The Key to Hiding

by Wendy Reakes

  Her legs felt as if they had become rooted to the floorboards, but she still sat there for a further half an hour, urging the water to boil. When it finally offered steam upon her face, she reached over to her supply of pilfered goods and picked up the bag of tea leaves. By the time she pulled out a small handful, the water was steaming well but the fire was dying. She used the hem of her skirt to take the cup from the tripod and then she sat it on the floor.

  She dropped the tea inside and watched it infuse and her face glowed with the first smile of the day when she compared it to a little cup of liquid gold.

  After finishing every drop of the hot tea and as the day wore on and the sun dropped away from that side of the house, Marley found herself shivering up there in the attic. She would probably have the light for just two more hours, so she knew it was essential to use it to her advantage while she still had it.

  She worked her way through the furniture to the section near the entrance and offered a passing glance to the door down the steps, locked now and holding her prisoner. From the gentleman’s dresser, she removed a big hand-knitted cream coloured woollen. She pulled it over her head and secured the button at the top, laughing as she caught her appearance in the mirror.

  She looked down and saw the woollen cover her hips down to her knees, leaving the rest of her skirt below, and her cold, naked feet peeping out. She wondered about something to cover them. The gentleman’s shoes were much too big and clumpy…but perhaps the gloves! She found a warm pair and pulled them over her feet. The snugness made her sigh with contentment since she’d almost forgotten the discomfort he felt, having no shoes. Going shoeless was all right for the summer when she was running in the meadows, but there, as winter approached, it was sending chills up her legs. The fingers of the gloves were flapping in front of my feet and she worried about tripping on them as she made her way back, so she removed them and put the gloves in the pocket of the woollen for now.

  She decided to pull out the gentleman’s box once more and have a better look at what she could use. She hadn’t noticed on first inspection that it had a drawer below. She pulled it out by a tiny knob at the front. Inside was a pen and bottle of ink, a letter opener, a pair of scissors, and a brass circular tube-shaped item she couldn’t identify. At its top was a small wheel and a sprig of severed string like the wick of a candle. It was a curious gadget and she wondered what it was used for. She unscrewed the bottom and as it came loose she saw it was stuffed with gauze. She gave it a sniff and detected some sort of fuel, like the smell of Kerosene oil used for lamps. She looked again to the box and removed a bottle with liquid inside. She unscrewed the top and took a sniff. It was the same odour as the small contraption in her hand. Then she started to wonder…

  She poured a little of the liquid over the brown coloured gauze and closed it up, then, hoping for magic she turned the wheel on top. Nothing happened. Now, if it were not for her impatience, she probably wouldn’t have discovered the true nature of the item. As it was, when she gave it an ill-tempered flick, a spark arose and ignited the wick into a single burning, beautiful flame.

  Chapter 7

  After a restless night’s sleep, as her stomach growled, she waited for her little cup of water to boil. She thought about Celia and when she would be back. She thought about the train she would catch to take her to Taunton, to family there, and she thought about Brent and uncle and how they were faring without her to feed them or to wash their clothes and clean the house.

  Her uncle had raised her and Brent after their dearest mam had died of consumption when she was nineteen-years-old. They never knew their father. ‘A gambling man,’ Mam had said, ‘He ran off when I was having our Marley, typical of the miserable wretch he was.’

  The memory of her mother had been provided by Brent, since Marely had been too young to remember anything of worth. Many times, he’d told her the story of how their mam had sang to him when he’d been frightened of a spider running along the top of his bed. He’d howled and howled -he told her years later- and when mam had gone running in to see what he’d been howling about, his stricken eyes peered over the bottom of his bed to the other end where a spider as big as a cockerel sat, just staring him down.

  Mam, without howling herself, picked up a cup from the floor at the side of the bed, went to him at the bottom and made him drink all the water up. Then, after she stroked his head and kissed him, she took that cup and planted it firmly over the cockerel spider. She worked it off the pillow and when it was about to go over the edge, mam placed her hand under the cup and trapped it inside. Brent told Marley that she’d given him a swift nod of her head, allowing him to follow her out to the door. When she released the spider onto the doorstep, Brent had hung onto her skirts and watched the spider scuttle off into a nearby tuft of grass. Then he tugged her hand and pulled her back inside, slamming the door behind that dastardly arachnid. While mam watched, Brent propped himself up against the closed door and ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Phew’ he’d said. ‘That was a close shave.’

  He’d related the story with a beaming smile, telling his sister how their mam had laughed and laughed, and she didn’t stop laughing until he was safely tucked up in bed once more. That’s when she sang him a song that sounded as enchanting as a meadow full of flowers.

  It was the only thing he could remember about her, but how Marley enjoyed it when he told her that story. She was only two-years-old when the cockerel spider came visiting, so he didn’t think she would recall much about that big event in their young lives.

