The Silent Forest

by Guy Sheppard

  But she did understand. There had been a time, not so long ago, when she herself might have spoken in terms of a spiritual charge – a cure of souls – just after she’d suffered her nervous breakdown but before she’d found out that she was blessed with child for a second time. It hadn’t proved very helpful.

  ‘I doubt if your husband considers Sam to be possessed by the Devil.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. He’s been reading about an Austrian psychiatrist called Leo Kanner. There is a condition he calls autism. He describes it as “lack of affective contact, fascination with objects, desire for sameness and non-communicative language before thirty months of age”. He calls it “extreme autistic aloneness” and says the problem is a cold mother. While I accept that many things about Sam’s early life fits Kanner’s description, I can’t accept that I’ve ever been cold towards him. Why must men always blame women? Nor do I think ‘blame’ is the right word for any of this. Sam is just Sam. But James doesn’t agree. He wants to subject our son’s brain to electroconvulsive shock therapy. He’s willing to take a chance on something on the basis of very limited evidence, so much so, that I live in fear of his pitiless benevolence. James will seek any remedy that cures Sam’s ‘disease’, ‘condition’ or ‘problem’, no matter what I say. It is my own powerlessness I fear most, that I cannot stop someone else labelling our child as ill. James will have Sam suffer medical experiments in a foreign land to test someone else’s hypothesis.’

  ‘Is electroconvulsive therapy even accepted medical practice in Britain?’

  ‘It has gained a lot of credence ever since someone called Kalinowski toured England in 1939 to extol its virtues.’

  ‘But is Sam ill? He doesn’t look so to me.’

  ‘Some people think that electric shocks can cure anti-social behaviour.’

  ‘But where would James send him?’

  ‘To America, Jo. He’d send him across the Atlantic while there’s a war on! I might never see my son alive again.’

  ‘Really? That puts you in a difficult situation. I’m so sorry to hear it. But what about you? You look as if you’ve been in the wars yourself? Have you been in an accident recently? Is that why you insisted we meet up here, away from curious eyes?’

  Freya was all purported horror and disbelief as she touched her bruised face.

  ‘Oh that. I walked into a door while looking round our new house in the Forest.’

  ‘…?’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry. But there’s something I’d like to talk to you about, if I may, while I have the chance. You told me, when we last met, that you were an old school friend of Sarah Smith? I was wondering what else you could tell me about her.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Fact is, I’m not at all sure why she died the way she did.’

  ‘Is this what you do, Jo? Meddle in things you can do nothing about?’

  Jo threw up both hands in mock surrender. It didn’t mean she didn’t still feel that odd sensation of whirling and general imbalance at the precipitous drop beside them, in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘You really won’t have that beer with me, then? For Sarah’s sake? She was my friend, too. Or bring Sam to the cathedral and I’ll show him the crypt. He might like that.’

  Freya’s words came in fits and bursts now; in her throat she was audibly choking and rasping.

  ‘Fact is, Sarah is the real reason I came here today. To warn you. You and the verger must stop asking questions about her. What’s done is done. None of us can bring her back. We should let her rest in peace. I’m begging you.’

  ‘You know something I don’t, Mrs Boreman?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve got it all wrong.’

  With that single denial their meeting was at an end. Jo was taken aback. She wanted to take her hand, but Freya resisted.

  ‘Mrs Boreman. Freya. Wait. Don’t go yet. Please explain yourself.’

  Jo set off along the dark, narrow galleries in pursuit of her new and baffling acquaintance, only the stone steps down to the floor of the south transept proved far too steep and slippery to catch her in time. Nor was there anything to grip on the smooth, downward spiralling walls. She slipped and cursed her own ineptitude.

  Never for one second had she meant to scare Freya off. But she had. Except Freya had meant to frighten her.

  Saturday, April 12, 1941

  At last Bristol is allowed to be in the news! I’m ridiculously, even violently, excited. Yesterday witnessed the sixth, large scale raid on the city since November 1940 and today Winston Churchill is on the streets to boost morale. It’s not only me, there’s a whole new public mood – a burning anger. ‘They will have to pay for this’ still rings in my ears.

  I’m not sure any official visit will help much, though.

  There’s been too much strain on morale.

  That booing I just heard was for real.

