The Hiding Places

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘What about illness, or accident, or acts of God?’ said Edward, amused. ‘You can hardly plan for those.’

  ‘Of course you can! You can plan for how you’ll manage them. Far too many people leave it to others — and not only in times of crisis — to tell them how they should act or feel or even think. Take responsibility! Decide for yourself what kind of person you want to be.’

  ‘And what if I decide to be a terrible person?’ Edward was laughing now. ‘An evil mastermind? A murderer?’

  ‘Then do it! Make your choice and stick to it!’

  Sunny began to gather up plates in a clash of crockery.

  ‘But don’t come crying to me,’ she said, ‘when it all goes wrong.’

  CHAPTER 9

  late February

  April’s last day was the kind that tricks everyone into believing spring might have come early. The sky was a pellucid forget-me-not blue with only a faint haze at the horizon. The air was crisp but still, so that April’s cheeks felt nicely pink rather than slapped red and stinging by the freezing wind.

  She’d made her last piece of toast, drunk her last cup of tea and washed the dishes. She’d packed her suitcase and swept and tidied Kit’s cottage and that was that, nothing more to do. April needed to leave at five to drive to Heathrow. She had eight hours to go. Time for one last walk.

  She made a plain sandwich from the remaining bread and put it in her jacket pocket along with an old army-style water canteen — another find, this time in Kit’s shed. She closed the cottage door behind her and stood surveying the clearing, wondering which way to go.

  Sun lit up the path to the house, silvering the leafless branches of the trees against the blue sky. April hesitated. Should she have one last, more thorough visit, entering the rooms she’d missed, exploring further the ones she’d only glimpsed in passing? No, she decided. What would be the point? The whole plan had been to remove it forever from her memory, from her mind. April was grateful that Sunny had not produced any photos of Empyrean in its heyday, or she would no doubt have foisted those on her, too. April did not want to picture the house filled with its Harrods furniture, its wallpaper and carpet bright and intact, servants bustling down corridors, women in the parlour chatting over tea, men in the study drinking port and smoking cigars, children dashing through the front door, small boots clattering and being ordered to stop running indoors.

  Besides, Oran might be inside working, and April did not want to have to say goodbye to him, did not want to feel obliged to justify her actions. Though Oran did not seem the judgemental type, he’d not been shy about expressing his disappointment at her decision to sell. Where there’s life, there’s hope, he’d said. In principle, April agreed with him, but did not share his view of how to look at it. She saw no life in the house, therefore had no hope it could be revived. And even if the house had been in a less dire state, April knew no hope would be forthcoming. All her capacity for hope and joy had been extinguished along with Ben’s life. No life, no hope. No hope and no life for April.

  Briefly, April wondered if Oran would notice that she had not said goodbye. Unlikely. They’d only had one short meeting. He’d probably forgotten all about her.

  She turned away from the path to the house, and instead headed across the clearing to the woods. The ground was drying out on top but still moist underneath. April stepped carefully, so as not to end up ankle-deep in mud. The leaf mulch reminded her of Oran’s stubble, a patchwork of browns, dark, pale and reddish. Pushing through it were clusters of new green growth. April recognised the heart-shaped leaves of violets and the spears of snowdrops, the odd one dangling a tiny bell of white. There were nettle shoots and bramble twists and masses of low-growing ivy.

  No rain meant April could now hear birds, but the gurgling trill of a blackbird was the only call she knew. Something rat-tat-tatted up high. Something else went tseep, tseep.

  She knew the trees a little better. That was an oak, that a birch. That, she thought, was a beech, and that one might be an elm sapling. If she’d stayed here, she might have been tempted to buy a book. It would feel too much like a crime to be so ignorant.

  No path to follow, except the spaces between the trees. April would not get lost. Ben’s father, against all gender stereotyping, had been the one with no sense of direction. If he went into a shop in an unfamiliar city, he would have no idea which way to turn when he got out. April always navigated. She could navigate while singing songs to entertain Ben in the back seat. The wheels on the bus — take the next right, no right — go round and round …

  April paused to drink from the canteen. If she continued on, she would loop around the edge and come out on the other side of the house. If she turned, she would be heading inwards, into the darker depths.

