The Key to Hiding

by Wendy Reakes

  She had long ago looked inside that third treasure chest. Her curiosity, her spiritual downfall she called it, got the better of her only two days after she’d decided to leave it alone. The tool box had provided her with a small saw and it was that she’d used to cut the padlock.

  When she sat on her knees and opened that third chest, she was half expecting it to be filled with useless objects of no significant value in terms of her survival in the attic. Instead, she found herself pleasantly surprised when she discovered an array of lady’s sewing items, including a bundle of assorted pieces of fabric and a beautifully crafted wooden sewing box. Inside were rolls of cottons and threads, embroidery silks, needles and pins, eyelets and buttons and scissors and thread pickers and different sized thimbles. In the bottom of the chest was a large piece of folded up linen. She opened it up upon her lap and gasped. It was a pencil sketch of a child, his torso half embroidered and the rest of him undone. Marley judged the face to be a handsome one, even though the sketch had faded in places, but she finally decided that it must have been William’s face staring up at her.

  Chapter 9

  It was nearing December when she heard noises in the house. The suddenness of it made her imagine a stampede of elephants, forcing her to scarper to the ground, until she realised the servants were moving back in.

  For the whole day, she stayed as quiet as a dead mouse, afraid to make any noise at all.

  Movement was rife below. Doors were opening and closing with people running in and out. She could hear water flushing and cases being dragged across the floor, but the greatest sign of the occupant’s returning was seeing smoke billowing from the chimney outside the terrace windows. While she sat listening to the noises below her feet, he suddenly wondered how she was going to alert Celia to her presence without rousing the entire household. She was locked in. That hadn’t changed. So how would she now let Celia know she needed her help to escape the attic and travel to Taunton? A dilemma indeed.

  She decided to wait things out. She knew a little about how large household’s functioned. A normal day would consist of an early start. That’s when most of the servants would be in the kitchen preparing breakfast, or laying the dining table for the family, or cleaning and lighting fires. While they were busy running about, having little occasion to hear noises in the attic, it would be a perfect time each day to stretch her legs and move around without being detected. And she could cook too, brew up the odd cup of tea, as long as her supplies lasted.

  After that, at midmorning, Marley predicted the servants would come back to their rooms to change their uniform, ready for serving lunch while dining themselves in the kitchens in the basement. That was the time she would remain still and quiet as a mouse. Then, when the activity began again in the evening as servants went about their business below stairs, perhaps she would be left to do as she pleased. Yes, she thought as she contemplated their routine, the timetable was workable.

  Besides, she knew she wouldn’t be there for long. As soon as she thought of a way to rouse Celia’s attention, she would be out of there and on the first train to freedom.

  Two days later, when the servant’s quarters became quiet and still, she checked her food supply. The potatoes were all gone now as well as the apples and the salami sausage. She wished she’d brought more with her when she’d raided the larder, but how could she have known then, that she would remain in the attic for a further three months? Now, all she had left was a small amount of sugar, some tea, some dried beans and just a spoonful of plum jam at the bottom of the jar.

  And of course, half a pigeon.

  She had long ago made pigeon her staple diet. The supply was plentiful, they were fresh and easy to cook, and they were tasty.

  Catching them wasn’t difficult since she’d once again used a bit of nous and utilised the fishing net. She’d simply waited outside on the terrace and when she saw one, nice and plump, she would lunge forward with her net to entrap her prey like a mountain lion to a goat.

  One time, she had the fortune to catch two birds in a single swoop, so she did with them what she did with the others, she clubbed them and then wrung their necks. That day, she hung them both from a low hanging beam, letting them mature in the same way they hung pheasant and grouse when uncle came back from hunting, laden with birds for the winter. It was deemed poaching, but that had never fazed him. Everyone did it.

  She used the razor to gut the pigeons and after she plucked them, she cut them into small pieces, better for roasting on her small fire. The meat was a little tough, but she had good teeth and she considered it to be the tastiest meal she’d had in a long time, so she couldn’t complain.

  During her idle times, she assembled the pieces of material she’d found in the lady’s sea chest. The material was already squared up, so she assumed a patchwork quilt was a project the lady had been involved in, when she stopped sewing suddenly, for some reason or other.

  Marley enjoyed the task. It kept her hands and her mind busy while she remained quiet during ‘servant-tide’, or so she had named the occasions when they’d rush about, banging doors and flushing water pipes.

  Her other pastime involved reading and grooming herself. Her hair was a chore. She washed it once a week in a bucket of cold water from the rain in her tea chest, mainly because she often found a creature hiding among the tresses, sometimes spiders, which had dropped on her from the beams above. She had no soap so it smelled a bit, but she brushed it out with the hair brushes in the gentleman’s closets and sometimes snipped it with the scissors. She had contemplated cutting it all off, but she didn’t want to turn up at Taunton Station, and her new family greeting her while possessing shamefully short hair.