  When mam died, without anyone else to take them in, uncle’s wife laid claim to them since she had no children of her own. She was happy to adopt ‘her little waifs and strays’ as she affectionately called them, but after only three years raising them in uncle's house, she took a bad fall off a horse while taking the ‘bloody nag’, as uncle called it, over to the horse fair in Frome. ‘Her leg is all shot,’ uncle told them the next day, ‘they’ll probably have to whip it off.’ Well, they did whip it off six hours later, but she died on the doctor’s parlour table after bleeding to death while the kettle was boiling for a nice cup of tea. She never did get hers! After that, Marley and Brent got left with their uncle who didn't have much to do with them other than getting them working to earn their keep.

  After she finished her drink, wishing she’d had some cow’s milk to soften the bitterness of the tealeaves, she filled the cup with water once more and put it back on the tripod over the fire. Inside, she placed a single potato from her food supply. She’d peeled it and cut it up with the cheese knife and then added a piece of the salami sausage to give it flavour. The meal would be a delicious treat. As she sat waiting for the food to cook, in her hand she held the tubular contraption that had provided her with a flame to ignite her fire. The smoke coming from the small stack beneath the tripod was minimal, so she rested easy on that matter. What little smoke it made had wafted through the attic windows and dispersed evenly, so she was grateful the remnants of the fire wouldn’t be seen by the groundsman from below.

  But what of the smell? Would the odour of her delicious meal alert him to come once more to her secret abode? She decided to cut the process short and extinguish the flames. The potato was only half cooked, but still she drank the liquor flavoured with salami as if it were soup, while using her fingers to scoop out the potato and stuff it into her hungry mouth. Since she was so famished, the potato tasted just as good half cooked as it would have tasted when cooked to perfection.

  Her repast complete, she went out to the terrace to get some fresh air. The weather wasn’t as bright as it had been the day before, with the sun hardly visible behind the dark clouds as a cooling wind swept in from the north. Autumn would soon arrive, turning the leaves on the trees all colours of reds, golds and coppers, promising a spectacular view from the terrace. In the far distance, over rolling hills she could see a croft of trees looking like an oasis in a desert of green. There was nothing else to mar her vision of Mells�
� beautiful countryside; no houses, nor farms and no roads. She wondered though, if the leaves fell from that cluster of trees to the west, would she then see the entrance to the drive leading up to the house? For now, it was out of sight and she was glad of that, since the thought of seeing uncle drive down the road with his horse and cart was distasteful to say the least.

  She was still dressed in the woollen after she’d slept in it to keep out the chill, and now thinking about her uncle, she was made to hide her hands up the sleeves, as a chill swept along her spine as if it were covered in shuddering pins all the way up to her neck.

  Seeking refuge in the attic, she went back inside. She was to go hunting again.

  She recalled seeing some old sea chests in the second section, three of them running along the far wall behind some dusty chairs. That was where she would go and intrude upon memories and discarded remnants of previous lives.

  She had to scramble over the chairs, some turned upwards with their legs erect. Two of them only had three legs, which was perhaps why the set had been abandoned. The legs were of scrolling design, arching and rolling to the seat, where below the cushions a layer of sacking stretched across it in a square. She noted that the sacking would be ideal to light her fire, reminding herself to come back and tear off a piece or two with her newly acquired razor and scissors.

  She wondered if the sea chests were filled with treasure as the memory of a story she’d once read; The Coral Island by R.M Ballantyne. She recalled it being about a boy called Ralph with two friends who had survived a treacherous storm in the Pacific, landing on a coral reef with only a broken knife and a telescope. They were forced to live off the land and were happy until cannibals and a terrible murderous pirate arrived. She linked the story to her own predicament, albeit she had been shipwrecked at the top of a house. A lofty island.

  Making herself comfortable on the floor, she opened the trunk on the left. She was only briefly disappointed to discover more old sheets and blankets inside. She flicked through the layers of folded linen. From the middle, she pulled out a small white fringed blanket displaying a blue rocking horse embroidered in one corner alongside the name William. She put it up to her face and felt the softness of the thread, smelling that familiar odour of baby’s cream and soap. Then she put it back. It was much too precious for her to use up there in that dusty old attic. No, better it be kept for those memories of family long gone.

  The chest in the middle was filled to the brim with old children’s books and small wooden toys. She removed a small silver rattle with bells that made the sweetest sound and then some building blocks covered in paper, illustrated with letters of the alphabet. She smiled as she remembered enjoying the same sort of toy when the retired teacher in the village taught her the letters and how to spell. The flashback was brief, but it left her with a wonderful feeling of joy as she relived that special moment with someone who’d cared.

  She dug deeper and found some old pictures, some illustrated in ink, and one where a baby lying on a cushion next to a puppy. “What happened to you, William?” she said aloud. “Are you now grown up and your childhood memories stored away for another day?”

  As she closed the lid of the chest, with the intention of moving on to the next, her hand touched an object wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It felt like a picture frame and it was lodged between the two chests, standing upright. She pulled it out and went to untie the string. But then she stopped. What was she doing? What right did she have to look among these private things? What a wretch she had become. What business was it of hers? “God protect me from my inquisitive self,” she whispered.

  She pushed the picture back in between the chests and stood up. Her behaviour had made her feel sick. She forced herself to ignore the churning of nausea. She needed the food in her stomach, and any disgust she felt for herself would have to, for now, be held at bay.

