The Hiding Places

by Catherine Robertson

  April began to skip through the early drawings. They were the kind you might expect to see on souvenir postcards, or sampler boxes of biscuits, inoffensive, charming, familiar, slightly dull. If you did not look past the first fifteen or so pages, you would think it was all the folio contained.

  But after them came the drawings that interested April more — the sketches, quickly done, and with a furtive quality about them, as if the artist had felt rather like a spy. The crouching man she’d seen but there were others — a fair-haired woman sitting by a window, head bent, reading — no, sewing; a curly-headed boy, head bowed, whittling wood; a bird of prey, a falcon, perhaps, with a fierce front-on gaze; the head of a stag; a pool by some rocks; a thick-set woman leaning on a table, face in her arms, weeping or resting April could not tell; and the last, a still-life collection of objects — a tiny egg, a four-leaf clover, a little round bead or nut of some kind spilling what looked remarkably like tiny elephants, a brooch or pendant bearing an image of a pomegranate, and — a jolt of recognition — a carved dog’s head with a ridged collar.

  It was the same one. It had to be. April wondered if Oran still had it. He’d better have, she thought. If he’d sold it to buy booze, she’d kill him.

  But whose was it? James’s? And what had happened to the other objects? Broken, she assumed, or lost. Ben had found a four-leaf clover once — well, his father had pointed it out and Ben had picked it. They had dried it carefully and kept it in an empty matchbox, but one day he’d brought the box outside and the wind had whipped the cloverleaf away. Not even a promise of ice cream could console him. She and Ben’s father had spent hours crawling all over the garden, with no luck. They had to settle for a sprig of oxalis, reasoning that a four-year-old would not know the difference, but feeling guilty of deception nonetheless.

  After the last sketch was a blank page. April had reached the end. The weak spine was coming apart, so she lifted the back cover carefully and as she did, the last pages curled over and she saw there were drawings that she’d missed.

  Only two, quite unlike either the neat scenes or the quick sketches. These were in black pen, highly stylised, the outlined figures set within distinct and ornate borders. They looked like patterns for art nouveau stained-glass windows.

  Both were of two men on either side of one woman. In the first, the men were knights, of the Round Table, April guessed from the look of their armour. They each had one hand on a sword and one outstretched towards the woman, but she had her head bowed, modestly, her own hands clasped together. Lancelot and Arthur, April wondered, competing for Guinevere?

  But she had no idea who the figures in the second drawing were meant to be. The two men this time wore garb more like Robin Hood’s: tights, jerkins and capes. Again, each had one hand on a sword and one outstretched. But the woman this time was barely human. From her feet to her shoulders, she was made of flowers, but her face was that of an owl’s, its large round eyes speckled like goldstone.

  April had to agree with Sunny. James Potts’s fondness for the obscure reference was highly irritating.

  She shut the folio with a dusty thump, and felt a pang of loss, as if she’d pocketed a shining stone from the beach which later proved to be only a dry dull pebble. April grew cross with herself for having even the faintest hope that something in the folio might seem familiar, that a voice from the past might speak to her. There was nothing there for her, just as there was nothing here for her now. When her time at Empyrean was done, she’d be going home.

  Connections to the past — could they really be restored once lost? Should you even try to make that effort, or should you let them go and watch them vanish backwards into blackness, out of your reach forever?

  Her watch told her it was ten minutes to eight. Dinner would be nearly over at Sunny’s. If she wanted to find out what was in Oran’s box, she should leave now.

  Oran opened the door.

  ‘You’re tardy,’ he said.

  ‘At least I turn up for work,’ said April, as she hung her coat.

  ‘What can I say? When the black dog seizes me in his jaws, I cannot fight him.’

  ‘Do you always blame your actions on supernatural beings?’

  ‘I grant you that it may not be the most mature response,’ said Oran, following her up the hall, ‘but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any such creatures.’

  The box sat untouched on Sunny’s table. It was not large, the size of a shoe box, and, judging by the faded print on the cardboard, had once held tins of custard powder. Edward stood over it with a pair of scissors, readying to slice through the packaging tape that held it shut.

