Except, it seemed, for Edward V. Gill.
April had so far resisted reading the body of his letter. She had certainly not glanced at the other documents enclosed. It occurred to her that she could burn the lot. But something — the slant of the signature? — suggested to April that one letter from Edward Gill would be duly followed by another, which would be followed by a phone call (the private individual no doubt already had her number), and possibly by the presence of Mr Gill himself.
April wondered what he looked like. Gregory Peck, playing Atticus Finch, came to mind. Wishful thinking, April decided. At forty-eight, Mr Gill was undoubtedly on the inevitable slide towards the kind of desiccated stiffness that, thanks to Dickens, everyone always associated with English solicitors. Edward Gill would be dry and proper, and dedicated to duty. There would be no shaking him off.
A rap at the door. Norman. He knew she was home; she was always home at this time, so there was no escape. April moved to set the letter aside, then changed her mind and took it with her to the door, as if words written by the resolute Edward Gill would act as a talisman.
It wasn’t Norman. It was Stiff, from number 3. April had never asked what his real name was. For all she knew, that could be it.
Stiff was dressed in a leather kilt, black mesh singlet and boots with ten rows of buckles, a look he had sported since 1988. Back then, it had been intimidating but over the decades had lost its edge. Now, it was Stiff’s scowl and hunched, muttering stride that caused people to avoid him. Stiff had dyed black hair and, until recently, multiple body piercings. The holes were still there but the studs removed, owing to them being, Stiff had told her, receivers for radio waves that fed government propaganda directly into your brainstem. April had doubts that the brainstem was the primary source of cognitive control, but she kept those to herself.
Stiff did not often talk to April. He never knocked on her door. Obviously, this was a day for unexpected callers. April hoped Stiff’s news would be less unsettling, though instinct told her that was unlikely.
‘Jenny said to tell you she’s in hospital,’ said Stiff. His eyes rolled backwards a little, as if to retrieve the next message. ‘And you’re not to worry.’
Jenny, number 4, was in her early seventies. She had rheumatoid arthritis, which was contracting her hands into useless stubs. The list of household tasks she could manage was becoming shorter every week, but Jenny did not seem to think she needed help. Jenny did not seem to need anything. Though effectively a cripple, she was as buoyant as Norman, but without the wearisome zeal. It drew the other Circle Court-dwellers to her, drew them to overcome their natural preference to avoid others, to hide in the shadows. She inspired them to come to her like pilgrims, April felt. Inspired them to believe Jenny had a cure for their own particular affliction.
Jenny had cropped iron-grey hair, and wore navy blue polyester skirts and blouses buttoned up to the neck, all of which made her look like a retired nun. April had never noticed a cross or heard Jenny speak of God, so if she had indeed been a nun, she did not advertise it. Whatever it was that made Jenny strong, she was content to keep on the inside.
‘She’s in hospital?’ said April. ‘What happened?’
‘Spilled the jug. Burned herself.’
‘Crap.’ April hit her forehead lightly against the door.
‘She’ll be all right. Long as she stays away from the computers.’
‘Computers?’
‘Microsoft. Their systems launch genetically targeted viruses.’
That was a new one.
April had opened the door only halfway. Now, she began to inch it shut again.
‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’
‘What’s that?’ Stiff pointed to the letter.
‘Something I need to read now.’
‘For your work?’
Stiff had never been employed. Work for him held a mythic quality. Mind control and weaponised viruses were much more real.
‘Yes.’ It was easiest. ‘Goodbye.’
April shut the door.
The sudden quiet in her tiny flat felt ominous, as if each dim corner could be concealing a hostile intruder, or a clawed beast waiting to pounce.
A harbinger, thought April. Foreshadower of things to come.
She sat back down on the couch, reminding herself that the act of reading constituted no commitment. She would read only to discover what words of poetic power Mr Edward V. Gill, MA, LLB, might have set down on the page, as he invited her to stray from her chosen path and become the new owner of an old, abandoned country house.
CHAPTER 2
early February
‘You’re an heiress!’
Now there’s a word to conjure with, thought April. But for her the doves that flew out from under the handkerchief were women with large fortunes, aristocratic privileges and quicksilver names, like Consuelo Vanderbilt or Evelina de Rothschild. Not plain women with plain lives and workaday names like April Turner.
But the word, the idea, pleased Jenny, and Jenny certainly deserved a bit of pleasure. Jenny’s was not the worst kind of burn — she’d only stayed one night in hospital — but her hand was bandaged up tight. The fat wrappings, April observed, did not make her hand much less useless than it had been before.
An heiress. It was an attractive idea and, as such, April had an immediate need to make it less so. In this case, not so hard to do. Edward Gill had been honest in his assessment of her inheritance.
‘The house is almost a ruin,’ April said. ‘The Potts’s place has gone to pot.’
‘But there’s land?’
‘Not as much as there used to be. The farm was sold off in the 1940s. But yes, there’s some.’
‘Then you could develop it.’
April had to laugh. ‘Hark at you, Donald Trump. In theory, I suppose it could be done. In practice, I’d need big wads of cash and, as we speak, my cash position is strictly wad-less.’