  She turned. She would walk into the woods for an hour, then head back the same way. And then she may as well hit the road early. Heathrow airport could cope with her presence for a few extra hours.

  The gaps between the trees were no smaller, April decided, but the woods began to feel more dense and dark. There was mossy turf underfoot now as well as leaves. She tested the ground before each step. A moss-covered bulge could equally be a rotten branch, and she was not keen to travel thirty hours with a twisted ankle.

  A crash of branches to her right. Something biggish, running. A deer, most likely. A pity it ran, April thought. She would like to have seen it. She’d like to have seen a fox, too, and a badger, if there were any. And a big owl with golden eyes and snowy white wings …

  A gap, a clearing. A fraction the size of the one Kit’s cottage stood in, and shrouded by forest canopy. Over the far side was a big moss-covered trunk, a hollow tree. In front of it was a small bird, hopping about in the leaf mould, rooting for insects. It was grey-brown with a burnt orange chest. A robin.

  April felt a pulse of delight. There were no robin redbreasts back home. The only ones she’d ever seen had been painted on Christmas cards, surrounded by glitter and sentiment. Seeing one real, live, was like seeing a fairy on a flower; April had been half convinced that robins were a figment.

  She was quite close now, but the bird seemed unconcerned. She took a careful step forward, and it stopped, stood head tilted, registering her with one bead-black eye. Then it started to hop towards her.

  Goodness, thought April. It was completely unafraid. And it probably expected her to feed it. She reached slowly for the sandwich in her pocket and broke off a bit of bread. Then she crouched, stretched out her hand, and waited.

  The robin came within a foot of her fingers, but would hop no further. April tossed the bread to it. It pecked quickly, strewing crumbs, then opened its wings and took off, up into the branches. April watched it fly, regretfully.

  ‘If you’d waited longer, it would have come.’

  The voice was quiet, but April shot upwards if she’d been yanked by the collar. She backed away towards the hollow tree, heart hammering in her throat.

  The man stayed still, tilted his head to one side just like the robin. His eyes were the same bead-black, too, in a dark, firm-featured face. He was wearing a woollen hat, thick jacket and corduroy trousers, all in shades of brown. At his feet was a large white dog with reddish spots.

  ‘They’re naturally curious. Makes them act tame,’ he said. ‘If you’d waited, it would have hopped on your hand.’

  ‘Are you an escaped criminal?’ said April, breathlessly, her heart still battering her chest. She had not heard him approach at all.

  April half hoped for a smile. He did not give her one.

  ‘Do you want me to be?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just walking.’ She almost added: Is that all right?

  ‘Not many come this far in. Are you lost?’

  ‘No,’ said April. ‘I know my way back.’

  The dog loped over and sniffed her leg.

  ‘I’ve met him before,’ said April.

  ‘He’s cal
led Gabe. Short for Gabriel.’

  April offered her hand for the dog to sniff, and gave his ears a quick fondle.

  ‘Hello, Gabe.’

  The dog barked at her.

  ‘Hush,’ said the man. The dog hushed.

  ‘I’m April.’

  She suspected she was being incautious, letting the man know her name. But she was intensely curious to know his. So there was no way around it.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, after a beat.

  ‘I’ve been staying in the gamekeeper’s cottage.’ April broke the silence because it was clear he would not. ‘By the big house.’

  She patted the dog’s head some more, worked her fingers down behind his ears. Gabe gave a little whine of pleasure but from his master no sound. April felt compelled to go on.

  ‘But I’m leaving. This is my last day.’

  ‘Leaving?’

  April didn’t see him signal, but he must have because the dog left her side immediately and trotted back.

  ‘Yes. I’m going home.’