  Why should we believe anything the great man says now?

  Maybe it’s because Bristol is such a small city that the devastation feels so complete – its commercial heart is all but gone. The old buildings, those reliable witnesses to the past, have been wiped from the Earth. It’s not only people who lie in pieces but centuries of history.

  One refrain occurs over and over: ‘Things will never be the same again.’

  Yet Bristolians have been quick to organise. The Civil Defence Services are now fully co-ordinated. When a report comes in of a bomb exploding in a particular street, an officer decides which services are needed. I’m not alone any more, I’m linked to Engineers (Light Rescue, Heavy Rescue, P/C squad) or Medical (F.A. Parties, Ambulances, Trailer Unit). That’s what counts from now on. We’re all in this together. If anything sees us through the war successfully, it will be our newfound resilience.

  It’s our best chance.

  I’m doing it for Jack and Emmy.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Now you call me, Mrs Wheeler? It’s been ages.’

  Jo had ridden her Brough Superior Combination to the Forest to see where precisely Sarah had crashed her Austin Seven in such mysterious circumstances. Now she was on her way back home. Simple as that. Well, not exactly. She should never have stopped at a public telephone box to ring Bruno.

  ‘Nothing definite to report yet, I’m afraid, Mr Smith…’

  ‘What the hell have you been doing?’

  ‘…except I am following a possible lead right now.’

  ‘You do know what has to be done, don’t you?’

  ‘And if it’s not that simple?’

  ‘Damn it, Mrs Wheeler, I’m depending on you.’

  ‘Mr Smith, will you please be patient…’

  ‘You want payment up front, I suppose? Fine. I’ll even make a donation to the cathedral…’

  ‘No, I don’t want your money. I said I would ask a few questions for my poor friend Sarah’s sake, which I’m continuing to do…’

  ‘Don’t you think there’s a bit more to it than that? Or are you just being stupid?’

  You don’t know what I think, thought Jo and hung up. Okay, Bruno’s wife had most definitely got under someone’s skin and they needed to find out why, but she never meant to raise his expectations. That’s not to say she was about to give up, either.

  She kick-started her motorcycle to follow the road beside the River Severn. Whatever God-awful mess Sarah had been involved in, she wouldn’t shy away from it. She was just getting started.

  *

  Nothing about the concrete walls and plywood doors of the utilitarian factories that lined Lydney harbour looked obviously suspicious at first sight. Jo pulled off her goggles and long leather gloves. She pushed up the fur-lined peak on her helmet, took a good look around, then crossed the quayside cobblestones in her oilskin coat and leggings.

  One long row of arched sheds appeared particularly bleak and bland and went by the nondescript name of Factories Direc
tion Ltd. But it wasn’t hard to see that something special was going on, given the vast stacks of timber that kept arriving by boat along the estuary – since when did anyone import wood to a forest?

  She’d first noticed the barges on her regular visits to the American camp and quartermaster depot at nearby Lime Walk.

  In reality, these were ‘shadow factories’ built off the regular routes of the Luftwaffe bombers, one of which, she’d been told in strictest confidence, made plywood for the fuselages of the De Havilland Mosquito aircraft and gliders. Such idle talk could earn a person a lengthy time in jail and she took care not to repeat it.

  ‘Stay in the sidecar, Bella. I mean it this time.’

  She made a bee-line across the car park for a factory whose green and white sign read Wellbrite Metal Finishing. In her hand was a bag. This was her cover. It was called killing two birds with one stone.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Suddenly a large and cumbersome forklift rumbled at speed round the corner of the factory.

  It came at her like a bull with straight horns.

  A blast on the truck’s hooter pierced the air, but it was too late. One of the twin pallet forks flew past her ear like a lance.

  Another step and she would have been gored in half.

  She wanted to chase after the driver at once and give him what for. Instead she stood where she was, in total shock. She had her hand clamped to the factory’s door and her whole arm shook like crazy.

  Nowhere could she see any signs to warn visitors that loading and unloading went on in this part of the yard.

  She took a deep breath and held herself lucky not to be skewered.

  She should have thought of it before.

  All things considered.

  *

  A brunette, her hair freshly set and still in pin curls under a turban, lounged at her desk in reception. She scarcely left off varnishing her nails as Jo entered the office. Blue eyes shone with cool impoliteness.