  If she was asked one day about how she survived up there in that attic, it was with earnest she prayed that no one would ask how she’d conducted her toilet. It was embarrassing enough to empty her bladder out on the terrace and wash it away through the turrets with a container of water, but her stools…well, let’s just say the two red buckets filled with sand sitting near the entrance in case of a fire suited her needs. Beyond that, she needed to discuss it nor contemplate it further.

  Near the buckets of sand, she had found a good collection of old bottles, copper pans and utensils, no doubt discarded by the kitchen in favour of more modern equipment. At least that was how she fancied the story to be. The bottles with corks were extremely handy. She’d filled them with water and lined them up near the windows aside her little fabricated kitchen. It wasn’t much to boast about, but she did experience a small amount of pleasure having all her affects in one place. She’d been fortunate to find some small baskets, once used in the kitchens for something or other. Inside, she stored her ever-decreasing supply of food, just in case mice were roaming about, waiting for an opportunity to pilfer.

  When she went back to the middle attic section to open the third treasure chest, on the way, she stepped upon two piles of extremely large leather-bound books, as if she was stepping upon boulders traversing a shallow stream. She leaned down and picked one up. Encyclopaedias. A complete set. Now they would be good reading if she had to stay there a couple more nights. The illustrations were glorious, some of them etched in ink and others painted with subtle hue watercolours. She took up the first and placed it on an occasional table with twisted legs. She would collect it on the way back from her expedition.

  The third chest was a curious thing. She hadn’t realised when she opened the first two that it was padlocked. She wondered where the key was and then admonished herself for being so inquisitive. The chest was clearly meant to remain secure, away from prying eyes. For now, she was content to let it remain so.

  Thus, when she left in a few days, she could at least say there was one part of the attic she hadn’t intruded upon.

  Chapter 8

  The days rolled into each other like long slow blinks of an eye and suddenly winter had descended upon her home in the attic. Over the countryside, autumn had long spread its wings and dropped colour upon every tree, and then, when frost and rain and bitter winds weighed heavily upon the leaves, the colours fell to the ground and littered the fields. The view was magnificent, especially in the evening when the sun dropped over the hills.

  The family had yet to return from abroad even though September and October had passed. It was a quandary she deliberated each day; wondering where they were; why they hadn’t come back; and when that was likely to happen. While she waited, she had contemplated breaking free of her confines and making her own way to Taunton, on foot if need be. However, to her sad misfortune, she was detained temporarily when she took a small sprain to her foot after a floor board came loose just behind a small partition next to the second section. When she stepped upon it, suddenly her whole leg had disappeared all the way up to her thigh, until she was eventually on the floor, practically flat on her face.

  The pain in her foot had been acute, but it wasn’t the worst she’d ever felt. She pulled it out using the muscles in her thighs and by pushing down on her arms, and when her leg eventually appeared, a graze the size of a mutton of lamb ran from her knee to her foot. It wasn’t bleeding, but the skin had shaved off, making her leg look pink and raw. As she massaged her instep, she’d presumed she had pulled a muscle, or she’d torn a tendon. Whatever it was, she assured herself that if she bandaged it tightly and rested it as much as she could, it would heal soon enough.

  The good part was finding the space under the floor.

  She had taken the light she’d made weeks ago after she found a small box of candles near the entrance. There were twelve of them, all used, but they were still serviceable with good long wicks, so she made a small lantern from a ceramic bowl and a cracked glass lampshade on top. Her little invention allowed her to carry the lamp without burning herself, nor fr
om having the flame snuffed out by a draught along the way. When she placed her light down where her leg had vanished that day, she found a space below the floorboards of about four-feet high and decided there and then, it would be her emergency hiding place, should someone come into the attic to move things around.

  She had taken pains to remove three more pieces of boards and when they were free, using a hammer and nails, she attached two more bits of old wood placed the other way. She’d been blessed with discovering the tools in an old battered wooden box, shoved away in a makeshift cupboard in the first section near the door. After she’d used them, she put them back, just in case someone came looking for them. But no one ever did!

  When her floor door became one whole piece and she had cleaned out the mouse droppings and spider webs, she tried her small bolt hole by placing her body underneath and closing the hatch behind her. It was dark, of course, but she could still keep a light going, if and when the occasion arose that she would be under there longer than anticipated. Yes, it was a good little hiding place, one she hoped would serve her well until Celia came back from abroad.

  With her foot strapped up tight in one of the gentleman’s old vests, she used the time wisely and sewed herself a new frock. The other one that Mrs Franklin had given her to wear to the fair was so tattered and worn, and too big for her now since she’d shed some weight, that if she hadn’t made a new one, she would have to walk around naked, or worse, giving her no choice but to wear the gentleman’s clothes.

  The dressmakers dummy had lent her the idea. It stood there looking at her all those weeks she’d been hiding, and sometimes (even though she’d never admit to it), she had often talked to it as if it were an old friend. The bolts of fabric had been propped against the wall near her water supply so they were a little damp. One was an emerald green chiffon, not suitable at all and the other, a roll of cream-coloured calico, having no worth to her in that dusty old attic. The third was a plain dyed dark blue cotton and that was the one she stole to make her dress.