  Sunny rose to greet April with a kiss. ‘Tea, my dear? Or there is a last sliver of baklava. I began the evening with a whole plateful, but then it was set upon by a ravening horde. If two men can constitute a horde.’

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’

  Edward waited until Oran had resumed his seat and, scissors poised, met his eye.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘No,’ said Oran.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Edward, and sliced open the box.

  The contents went on the table one by one: ten small parcels, carefully wrapped in newspaper. From the way Edward handled them, they were obviously light in weight.

  ‘That’s the last.’ Edward peered into the box to be sure. ‘No incriminating documents or photographs. Just — whatever these are.’

  ‘Right.’

  Oran was disappointed, April could tell. Everyone could tell; he had no gift for concealing his feelings. If that could be called a gift, she supposed.

  ‘What was the vicar’s daughter like?’ she asked.

  ‘Direct,’ said Edward. ‘And possessed of a face as tanned and lined as the back of a farmer’s neck.’

  ‘Strict, too,’ said Oran. ‘When she ordered her spaniel to sit I felt my own knees buckle.’

  Edward sat down, pulled the first of the small parcels to him.

  ‘Feel free to shut your eyes while I unwrap this,’ he said to Oran.

  ‘I will not,’ said Oran. ‘If my fortune is about to be made, I don’t want to miss a second of it.’

  A rattle as Sunny brought the tea tray. ‘No room on the table, I see, so please help yourselves.’

  Then she caught sight of the object Edward had just unwrapped. ‘Good Lord—’

  Edward held it out so they could all see. It was a Christ child in a crib, carved from wood.

  ‘A very little Lord,’ said Oran, setting it on the table.

  Sunny reached for it, turned it gently over in her hand. ‘Rowan made this.’

  ‘Your Rowan?’ said April.

  ‘I’d know it anywhere,’ said Sunny. ‘He carved a whole nativity set when he was twelve years old. It sat on a shelf in the Blythes’ kitchen for years.’

  Edward put his finger on another of the parcels. ‘Then I don’t think we need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess what the rest of these contain.’

  ‘Not my fortune.’ Oran sighed.

  ‘No,’ Edward agreed. ‘These wouldn’t rate highly on Big Mal’s list of prime pawn-ware. They’re too tasteful, for one.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said April to Oran. ‘Did you sell that ivory dog’s head?’

  Oran drew himself up. ‘If you all had better expectations of me, then I might rise to them. As it is, you have no one to blame but yourselves.’

  ‘Did you flog my dog?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Oran. ‘Because I forgot I had it.’ He shoved a hand in his front pocket. ‘Here you go.’

  April took the dog’s head. ‘I won’t ask how often you wash those jeans.’

  Sunny had taken it upon herself to unwrap another parcel. Inside was one of the Magi. She set him upright on the table, looking down into the crib.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ April held the dog’s head out to her, ‘that you recognise this?’

  Sunny peered. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘I found it in Empyrean’s
attic, in a chest filled with old-fashioned women’s clothing.’

  ‘Cora’s, possibly?’ said Sunny. ‘I know she took barely anything of her old life with her.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘When James was away at war. I’ve always thought that was extraordinarily selfish of her, but I suppose when you’ve finally summoned the courage …’

  Edward had unwrapped a second Magi, and Mary and Joseph. He set them in their appropriate places around the other figures.

  ‘I have a question,’ he said. ‘No, two questions. How did Reverend Brownlow come to have a nativity set that once belonged to the Blythes? And why did he wish to pass it on to George Rose?’

  But before anyone could pose an answer, April had her first proper look at the figure she had just unwrapped—

  ‘The lamb!’ April held it up. ‘It’s the lamb in the map!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Edward.

  ‘Absolutely! I was studying the map only this afternoon!’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Edward. ‘In my experience, one resting lamb looks very much like another.’

  ‘Your bucolic lifestyle, of course, exposing you to a myriad of sheep progeny,’ said Oran.

  ‘I’ll have you know that I’ve vaulted at least one stile,’ said Edward. ‘And I’m very fond of the work of Holman Hunt.’

