“While I applaud your sudden dedication, Samuel, I need that wood before my pie turns into a holy disaster,” Ruth said, patting down her hair and checking the tightness of her bun. “You can go on with your schoolwork after lunch.”
“Yes, Ruth.”
Samuel stood up and, as he did, Ruth leaned over the desk and picked up the Bible. “I’d be more comfortable if you worked out in the kitchen,” she said. “That way I’ll know you’re doing more than daydreaming.”
“I can carry it,” said Samuel, passing quickly around the desk.
Ruth glanced down at the Bible. “Suit yourself.”
She handed the book to Samuel. The boy hugged it close to his chest and followed her out.
* * *
Before fetching the firewood, Samuel went to the kitchen garden looking for his rabbit. It wasn’t technically his rabbit, being wild and unruly, but as there weren’t any competing claims of ownership, Samuel didn’t think there was any harm in assuming custody. The creature was rather elusive, but most days he could be counted on to make a fleeting appearance near the row of thriving cabbages. Though today there was no sign of him, which the boy took as a personal slight.
After he brought the firewood in, Ruth made Samuel work for over an hour writing out the psalm—and he still wasn’t even half-done. For her part, the housekeeper finished the mince pie and then prepared a small side of pork for dinner. But her focus, amid all of this activity, remained fixed on the boy. She would stop on her way from the oven to the larder or the table to the cupboards, glancing over Samuel’s shoulder, telling him to slow down or lift his head or offering one disparaging comment or another about the state of his handwriting. All the while Samuel thought of what was hidden between the pages of the Bible, scared silly that she might find it there.
When the pork was roasting in the oven, Ruth asked Samuel to help her bring the washing in. As Samuel stood, Ruth, with flawless speed, scooped up the Bible.
“I wasn’t finished,” he said.
“While I admire your enthusiasm, though it’s wildly out of character...” Ruth smiled faintly then. “You can finish it tomorrow after school.”
She set the Bible on a table by the icebox.
Later that night, after he had gotten ready for bed and brushed his teeth, Samuel stole down the back stairs and into the kitchen, praying the letter would still be there and that Ruth hadn’t found it. She hadn’t and the relief was as glorious as it was instant.
With the letter in hand, the boy tore across the great hall and into his mother’s study, where he hid the folded pages in the back of the atlas somewhere around the Antarctic.
Samuel could have taken the letter to his bedroom and read it by lamplight. But for some reason he didn’t choose to, not right away. The letter had left him feeling out of sorts; there was no denying that. While the words were his mother’s and in one way it sounded just like her, in other ways, it was the voice of someone else entirely. And he knew whose—that horrid Dr. Boyle. He was the one who had persuaded his mother that a visit from Samuel would set her back. What did that mean? He wouldn’t have been more than five years old then. Was he so very naughty that his mother had to be warned not to have him close? Yes, the letter had left him out of sorts and it would take some thinking about. For without knowing exactly why, Samuel felt in the deepest part of himself that to read any further might lead him into waters deeper than he could tread.
10
Though it was autumn, the Cornish oak seemed unwilling to release any of its bounty. Samuel thought this reflected poorly on the tree and hinted at a lack of generosity. One of his favorite games—he and Joseph played it at least twice every week—was to stand under the tree and catch the falling leaves. They weren’t just falling leaves, though; each one was weighted with momentous consequence. Catch this leaf and you will sleep peacefully that night; let it slip through your fingers and you will die before you wake. Clutch that one in your hand and you’ll play cricket for England; if you miss and it reaches the ground, you’ll be blinded on the spot.
Ruth had sent him outside to pull some carrots for dinner but somehow he had found his way under the oak tree. It was true, the game wasn’t as much fun without Joseph there—his consequences were always far more ghoulish than anything Samuel could think up—but even a dull game of “catch the leaf” was better than pulling carrots.