  He tilted his head again, in that bird-like manner. The dog at his feet softly whined. April had the unnerving impression that all the trees were bending inwards, intent on overhearing.

  ‘Home,’ he said, ‘is exactly where you’re meant to be.’

  CHAPTER 10

  August, 1933

  James’s new shoes scraped on the fallen tree as he vaulted it. Mama would want him to take his handkerchief and polish off the muck and moss right away, but he couldn’t stop running yet. He could still hear the crunch of dead sticks ahead, caused by feet landing, arms pushing through. James was quick and nimble, but he was a ten-year-old boy. The man was big and strong, and his legs were longer and covered more ground with every stride. James knew he was falling behind, losing him. But he wouldn’t give up. The man might trip and fall, and then James would catch him. He’d sit on the man’s back, bind his hands and lead him home, a bold hunter with a trophy that all would admire. A roaring lion, a spear-horned rhino, the Jabberwocky’s snicker-snacked-off head. Come to my arms, his father would say.

  Besides, they could buy new shoes every week if they wanted to. His father had said so. But still, Mama would not be pleased. She had not grown up with money, James knew, and she preferred to make things last. She was a secret mender — socks, shirts, linen. His father had no idea, but James had seen her in her bedroom, chair by the window for light, needle glinting as it dashed in and out.

  His mother had other secrets. She kept them in a box inlaid with ebony, no bigger than a carriage clock. It had been a tea caddy, she’d told him, back when tea was more expensive than gold. That’s why it had two little brass locks. To keep the servants from stealing it. Once or twice a year, she and James would sneak up to her bedroom and she would open it for him. Nothing of value was inside, but every item felt precious to James because no one got to see them except him and Mama. Mama would let him take them out one by one: the tiny blue robin’s egg, the dried four-leafed clover, the red nut from India filled with ivory elephants transparent and tiny as an infant’s fingernails, the enamel brooch Mama had made when she was young with a pomegranate spilling jewel-like orange seeds on a lapis background, and James’s favourite, the carved bone dog’s head that had once topped a walking stick. The dog looked friendly enough but it had a hinged bottom jaw, which dropped opened to reveal fierce teeth. Mama told him that the stick’s owner would have pushed a hidden button on the silver mount and made the dog snap and snarl. A trick, Mama said. To catch people by surprise.

  When did secrets matter, James wondered, and when did they not? Mama’s box held nothing of importance, so how could it mean anything that he saw inside it? Sunny told him secrets, usually about grown-ups doing things to each other that James very much hoped she’d invented. They had to be true, though, because Sunny could never be bothered to tell lies. Where did she get her information? From her mother, most likely. As his father often said, Dimity Northcote had a mouth on her that would make a seasoned jack-tar blush. Those secrets weren’t important, either, James decided. They were like the dog’s head, designed purely to make you gasp and then, depending on what kind of person you were, burst out laughing.

  The secrets that mattered, James thought, were the ones you never shared. Never, ever, not with anyone. Those dark thoughts and urges and wishes that you had to keep locked up because if you spoke them aloud, people would do more than gasp. They would back away in horror. These were the kind of secrets that snarled and snapped for real, like the three-headed dog in the book that was so oddly called a comedy, the demon guardian with its rapacious gullets and its flaying claws that rent spirits and quartered souls.

  Even if you never acted on them, those secret thoughts and urges were the kind that sent you straight to Hell, James knew. His father laughed at his mother for going to church, but Mama went anyway and took James with her. Mama liked it better now that Reverend Brownlow had replaced Reverend Flynn. Reverend Brownlow was young and his sermons were about compassion and forgiveness, whereas Reverend Flynn’s favourite subjects had been mortal sin and eternal, fiery torment. He used to get very worked up about it, so much so that one day he’d keeled over in the pulpit and died. James assumed he was in Heaven now. It would be very unfair if he were not, after all that righteous anger.

  It was from Reverend Flynn that James had learned what secrets God would punish you for. If you let them out, that is. Only if you let them out.