  ‘Hush your nonsense, the pair of you.’

  Sunny reached out, and April gave her the lamb. ‘I do believe April is right. The lamb in the map had the same crooked front leg as this one. Rowan was only a boy when he carved them, after all.’

  She ran her thumb along the lamb’s side, the wood soft and golden as toffee.

  ‘I wonder if the Blythes gave the set to the vicar when Rowan died,’ she said. ‘Reverend Brownlow always stayed firm in his support of Rowan, even when everyone else had turned against him, including Ellis Blythe. Poor man. He loved Rowan, but the stance he took went against everything Ellis Blythe believed in. He’d already lost one son to the war. A choice not to fight seemed an insult to his memory.’

  ‘Are you saying Rowan was a conscientious objector?’ said April.

  ‘It was a surprise to many that someone so able with a gun would choose not to pick one up in defence of his country,’ said Sunny. ‘But anyone who knew him knew that Rowan killed only to preserve the natural balance, to let all life flourish equally. He could see that political freedom was a just cause, but did not believe that it should require so many to die. Too many lives in the debit column for the amount of gain. He could not, in principle, reconcile that disparity. And his principles cost him dearly.’

  ‘The only time you can truly call a principle a principle,’ said Oran. ‘When it costs you.’

  ‘When Rowan was sixteen,’ Sunny said, ‘Old Ted kicked him out. The Blythes took him in and he worked willingly and well on their farm. But in 1941, when he turned eighteen, he became eligible for National Service conscription. The irony was that farm workers could be exempted because they were doing valuable war work, so Rowan needn’t have registered as an objector at all. But I suspect he could not bear feeling as though he was deceiving people, particularly Ellis Blythe. Even though Rowan knew it might end their relationship, he wanted the truth out in the open. He did not want to feel a fraud.’

  Sunny pressed her mouth to the little lamb in a gentle kiss. ‘My poor, poor Rowan. How he suffered. I’m not one for regret, but I wish almost every day that I had been there for him at the last. I wish so much that I’d been able to say goodbye.’

  ‘I fear this tale does not end well,’ said Edward.

  ‘I know it doesn’t,’ said Oran. ‘I’ve seen Rowan Holly’s name on the war memorial. Among so many others who died too young and too far from home.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Somehow April had formed the impression that James was the only one of Sunny’s friends who’d not died of old age. ‘But how could Rowan die in the war if he didn’t fight?’

  ‘Because he did, eventually,’ said Sunny. ‘The poor boy was driven to it. Once the news was out that Rowan was an objector, despite Reverend Brownlow’s calls for tolerance, the village turned on him, and Ellis Blythe could no longer bear to have him in his house. Rowan couldn’t stand the thought of being imprisoned in an internment camp, so he went instead into the woods and lived there wild, hidden, for almost two years. During the winters of ’41 and ’42, Lily and I used to bring him food. Secretly; no one knew but we two girls. And James, of course,’ she added.

  ‘But in mid-1943, I joined the ATS, the Women’s Anxiliary, and was sent to Guildford for training,’ Sunny went on, ‘and I know Lily had been finding it increasingly difficult to get away from the farm. I’m not certain, but I think the prospect of a third winter in the woods was simply unbearable. Rowan enlisted in December 1943, just before James did. And he was killed in March 1944, in Italy.’

  ‘In combat?’ said Edward.

  ‘Not exactly. There was a horse — no one ever confirmed whether it was a cavalry horse or one from a local farm. It was panicking, and Rowan went to calm it. Someone fired a shot nearby, and the horse reared and kicked Rowan in the head. Killed him instantly, which is one mercy, I suppose.’

  ‘And you wonder why I don’t want to know anything about my past,’ said Oran. ‘What if there were tragic circumstances like those around my mother’s adoption? Just think how I would feel then!’

  ‘Personally, I’d prefer to know,’ said Edward. ‘The bogey monsters of surmise that we conjure in our minds are usually vastly more terrifying than the reality.’