‘What about your savings?’
Jenny’s bottle-lensed spectacles had a magnifying effect on her eyes. It was disconcerting, like being gazed at by a bush baby, but it did mean you were in no doubt about her kindliness or sincerity. Despite knowing Jenny was only being helpful, April regretted ever mentioning her savings. It made her uneasy and guilty, and not just because she knew Jenny had none of her own, subsisting only on a meagre pension. April, too, lived on a benefit, plus her tiny wage from the community education centre. If that had been all, she’d feel less guilty. But she also had money inherited from her parents, which they had earmarked in their will for any children April might have. It wasn’t much, a few thousand, but April now could not bring herself to touch it.
‘My savings still fall a good way short of a wad,’ said April.
‘Keep a little bit of the land for yourself, then,’ said Jenny, ‘and sell the rest to give you the money to build another house, a smaller one, a cottage, just for you. You might not even need to touch your savings.’
April wished Jenny would stop. Stop picturing a life for April that was not only so far beyond the bounds April had set but also so much better than Jenny’s own. April began to wish that Jenny were not kind and enthusiastic, but selfish, small-minded and gloomy. Every word Jenny spoke made the idea of owning this place sound real, and April knew that one idea gathered others to it, the way a flower gathered butterflies, and before you knew it there’d be a flock of them, fluttering their pretty wings and filling your mind with dangerous fancies. Even after five years, those butterfly ideas were still finding their way in. She had to snatch them out of the air before they got too far, and pin them dead.
‘I don’t want it,’ she said.
Jenny looked surprised. ‘You don’t want the responsibility?’
Responsibility. No gentle doves conjured by this word. This word was a correction. A lesson learned once and never forgotten.
When she’d closed her old life and opened a new one, April had been careful to fill it with as little as po
ssible. There was no room for anything she would have to be responsible for. She could not be responsible. She’d proved that beyond doubt.
‘I don’t need a house,’ said April. ‘I don’t want anything I don’t need.’
Jenny reached down with her good hand — if you could call it that — and picked up her mug of tea. She did this by hooking her two middle fingers into the handle, the remaining two being crabbed almost flat against her palm on either side, and clamping down on the top of the handle with her thumb. The mug could only be filled halfway or it became too heavy for her to lift. Usually at this point, watching the mug rise from the table, April felt anxious. Today, the anxiety was tenfold, and April could not blame it all on Jenny’s accident.
Jenny rested the mug on her lap, propping it up with her bandaged hand. ‘Then sell it,’ she said, ‘and you won’t have to think about it again.’
Sell it. Of course. But even that meant accepting that the house was hers. Why couldn’t she just forget about it, ignore it?
‘I’d have to go to England,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just started teaching a new course. And I’d still need to pay my rent, so I might not be able to afford airfares or accommodation. And I don’t think the government’s keen on beneficiaries travelling. And my passport is about to expire. And—’
‘Is the lawyer you’re dealing with reputable?’
If April hadn’t known better, she’d have decided Jenny meant the question to act as a verbal slap. Either way, it had the same effect. April drew breath.
‘So I’ve been led to believe.’
‘Then I imagine he could execute your wishes without you being present. It would take longer, obviously, sending documents back and forth to be signed. But if he’s trustworthy, then there should be no difficulties.’
No difficulties. On the face of it, then, a simple decision. Make it and life would return to normal.
‘What would you do?’ April rather hated herself for asking.
‘I would sell it, and I would give the money to the church.’
‘Really?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to live in it, would I? If it’s almost a ruin?’
‘I suppose not,’ said April. ‘But — the church?’
‘I’d ask that they use it to help the poor,’ said Jenny. ‘If they chose not to, I’d never know, so no matter — we’d both be happy.’
‘What about spending it on yourself?’
It had occurred to April that she could give the money to Jenny. Jenny deserved it; April did not.
But Jenny said, with genuine bewilderment, ‘What would I buy?’
‘You could hire someone to help you around the flat.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Jenny. ‘I know it’s only a matter of time before I can no longer live alone. But this is New Zealand, not the third world, and we still have an adequate state-funded health system. I will be cared for, don’t you worry. Until then, though, I intend to press on living my life.’ She tilted her mug in salute. ‘And to drink tea right to the end.’
The corridor outside Jenny’s flat seemed more dingy and close than ever. April had a sudden craving for fresh air, so she headed for the stairs that led down to the garden. As she passed Norman’s front door, he opened it. April braced herself, then saw he was dressed in his street-preaching clothes — a neat suit and fedora hat, as if he’d time-warped from the 1950s. He would not stop for her. A thousand sinners would soon be trudging home from work, and their evening commute would not be complete without Norman on the corner, a pamphlet and smile for every last lost soul, oblivious to the fact that all who walked by thought he was the one past hope.
He tipped his hat as he passed April, and said, ‘Remember Jesus’ words: In my Father’s house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you.’