Samuel looked up and the tree seemed to heave, the sunlight ricocheting through the web of branches. He felt the breeze pick up over the hilltop, and a leaf dropped from high up. It flipped several times, the wind curving its belly as it swayed in great sweeps.
Samuel quickly decided the stakes. If he caught the leaf, his mother would be home by week’s end. If he didn’t, then she was never coming back. The boy’s head was tilted back, his arms stretched up above his head, his eyes trained only on the leaf. He stumbled over one of the roots, though quickly found his footing. His hopes soared as the leaf, now a green smudge bound up in his greatest wish and deepest fear, spiraled down. Samuel jumped at just the right moment, but then the breeze seemed to wake again from its slumber, collecting the leaf and carrying it far from his grasp, down into the tall grass.
Though it was just a leaf and there were sure to be many others, it was a blow, and being a boy who felt that fate had a hand in the breaking of a pencil or the spilling of a drink, he couldn’t help but think that he had failed and that his mother would suffer for it.
The carrots couldn’t be avoided forever so that’s where he went. There was a welcome consolation, though, huddled under the hedge, which ran along the far side of the kitchen garden. The rabbit shifted on its back legs and sniffed the air when Samuel drew near—which was as close to a friendly greeting as he ever offered. It wasn’t an especially attractive animal, a muddy-brown coat with the hint of ginger. But the eyes glistened as if they had a secret and the rabbit always seemed preoccupied, even busy, which Samuel found deeply impressive. Naturally, he had wanted to make things more permanent but his mother couldn’t abide a cage of any kind, even a spacious hutch. Though she did help him select a name. Samuel was keen on Blink since the rabbit did this incessantly, but his mother said this focused on a shortcoming, which was typical of an English child, and not to be countenanced. Couldn’t Samuel focus on the rabbit’s strengths instead? A few inadequate names were thrown around, until they arrived at Robin Hood. It was his mother’s suggestion and her reasons were sound. She said that Robin Hood had lived in the wild and did as he pleased, just like the rabbit, and that such a life was to be admired.
“It’s me,” said the boy as softly as he could. The rabbit jumped when Samuel crouched down and reached out his hand. Robin Hood had no tolerance for being petted, though he would submit to Samuel’s company for a cabbage leaf or, in a pinch, a piece of apple. “Hungry?”
Of course the rabbit was hungry. Wasn’t he staring with great intensity at the row of cabbages covered in wire? The wire was Ruth’s idea. She had nothing good to say about Robin Hood and thought it foolhardy of Samuel’s mother to let the boy feed it. She said no good could come of such an indulgence and her greens would pay the price.
Lifting the edge of the wire, Samuel tore off a corner of cabbage and held it out. The offer was quickly accepted and the green leaf devoured as if it were a last meal. Having gotten what he came for, the rabbit turned its back and was gone.
Samuel sighed and walked slowly to the carrots, pulling five or six from the ground, none of them especially big, and threw them into the basket. It didn’t take long. When Samuel set off for the house, he saw Ruth at the back door. She was talking to someone, and although that person had their back to Samuel, he knew right away that it was Olive. She was short and plump, hunched over, her plaited blond hair in a knot. She was barely nineteen, but Samuel’s mother once said she had the bearing of a middle-aged washerwoman. Whatever that meant.
Ruth was
holding something in her hand—it looked like a letter—and she was waving it around with a stern look on her face. Whatever they were talking about, Samuel wanted no part of it, so he left the basket at his feet and went to find his bike.
As he flew down the drive, the wheels churning over the gravel, he almost forgot how everything was wrong, and when he neared the front gates, Samuel surrendered to his reckless soul and squeezed the brakes as hard as he could. The tires seized up and began to slide, the bike spinning in an exhilarating half circle, stirring up the gravel and shooting it through the air. He put a foot down to steady the bike and allowed a faint smile—at least something had gone right that day. This feeling didn’t sit inside him long. For coming down the drive, wiping her eyes and hugging her pale blue coat, was Olive.