  The rest of her she washed with the remains of the water she’d used for her hair. She did it at night, out on the terrace, naked, with just the moon to light up her skin as she picked up the bucket and threw it over her head. Then as the pigeons scattered across the floor or into the black sky, she raised her head up to heaven and relished in the cleanness of the act, like she was performing a ritual to the only company she had; the Lord above.

  Her reading time was devoted to the newspapers from the box she’d found. The ones about the American Civil War between 1861 and 1865, made for fascinating reading. The Suez Canal opening in 1865 had been an amazing feat and for that she read every last word, but she also enjoyed reading the small homespun news, where a single story focused on a town somewhere in England. That was more real to her. The society pages were sometimes interesting, but they didn’t particularly enlighten her except when it mentioned Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the royal family. The Stock Market crash of 1845 offered fascinating data. The news ran a story of how the exchange in London had begun and how the rich and the brokers played the market like a game of chance. The concept was all new to Marley.

  Five days had passed when she finally made up her mind to seek out Celia. Clearly, she wouldn’t come to her, so she had no choice but to go to Celia.

  It was the middle of December. She guessed that because already a sprinkling of snow covered the ground as far as she could see and she had already spotted a robin redbreast and noticed holly growing over near the gate along the drive, where the trees, as she had correctly predicted, were now free of their leaves. The landscape looked spectacular. Like a Christmas card she’d once seen hanging over the bar in the pub. Mrs Franklin had told her that it was from a well-off relative who lived in the north; one she hadn’t seen for over thirty years.

  She’d practised picking the lock on the attic door several times. She hadn’t lived with a locksmith all those years without learning a trick or two. The first few times were hopeless until she tried using the metal nail-file she’d found in the gentleman’s box. The file had worked like a dream. She finally opened it on the fourth attempt and quickly allowed the lock to fall back into place.

  Now she was prepared to leave her secret abode and go seek out the only person she could trust.

  She c
hose late morning to take her life into my hands and leave the attic.

  She had already determined that the servants dined just before midday. It was the one time she could more-or-less guarantee not being spotted sneaking out of the attic door and tip-toeing along the corridors. If she was wrong, it would be the end of her freedom, and after they’d discovered me, they would surely throw her into gaol for trespassing and theft of the grandest scale.

  She listened for any noise outside the attic door and when she was certain no one was around, she turned the handle and opened it slowly. The day was a bright one. The light coming from the window down the end of servant’s landing assisted her to go the route she was familiar with when she’d sneaked down to the pantry all those months ago.

  She was wearing the frock she had made. It was still decent and clean and since it fell to the floor, no one would know she had no shoes on her feet. Her invention of soft foot wraps made from the gentleman’s gloves would be intriguing if she happened to be caught. They were strange looking things. She’d kept the thumb part, which housed her big toe, but the rest of the fingers she’d unstitched and sewn back together as one. They’d fitted nicely over her small feet and allowed her a softer tread on the floor of the attic.

  She came to the end of the corridor and stopped at the corner wall, as she had when she’d first gone that way. No one was around. She went down the stairs and through the door at the bottom. Again, she listened for any movement on the other side of the door before she opened it. She stepped out onto the next landing. Once again, she saw the fine polished furniture lining the hall with the wide elegant doors and the dark red and gold patterned carpet running through its middle to the end. It even smelled rich.

  Along the corridor, Marley padded as she had before, but before she reached halfway to the place she was bound, she heard someone call out. “Mrs Perkins.” A lady’s voice said. “Is that you?”

  Marley froze. Her bottom lip dropped to her chin. She turned her head and noticed a door ajar, and from the spot she was standing, inside she saw a beautiful lady in a pink day dress, her eyes focused on a book. Sitting next to a fireplace on a couch of gold coloured velvet, without looking up, she said again. “Mrs, Perkins?” Just before she raised her eyes, Marley dashed to the door leading to the servant’s stairs.

  She took those stairs as quickly as she could travel and found herself at the bottom without even thinking about the consequences. She could cope with being discovered by a member of the domestic household, but to be discovered by that fine lady as she trespassed outside her boudoir, well, that was abhorrent to Marley.

  She came to the bottom where the glass wall cabinet housed the keys. Her eyes darted to the large hook at the far end to two keys and a label that read Attic. Like a thieving hussy, she reached up and snatched one of the keys and dropped it into her pocket. Then she heard voices and people laughing and a delicious aroma of stewed beef filled her nostrils making her stomach growl with hunger.

  The servants were in the dining hall, feasting.

  Pushing aside her yearning for hot beef stew and keeping close to the walls, she crept along the corridor towards the back door. The door was a way of escape and she contemplated making a run for it, but then…how far would she get with the snow and ice on the ground and just glove wraps on her feet?

  She craned her neck and peered inside the kitchen and there, as if God had blessed her with a shining light, was her only friend in the world, an angel in disguise, Celia.

  She wore a long grey dress with a sackcloth apron protecting the front of her. She stood on a small wooden step to enable her to reach deep inside the sink with her sleeves rolled up. Marley couldn’t believe her luck. She sneaked to the door and whispered loudly. “Celia!”

