” I whisper.
“Indeed.”
“Thank you.”
He laughs and I can tell he is back to his usual self once more, “If you say thank you one more time I will throw you out of this here carriage!”
“Sorry,” I say with a small smile.
“No more 'sorrys' either or the same fate shall await you!”
“Yes Sir!”
He winks and returns to the Bible, lips parted in a smile. I turn to look out of the window. The sun is bolder than before.
My heart feels a touch stronger, but it still hurts; it always hurts. I think back, try to remember a time when my heart did not feel as though it were constantly being squeezed and stabbed by invisible hands. Deja vu sweeps over me; I have sat here before, looking out of this carriage, the good Reverend sitting opposite me. Sunlight creeping in. The moment ends, but I am abruptly transported to a distant time and place. Sitting by a roasting fireplace, Eddie, a mere babe in arms. I am holding him, cupping his bald head in my hand, his bare bottom resting against the crook of my elbow. He is days old. I look down at him in wonder. I should only be ten years old, but my arm is too long, my fingers too much like an adult's. I look up, see Father. His hair is black with very little grey. His face has lost its wrinkles, and, most surprisingly, he is smiling. He is smiling. He is smiling back at me. He walks over, reaches out his arm...
I wake up.
“We are here!” booms Reverend Pettigrew. He clasps my arm.
“Already?” I croak. My throat is dry and sore.
He chuckles, “Yes, dear Lisbeth, you slept for three hours!”
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