When she saw Samuel, Olive sniffed and said, “I must look a state.”
Samuel made no reply.
“I was hoping Ruth might be able to keep me on, even just a half day a week. I told her I’d work for less—anything’s better than nothing, don’t you think? But Ruth said no—didn’t even let me finish what I was saying. Just no.” Olive unspooled her arms and Samuel saw that she was holding a letter. “She gave me a reference, which is something, I suppose. There’s a position going up at Braddon Hall, so I’ll try there but...there’s other girls with more experience.” Olive hugged herself again. “My ma can’t work much anymore—her knees are awful bad—so I have to find something or else...”
“Or else what?” Samuel asked.
“Well, we won’t eat, that’s what.”
“We have food here. There’s always plenty of leftovers and the garden is full of vegetables, though the carrots are small.”
For some reason this made Olive’s lips tremble. “Sorry,” she said.
Samuel didn’t know what for.
Then Olive looked at Samuel as if she might be waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she said, “Does Ruth... What I mean is, do you like living here with her?”
“I live with Mother.”
“’Course you do, but when she’s away, I mean. I know Ruth’s as strict as they come, but does she treat you well?”
Samuel was playing with the brakes on his bike. “Yes.”
“The other morning, when you hurt yourself in the kitchen, cut your leg, remember?”
The boy nodded.
“Did it really happen like you said?” Olive was staring now. “Or did Ruth do something to make you fall?”
“I tripped, that’s all.”
She sighed. “I’m pleased to hear it. I was just worried.”
“What were you worried about?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She tapped his nose. “You take care, okay?”
When Samuel brought the basket of carrots into the kitchen, Ruth told him to take his shoes off at the back door because she had spent all morning scrubbing the kitchen floor and it was backbreaking work and it would be just about the last straw if Samuel ran dirt and grass across it. Samuel was sitting on the step, doing as he was told, when Ruth said, “I saw you talking to Olive by the gate.”
“She was crying,” Samuel said.
“Too emotional for her own good, that girl.”
“Her mother can’t work and Olive is worried about eating.”
Ruth picked up the basket of carrots at Samuel’s feet. “I can’t very well keep her on without the money to pay her, now can I?”
Samuel placed his shoes under the window and then went into the kitchen, where Ruth was boiling a cabbage—its rank perfume filled the room, making the boy frown. “Olive said she might get a job at the hall.”
“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t think so.” Ruth sounded sure. “Did Olive say anything else?”
Samuel shook his head.
“You were down there for quite some time.” Ruth was staring at him just like Olive had. “She didn’t say anything else? Nothing at all?”
“No, nothing.”
Ruth smoothed down her apron and didn’t look at all content. “Well, come in and wash your hands, then you can help me peel these carrots.”
* * *
“How long’s it been now?”
“Sixteen and a half weeks,” said Samuel, panting. “One hundred and seventeen days.”
“Not one telegram?” said Joseph, leaning against the front gate.
“Just postcards.” Samuel pushed the hair from his eyes. “Eight of them.”
The two boys were outside Samuel’s front gate, having run all the way up the hill, their bags and hats in puddles at their feet. Every Wednesday after school Joseph was allowed to come over for shortbread and hot chocolate. Ruth didn’t allow Samuel to visit Joseph’s house for reasons she didn’t think it proper to mention.
“And you don’t even know where she’s staying in Boston?” said Joseph. “That’s rotten.”
“She’s very busy meeting with important people.”
Joseph spat. “What’s so important about them?”
Samuel shrugged, still out of breath. “They have money.”
“And you don’t.” When Samuel looked at Joseph funny, the boy said, “My dad works with Olive’s uncle and he said she’s been let go. He told my dad there’s no money left to pay her wages.”
“Mother’s going to fix everything. That’s why she’s away.”
“Thing is,” said Joseph, picking up his school bag and slinging it over his shoulder, “I know she didn’t say goodbye or anything, but you’re the lucky one, seems to me.”
