by Pam Smy
‘So, what has this got to do with the poet? Is she here?’ asked Billy.
‘She’ll be here somewhere. She’s here every year. But this isn’t about the poet herself, it’s about the poem . . .’
My love came back to me
Under the November tree
Shelterless and dim.
He put his hand upon my shoulder,
He did not think me strange or older,
Nor I, him.
The old man recited the poem that Billy had read on the stone, still staring ahead as if keen not to miss something.
‘But I don’t get it,’ Billy whispered. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Tonight. Today. The second of November. It’s All Souls’ Night. And we are here in All Souls’ graveyard. Each year, on the same day, the souls of the dead are reunited with those they loved most at the time when they were their happiest. Their love for each other is undimmed by time and their joy at being together again . . . Well –’the old man’s voice became gruff – ‘it pulls at the old heartstrings, doesn’t it?’
But Billy couldn’t answer. He was transfixed, watching a woman and a boy, arms round each other as they walked and chatted. He looked on as the mother and son passed by the bench, absorbed in conversation. Passing by in the opposite direction were two men, both with large noses and heavy eyebrows, but about thirty years apart in age. Each walked with a strong stride, gesturing as if having an animated conversation.
‘Ah! There she is!’ sighed the old man. A wide grin spread across his face. From the furthest corner of the graveyard a woman stood by the headstone with the roses on it. She was slightly stooped with a cardigan about her shoulders. She looked shyly about her. ‘My own Edith!’
The old man stared as if he was drinking up every detail of her. He leant forward, tears in his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. ‘My own girl . . .’ he whispered.
Billy gazed as the woman picked her way steadily through the graveyard, looking about her as if seeking someone. Then her eyes rested on the bench and the old man and a smile lit up her face.
Without taking her eyes from him she began to walk towards him. ‘My Edith,’ the old man was muttering.
And he hobbled off along the pathway, oblivious to the silent families, friends and lovers that weaved about him, his eyes fixed steadily on his wife. Edith looked up at him as he approached and she smiled then reached up and touched his cheek. She linked her arm through his and together they turned to walk round the path that circled the graveyard. Billy watched as they disappeared and reappeared behind the yew trees, the old man gazing and gazing at his wife as if he couldn’t get enough of her.
Billy sat in the silence and watched as the figures swept past them or chatted on gravestones. The hours passed as mute people expressed their happiness around him, delighted at being reunited even for a short time.
Billy’s heart ached to feel that happiness too. And it ached to see his mum again.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
3rd November, 24 Brownsfield Close, 6.45 a.m.
It was just before dawn when Lorraine’s car pulled up outside number 26. Grace watched her get out and knock on Suzie’s door. She met the two women on the doorstep, wearing her waterproof coat and holding a bulky backpack.
‘What have you got in there, the Crown Jewels?’ Lorraine quipped as she lifted the backpack into the boot. Suzie and Grace briefly exchanged looks as Lorraine chatted on. ‘Change of plan,’ she said as the three women climbed into the car. ‘We’ve had a message that came in overnight. Some girl says she thinks she might have seen Billy out over Storey’s Field way, so we thought we’d start there this morning. I’ve let the police know and the rest of the volunteers are meeting us there.’
She glanced across at Grace as they drove away from Brownsfield Close.
‘Fingers crossed, eh?’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It was as the sky began to lighten and the last of the candles had flickered and died that Billy realized that the figures were slipping away. Some gradually became more faint and one by one faded to nothing. Others hugged their loved ones and waved, turned and walked away, slipping into gravestones or disappearing behind the trees. A slight breeze rustled the treetops and a fine drizzle began to fall. A greyness descended on the graveyard. It suddenly felt very empty and cold.
The old man emerged from between the yews. He walked slowly towards Billy. Steady and purposeful. Tears in his eyes and a smile on his face.
‘That’s a night to remember, eh?’
‘I can’t quite believe it,’ said Billy. ‘It’s like a dream. So many people . . . and now it’s as if they were never here.’
‘But they’ll be back. All Souls’ Night next year. I tell you, when you love someone that much you’ll wait a year to see them again.’ The old man stared out at the graveyard as if trying to fix the night in his mind. ‘You’ve seen, lad, the joy of seeing someone you’ve missed with all your bones, haven’t you?’ He looked sideways at Billy. ‘Come on, let’s clear up’. The old man turned to pick up the jam jars holding the spent candles.
Billy helped him collect them. They moved between the headstones quietly, each one lost in separate thoughts, the rustling of the trees overhead and the chink of the glass the only sounds.
Until they heard a distant dog bark. And another.
Then a faint shout.
‘What’s that?’ asked Billy.
He walked to the edge of the graveyard, to where the pillbox stood, between the trees and the field beyond. The old man followed. They peered into the low mist that covered the field. There was another shout, followed by more.
‘Is that someone calling my name?’ asked Billy.