  The crunch of sticks up ahead had been steadily fading. Now it was gone. All James could hear was the shift of pressure in his ears, louder then softer, in time with his pounding heart.

  He’d lost him. The man knew the woods so much better; he knew how to properly hide in here. Was he hiding because he had to, James wondered, because he’d done something terrible? Or did he just want to be left alone?

  Suddenly, James didn’t give a damn about the man. He hadn’t wanted to catch him that badly anyway, so who cared that he’d got away? Old Ted would find him sooner or later, and then he’d be punished, and rightly so! Bad people should be punished, like the wicked uncle who sent the babes into the wood to die.

  James wished he hadn’t thought of that particular fairytale. He was lost himself now, had no idea where he was. He wished Rowan were with him. Rowan knew the woods so well that sometimes you could even fancy that the woods knew Rowan. The trees seemed to bend in and whisper to him, part and make way for him, reveal treasures for him, like fox cubs and wild raspberries and hidden pools.

  But he was himself and not Rowan. He was an outsider in these woods just as Rowan was an outsider in James’s life. James had let him in because the closer you were to Rowan, the better you felt. When Rowan was at a distance, apart, you could sense the gap and it felt dangerous, as if you were being divided by some divine judge into good and bad, and there could be no doubt which side had Rowan on it. But when he was with you, alongside you as your friend, you felt the question mark hanging above you vanish. You weren’t under scrutiny any more; there was a tick beside your name because Rowan would never befriend a bad person. When you were with Rowan, you felt good. You felt safe.

  In return, of course, Rowan got to spend time at James’s house, play with his toys, ride his bicycle, eat the wonderful teas that Cook made, and mess around in the apple tree with James and Lily and Sunny. And it wasn’t as if Rowan was good at everything. James was smarter at lessons, he could draw and he could beat Rowan in a running race every time. He could beat most boys at running, even older ones. His father had had a special cabinet made for James’s running trophies. It had only two in it so far, but they looked fine, shined up like the best pieces of silver.

  James’s chest was tight with exertion, his legs beginning to shake. He should stop and rest — even the best runners couldn’t run forever. But the woods here were dark and the trees were bending in, not to whisper at him but to grab him. If he did stop, he’d surely die. He’d die like the babes, and the ground underneath would swallow
him before robin redbreast even had a chance to cover him with leaves.

  His eyes began to smart. He thought it was his own sweat, trickling. But then, light blazed right into them, and he ran blind, swiping away stinging tears, until his shoe caught another branch and he fell full length on the ground, the blow knocking the breath from him in a whoosh.

  He had grass in his mouth. No, not grass — straw. He spat it out and scrambled to his feet. His knees had been grazed in the fall, which meant they were stinging now, as well as his eyes. That wasn’t his fault, though; his eyes had smoke in them. James had popped out of the woods like a cork from a toy gun and landed beside the hay fields where Farmer Blythe was burning his stubble.

  There was a crunch on the ground beside him, and James leapt around, hoping, maybe, that his quarry might have given him a second chance. But the person there was no man.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Lily. ‘Why are you so dirty?’

  She, James saw, was neat and tidy, dressed in sky-blue cotton that matched her eyes, her blonde hair held back by a white Alice band.

  ‘I’ve been running,’ said James.

  ‘You should try walking,’ said Lily. ‘It doesn’t make you half so sticky.’

  James saw she was holding a basket. He craned his neck to peer in, but it seemed to be empty.

  ‘Blackberries,’ she said, tipping it towards him so he could see the few rolling around at the bottom. ‘Mother sent me out to pick some. I’d have more if I didn’t keep eating them. But they’re so scrummy, I can’t help myself!’

  She picked one out, and popped it in her mouth. Her lips were stained already with purple-red juice.

  Lily fetched another berry from the basket. ‘Open up,’ she said. ‘This one’s for you.’

  James took it. He did not even have to chew; it dissolved instantly, as if made of nothing but juice, sweet with one last quick snap of sour.