  She turned about just as Marley looked behind her towards the servant’s hall. She could hear utensils tinkling on china plates, so she deduced they were still eating.

  Wiping her hands on a cloth, Celia rushed to the door with a look of shock on her face. She spoke loudly as if she were excited and incredulous to see her. “Marley?”

  She had little time to contemplate that comment. Her instinct to communicate with her as fast as possible was of the essence. She heard a man’s hearty laugh coming from the hall, so she took her hand and pulled Celia to the door of the pantry. She pushed it open and pulled her inside. Without speaking, as Celia looked incredulous, Marley moved swiftly to grab whatever food she could, dropping her pickings into large pockets she’d sewn into her garment. Since her first visit there, she had memorised that room as if she visited it daily. Now she was making good use of that memory, taking what she thought she needed to survive the next couple of days while she and Celia devised a plan of escape.

  “What are you doing?” Celia whispered as she stood at the door watching her move about like a cat on a hot tin roof.

  “I can’t explain now,” she answered as she worked. Marley reached inside her pocket and rummaged for the stolen attic key. She placed it into Celia’s hands and wrapped her fingers around it. “Take this,” she said. She couldn’t tell what she must have been thinking, but she knew her friend was confused and upset. “I’ve been staying in the attic. Hiding!” she said with her eyes wide and terrified, “When you finish your work tonight, come to the attic without anyone seeing you and I will explain everything.” She didn’t say a word. She didn’t move. Marley took her arm and shook her. “Celia!” she whispered. “Please! I’ll tell you everything tonight. Please trust me.”

  She nodded once as Marley opened the door and sneaked out into the hall. When she was sure her path was clear, she turned to see Celia tentatively step out of the pantry and close the door, before Marley went the way she’d come.

  The hours she waited passed slowly. From the pantry, she had grabbed the food nearest to her and when she later emptied her pockets and laid out her wares, it was only then she realised how stupid she had been. Was that what hunger did? Was she so desperate she would take anything for her own purpose without fear of the consequences? What on earth had she been thinking?

  She realised that the first time she’d robbed the pantry, she’d considered every eventuality, but as she pulled from her pockets, large slices of cheese and a whole veal and ham pie, it suddenly occurred to her that someone else could be blamed for the food’s disappearance. Someone like Celia.

  “Oh, what have I done?” she gasped quietly. Would she be responsible for Celia getting sacked without an employment recommendation, or worse still, carted off by a policeman and thrown into gaol? The notion caused Marley’s darkest hour.

  At first, when she’d returned to her secret abode and locked herself in with the nail file, her fears were so bad that she had no appetite for a single morsel. Now her plan was to return the food to Celia when she came up to the attic, so that she could put it back in the pantry before it was missed. But what if I was too late? What then?

  By late afternoon, as she nibbled on some cold pigeon left from the night before, she couldn’t resist a juicy apple. She bit into it and closed her eyes while she munched, wondering how long it had been since she’d tasted a bit of fruit.

  She thought about the lane leading to the farm in Mells and the hedgerows packed full of blackberries, ripe for the picking. It would be about now she’d normally start making her jams ready for the annual fair. The fair! Three months gone since that black-haired lout…

  She heard a key in the lock.

  She scampered across the floor and hid behind the side of her bed, where through the furniture, packed in the first two attic sections, she saw a small flickering light next to the door.

  Chapter 10

  “Celia,” she whispered. Please God, let it be her.

  A similar toned voice came back. “Marley? Where are you?”

  She made her way across the floor along the path she’d carved through the mountain of discarded furniture, weaving and ducking and crawling and stepping over books, a route finely executed by her, but one
that could never be traced. Ahead, Celia’s flickering candle was her guiding light as she remained at the entrance waiting for Marley to appear. “Celia!” she called with care. “Celia?”

  “Marley?” Celia squinted in the dim light as Marley arrived at the entrance from a path between the gentleman’s armoire and a blanket box with an empty bird cage atop it. A tablecloth had been draped over the cage as if its occupant had long ago flown away never to return, and next to it, a rolled rug leaned at an angle next to a vertical beam.

  She offered her a reassuring smile, removed the candle from her hand and held it aloft while she took her other hand and guided her back along her secret path. She turned to look at her as they made their way through the forest of furniture, watching her eyes, like great round brown marbles with a smear of fear at the edges.

  They came out the other side to the third section with Marley’s bed in the corner covered in blankets while the windows of the end façade loomed above them, still dirty and covered in years of moss and bird muck and general wear and tear from the changing weather.

  Celia stood in the centre of what Marley now called her parlour. Beneath her feet was a fine tapestry rug, filling the space and making it cosy and homely. In the corner, near the windows, her fabricated kitchen held a tiny fire, heating water for tea, and next to it, a basket, holding the provisions she intended to return.

  “What on earth are you doing here, Marley?” Celia said in sheer disbelief. Marley had become so used to her living space, she had reached a point of not finding her predicament strange at all. Not until she thought about it further and realised that where she was residing and how she was living wasn’t in any way normal.