‘I don’t think it’s just one person, lad,’ said the old man.
Through the greyness a line of shadowy figures began to emerge in a neat line.
As they came nearer Billy could make out individual people. Some uniformed police, loads of strangers, Izzie, the tall bloke who he’d seen in the graveyard the day before and . . .
‘Mum! My mum is there!’ Billy took a step into the field. ‘Mum!’ he called.
He stumbled forward, towards the line of people, staggering on the uneven ground.
‘Mum!’ Billy called again.
Grace McKenna broke from the line of the search party and ran unsteadily in Billy’s direction, her arms wide open to engulf him as he reached her.
‘My boy. My Billy!’ He buried his head in the warmth of her coat, breathing her in. ‘I see you. I hear you. I’ve got you. My wonderful, wonderful boy.’
Billy took a step back and took in his mother’s face. She beamed a wide smile that lit her face. His heart leapt – he remembered that smile. It had been so long since he’d seen it!
As they hugged, Billy noticed the old man stumbling on further towards the line of people.
‘Come and meet my mum . . .’ Billy called.
But the old man’s eyes were fixed on that tall figure in the scarf.
‘Aye. In a minute, lad,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion . . .
‘But first I have to say hello to my son . . .’
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have had so much help in making this book.
I gained so much insight into the plight of those suffering from domestic abuse and the professionals that support them from Amanda Warburton of Cambridge & Peterborough Domestic Abuse & Sexual Violence Partnership. The work that Amanda and her colleagues undertake is humbling and I am especially grateful that she found the time to share her experiences with me and to give feedback on drafts of this novel.
Retired policeman John Cox was so helpful in explaining how the police service really works (beyond my assumptions formed from binging too many TV crime dramas). He patiently explained police work, from shift patterns to the missing persons report process, and his knowledge has been invaluable.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to both Amanda and John. Any altera
tions to the information they gave me are to assist the narrative and are not a reflection on their expertise. Hannah Webb and Ray Christofieds – thank you for guiding me to these specialists.
It has been lovely to work for Neil Dunnicliffe at Pavilion Books, along with editors Hattie Grylls and Martha Owen, and to have their enthusiastic support for this project. I have been nurtured through every step of the writing and editing of The Hideaway by the remarkable Alice Corrie, whose attention to detail and vision is breath-taking. Ness Wood, as always, has designed this book with customary flair. Thank you, all.
This book was inspired by the poem, ‘All Souls’ Night’ by Frances Cornford. I am grateful to Enitharmon Press (www.enitharmon.co.uk) for their permission to reproduce this poem. You can enjoy more of Cornford’s poems in this book: https://enitharmon.co.uk/product/selected-poems/.
As for every reader of this book, the year in which this story has been developed has been a challenging one. Vicci, Lucy, Lauren and Shelley – thank you for your extra kindness during this time.
Mila, you are a daily inspiration. Dave, your calm, steady and constant belief in this project has been the spell that has held me up and kept me going.
To all of you I offer my most heartfelt thanks.
Pam Smy, Cambridge, UK, September 2021
PAM SMY
Pam Smy is a Senior Lecturer Practitioner in Illustration on the MA Children’s Book Illustration at Cambridge School of Art. She combines her teaching career with writing and illustrating.
She studied on the MA herself, graduating with the first cohort in 2004. Since then she has worked with a range of UK publishers including The Folio Society, Penguin Random House and David Fickling Books. She was shortlisted for the CILIP Kate Greenaway Prize in 2018 for her first novel, Thornhill. The Hideaway is her first novel for Pavilion Children’s Books.
Pam lives in Cambridge with her husband, author-illustrator Dave Shelton, and her child Mila. Most early mornings you’ll see her walking her dog, Barney, along All Souls’ Lane into the graveyard, past Frances Cornford’s poem, the hidden pillbox and around the field beyond. When she isn’t walking the dog, teaching and illustrating, Pam loves watching crime dramas and movies, drawing in sketchbooks, reading novels, comics and picture books.
OTHER BOOKS
Lob
written by Linda Newbery
illustrated by Pam Smy
The Brockenspectre
written by Linda Newbery
illustrated by Pam Smy
The Ghost of Thomas Kempe
written by Penelope Lively
illustrated by Pam Smy
The Ransom of Dond
written by Siobhan Dowd
illustrated by Pam Smy
Thornhill
written and illustrated by Pam Smy
First published in the UK in 2021 by
Pavilion Books Company Limited
43 Great Ormond Street
London, WC1N 3HZ
Text and illustrations © Pam Smy 2021
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
The poem ‘All Souls’ Night’ © The Literary Executors of Frances Cornford (1886-1960)
Publisher: Neil Dunnicliffe
Editor: Alice Corrie
Art Director: Ness Wood
Digital Editor: Renata Jukic
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781843655220
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book can be ordered at
www.pavilionbooks.com,
or try your local bookshop.