April wondered briefly if the private individual had met Norman on his way out, but dismissed the idea. Norman was the equivalent of a Biblical quotation fruit machine. Pull the lever and up they came — ching, ching, ching. He had hundreds of them; the fact he’d used that one was pure chance.
Besides, any God who’d decided she’d deserved to watch her son die would hardly throw open His front door to her, no matter how many rooms He had free. He’d treat her the way she treated Norman, with a polite but adamant shake of the head. Or, like most of those who passed Norman on the street, pretend He didn’t even see.
April sat in the Circle Court garden, mentally adding, as she did every time, inverted commas around the word. The garden was a concrete square that abutted the car park. The two cars in it belonged to the students in the rambling villa next door, most Circle Court residents being prevented from driving by their lack of means or, more commonly, the law. The villa was in exactly the right position to block the garden’s light most of the day, but then, April felt, there were parts you were grateful to have obscured. Bolted into the concrete were two wooden bench seats, worn from use and abuse, splintered cracks showing the strata of repainting, from muddy yellow to today’s mould-spore grey. The broad-leafed, dense, dark shrubs were the kind that make you inclined to give up as lost for good any cricket balls that roll underneath, rather than stick your hand in to search for them. Cigarette butts lay everywhere, as if they’d been shed like seed heads from a dying tree.
It was February. In New Zealand, summertime, though sitting here in the drear shadow of the Circle Court garden, you might not believe it. In England, April thought, it was winter. Proper snowy winter, as promised on the Christmas cards.
It rarely snowed in the city where April lived, and if it did, it was thin sleet, never enough to settle. But she had seen snow, been to the mountains, even tried skiing once with Ben’s father when they were first going out. April had spent a lot of time falling on her backside and being passed by small children, who all seemed to be able to swish down the powder like bite-size Olympic champions. Ben’s father was an excellent skier, so all April had seen of him was his back as he disappeared, and a flurry of snow as he whooshed to a stop beside her and asked her how she was doing. As April was very much in love with him, she replied each time that she was having a blast. Whereupon he would smile and shoot off again in the direction of the nearest vertical slope.
Money had been tight when they’d first had Ben, and he had been four years old before they took their first trip back up the mountain. April had half hoped he wouldn’t like the cold, so she could use him as an excuse to stay in the lodge by the fire and drink hot chocolate. But Ben had loved it, loved the snow, loved falling over into it, loved being cheered on by Daddy when he managed to stay upright and shuffle forward a few inches. April, not really minding that she was superfluous, had sat in the lodge anyway, and at five o’clock been ready with hot chocolate for two beaming, proud males, one of whom had fallen almost instantly asleep in his father’s lap.
They had been planning another ski trip the year Ben started school. April could not now recall much of that winter. It had been as if she, too, had been buried, but alive, in a place with no light and barely enough air. Those few weeks before she made the decision to leave behind her old life were blurred and dark, but she could recall the moment of that decision with perfect clarity, as a glass knife that had severed all ties with a single cut. The reality of the separation had not been so straightforward, but April had not wavered. In her mind, her old life was already gone.
That life had been full of possibility. Even though it had the usual constraints of income and time to get stuff done, it had felt expansive, the future opening out before them like arms spread wide in welcome.
Which is why she had designed her new life to be exactly the opposite. Her reasoning was that she had given up the rights to joy, love and a future when her son lost all of those along with his life. No one in her old life had ever seen the sense in this, but to April it was clear as day. Her life now was shrunk down and tightly wrapped, rationed and restricted. Her sole purpose these days was to follow the same thin, undeviating line for as long as s
he was required to — likely forever — and to stave off any temptation to stray.
April had read once about a monastery in Greece where the monks went to great lengths to make their world impregnable by temptation. Not only did they take a vow of silence and chastity, but they also allowed only male animals inside the walls. Even hens were banned; eggs were delivered by the local farmers. Not even Her Majesty the Queen had been allowed to visit. She’d had to wait in a boat until Philip returned.
In her new life, April had kept temptation outside her walls by having nothing within them that could beguile her into wanting more. However, she thought as she left the garden and took the stairs back to her flat, the outer world and the inner were two very different places. In April’s experience even the bleakest and most spartan of environments could not completely shut out those butterfly ideas. In fact, the duller the background, the more the cursed things seemed to glow.
Take this house. Even though Edward Gill had not described it past warning her that it was in bad repair, the idea of it had begun to form in April’s mind. Try as she might to contain them, images of it flickered like an old home movie, continuing the story Edward Gill had written to her.
He’d told her that the house had been built in the 1920s by a rich businessman, a Mr Lewis Potts, and abandoned in the ’60s when he’d died, his only son having predeceased him. Mr Potts had, according to Edward Gill, willed the care of the property to the gamekeeper at the time, for as long as the young man wanted to stay. The gamekeeper had stayed for over fifty years until last November when, aged seventy-one, he’d met a widow on the internet and emigrated to Canada. April fancied she could hear disapproval in Edward Gill’s tone. She’d already decided that Mr Gill would be cautious and considered, and would leave Canadian widows well alone.
The Hiding Places Page 2