Samuel collected his own bag and put on his hat. “Why?”
Samuel and Joseph were exactly the same height, which at times seemed to be the very foundation of their friendship. They measured themselves at the end of every week, equally pleased when the numbers came in and they were still growing at the same rate. But that was where the physical similarities ended. While Samuel had his mother’s slight build, her dark hair, pale skin and green eyes, Joseph was a different proposition altogether—stocky, with sandy hair, a large round face and a bounty of freckles.
“Well,” said Joseph, shoving his school cap into his pocket, “I reckon I’d give just about anything to have my mum disappear for one hundred and seventeen days.”
They passed through the gates and walked up the drive.
“She hasn’t disappeared.” Samuel was frowning. “She’s in America.”
“I never said she wasn’t.” Joseph bumped the other boy’s shoulder to take the sting out. “Look, all I’m saying is, at least you don’t have your mum shouting at you to wipe your feet or take a bath. You can do anything you want.”
Samuel shook his head. “Not with Ruth around.”
“Oh, yeah, forgot about her.”
Samuel went to say something but stopped himself. Then he said, “She doesn’t let me answer the telephone.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Mother always lets me.”
“She can’t tell you what to do.” Joseph spoke with complete authority. “It’s your mother who pays her, and when you think about it, that has to make you her master, as well.”
“No one tells Ruth what to do.”
Joseph wiped his nose. “She’s just a housekeeper, you know. My mum gets an awful time cooking for those toffs up at the hall. Even the little ones bark orders at her.”
“Mother says that when she’s away, Ruth’s in charge.”
“She’s always away.”
Joseph didn’t say this to be cruel, which somehow made it worse.
“She’ll be home soon,” said Samuel. “Any day now, that’s what Ruth says.”
It wasn’t true, but what choice did he have? They were at the front door by now and the hot afternoon sun fell away as they passed under the portico. Samuel had his hand on the doorknob when Joseph stopped him.
&
nbsp; “Don’t get mad, but my mum says it’s strange, your mum leaving all of a sudden like she did.” The boy’s booming voice had faded to a conspiratorial whisper. “She says it’s like she ran off or something.”
That was too much for Samuel to take. He didn’t mean to push his friend but that’s what he did. “She didn’t run away.” He pushed him again. “Take that back!”
“Don’t blame me, I didn’t say it.” Then Joseph gasped—he hardly ever gasped—and his eyes seemed to swell with dark wonder. “Bloody hell.”
Samuel didn’t want to ask but there was no getting around it. “What?”
“I heard about this housekeeper—”
The front door swung open and Ruth was there, eyeing both boys with considerable suspicion. “Who’s yelling loud enough to wake the dead?”
“No one, Ruth,” said Samuel.
Joseph flashed a smile. “We were just talking about your delicious shortbread.”
Ruth didn’t look convinced. “Well, unless you want to eat them out there on the drive, I suggest you come in.” She pointed at Joseph in an accusing fashion. “And take that school hat out of your pocket, Joseph Collins, and put it neatly with your bag by the door.”
Samuel watched as Joseph did just what he was told.
“You, too,” said Ruth, looking at Samuel.
“Did you hear from Mother, Ruth?” Samuel put down his bag and took off his cap. “Did she send a telegram? Did she—?”
“Not today.” Ruth was already walking from the hall. “Wash your hands, then come into the kitchen,” she instructed. “If you promise not to make a mess, you can have your afternoon tea in Samuel’s room. I know you’ll be wanting those blessed planes and I won’t have you stampeding up and down the stairs like madmen.”
When Ruth was safely out of earshot, Samuel turned to Joseph and said, “What were you going to say?”
“About what?”
“How should I know? You were saying something and then you swore and then—”
“Oh, that. Tell you later.” Joseph pointed at Ruth, who was nearly at the kitchen door. “Why’s she limping?”
The Boy at the Keyhole Page 5