  ‘Speaking for myself,’ said Sunny, ‘I adore being able to trace my family back centuries. We’ve amassed the most marvellous collection of warmongers, zealots, crackpots and fornicators. And those were just the women.’

  ‘I don’t want my grandfather’s ghost to haunt me,’ said Oran. ‘There’s precious little room in my van as it is. Besides,’ he added, ‘where on earth would I start? I have nothing to go on — not a name, not a place, nothing!’

  ‘That’s true.’ Edward sat back in his chair, tapped his fingers on the table.

  ‘I have a suggestion,’ he said. ‘The genealogist I used to track down April is very good. I could ask her whether she’s prepared to take this on. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I won’t know what I think until there’s something concrete for me to think about,’ said Oran. ‘If I’m too terrified to face it, can I opt for remaining in ignorant bliss?’

  ‘No,’ said Edward. ‘However, I will buy you a stiff drink afterwards.’

  ‘Sold.’ Oran reached out and shook Edward’s hand. ‘But if it turns out that inside those hand-made brogues of yours lurk cloven hooves instead of feet, could you do me a favour and always keep your socks on in my company?’

  CHAPTER 22

  early June

  April bent to look more closely at the rabbit and regretted it. She had stepped through the cottage door and found it right outside, hunched up, not moving except for the twitch of an ear.

  Her first thought was that it was ill. A closer look proved her correct. Its eyes were swollen shut, red and weepy, and there were sores on its face and head.

  She should put it out of its misery, but had no idea how. Kit had not left a gun — not that she knew how to use one — and she had no intention of cutting its throat with the kitchen knife.

  It was early Saturday morning. April had arranged to meet Jack in the walled garden. She hurried there to find him.

  ‘Myxomatosis,’ he said.

  ‘I guessed. What should I do? I can’t leave it, but I don’t have anything to … dispatch it with.’

  He had Kit’s shovel, offered it to her. ‘Hit it with this. Split its skull.’

  ‘No! I’d never manage that.’

  ‘Then leave it. It will die soon enough.’

  ‘I thought myxomatosis didn’t exist any more. It shouldn’t,’ said April. ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘Rabbits are highl
y destructive and there are millions of them. You can understand why farmers want to control them.’

  Jack drove the shovel into the weed-bound raised bed. Gabe, the dog, who’d been asleep on the stone path, raised his head.

  ‘But you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s always a risk, tipping the balance too far.’

  ‘Can you come and kill it?’ said April.

  ‘I thought you wanted to make a start here.’

  ‘It’s suffering.’

  ‘It’s one rabbit.’

  ‘Do you want me to beg?’

  He killed it with a single strike of the shovel blade. April could not watch. He then used the shovel to bury it at the edge of the woods.

  ‘Thank you,’ said April. ‘I suppose you can’t afford to be squeamish.’

  ‘If you’re squeamish, you’re more likely to botch it. I try to avoid killing things, but when I do, best to do it quickly, no hesitation.’

  Gabe was sniffing the area where Jack had buried the rabbit. April remembered the dog scrabbling in the dirt of Jack’s clearing, digging, perhaps, for old bones.

  ‘Does Gabe hunt for himself?’ she said.

  ‘He’s not my pet,’ said Jack. ‘We keep each other company by choice, and we understand that we have to fend for ourselves. He hunts by himself, in his own way.’

  ‘He doesn’t call to the rabbits?’ said April, with a smile.

  ‘He’s a wild thing so he hunts like wild things do. Not always quick and rarely pretty.’

  ‘If he’s really wild, then he’d be dangerous, surely?’

  ‘Who says he’s not?’ said Jack, with a smile of his own. ‘No, he’s like most creatures. He’ll only fight if he or something he wants to protect is under attack. And then he’ll fight to the death — his or his opponent’s.’

  ‘Harsh,’ said April.

  A single sharp whistle called the dog away from the rabbit grave. ‘That’s how it is. Not much room for compassion or mercy in nature.’

  ‘Nature’s cruel, you mean?’

  He shook his head. ‘Humans are cruel. Only humans inflict pain for revenge or power or pleasure. Nature kills to stay alive. There’s no good or bad in that.’