  ‘What?’

  Jo deposited her snakeskin and leather bag on the grubby counter.

  ‘I’ve been told that you do plating jobs for the general public?’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘You advertise, don’t you?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I want to restore something off my motorcycle.’

  The receptionist rose reluctantly to her feet, prodded one corner of the bag with a blazing red fingernail, but did not look inside.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch the foreman Kevin Devaney. He’ll decide. He’s the expert.’

  ‘Worked here for a while, has he?’

  ‘From since before the war.’

  The brunette struck Jo as too tall, too well-dressed and altogether too exotic to inhabit such humble surroundings. The same could be said about the tropical fish in the nearby aquarium. She pressed her nose to its glass and a glossy black head floated level with her own.

  ‘You remind me of Bella,’ she said and tapped the tank’s side. ‘Same bullish head.’

  She really shouldn’t have. Not then. Next second, water boiled in a frenzy – a perfect storm of bubbles exploded before her eyes. She jumped back as the fish tried to shred her face through the glass. So sharp were those bright, white incisors that they could have been filed.

  ‘Don’t go putting your finger in the tank. He’ll tear it to pieces.’

  Jo spun round and felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck; there was a sudden thumping in her heart. Her fists automatically tightened. She gave a gasp. The rich aroma of shredded, course tobacco blew past her nostrils. The man with the gravelly laugh breathed beer at her while his eyes accompanied his timely advice with a wary glare. One upper eyelid hung heavy with an old burn. To her astonishment she was looking at the pipe-smoker who had admired her motorcycle outside the Victoria House pub in Barton Street not so long ago.

  The very same.

  But if he was aware of who she was, he said nothing.

  She didn’t think she should, either.

  Sometimes, silence was all that needed saying.

  ‘What kind of fish is it?’ asked Jo, rubbing her cheek with a shudder.

  It had, after all, just gone for her throat.

  ‘That, my friend, is a black piranha.’

  ‘Lives by itself, does it?’

  ‘He already – how shall I put it – sampled his brother and sister.’

  The big man’s smile faded as his hand travelled to the tan-coloured bag on the counter. Jo beat him to it. Whatever had roused the factory foreman to mount his drunken foray the other night, he seemed to have no beef with her now.

  Or he’d forgotten all about her in his drunken haze.

  ‘This it?’ he said, seeing Jo slide a piece of metal from one of the bag’s inner compartments.

  ‘It’s a badge for my motorcycle.’

  ‘Classic, definitely.’

  ‘1936 Brough Superior. They only made 187 that year. It belongs to my brother Hugo. He fitted it with a BS Petrol Tube Sidecar whose supporting frame contains extra fuel. He loved to ride it until he was blinded by a grenade while fighting in France.’

  ‘Now I feel sorry for you.’

  ‘He can’t bear for it to leave the family or have it sitting around doing nothing, so I use it on condition I look after it and take him for rides. I was hoping you might be able to re-chrome the BS badge which sits on top of the sidecar frame and acts as the fuel cap. It has taken me forever to find it because the factory has stopped making any new ones. The old one snapped off after I had a spill. I want to fix it for him for his Christmas present because I know it will make him very happy. No one else is interested. They only do war work.’

  The big man puffed more Fine Shag in his pipe while he examined the rusty badge in great detail.

  ‘Stones fly up from the road and chip the chrome quite badly. That lets the rust in.’

  ‘Can you help me or not?’

  ‘Personally the Norton WD16H is the bike for me.’

  ‘I take it that’s a yes?’

  ‘Nothing we can’t handle.’

  ‘I’d like to see how the restoration is done,’ said Jo innocently.

  ‘As I say, the Norton is the more rugged machine.’

  ‘It would interest me a lot, it really would.’

  She was still reeling from this most awkward reunion. Four times she had visited Victoria House public house to track him down, but no one would tell her a blooming thing except to say that he restored motorcycles somewhere in the Forest of Dean.

  Then this happens.

  It was too good to miss.

  Hence the subterfuge.

  She could finally put a name to the face.

  So why didn’t she come straight out with it now while she had the chance: Did you kill Sarah? The words formed soundlessly on her lips which didn’t make them any less absurd. It was pride, she supposed. She didn’t want to make a complete fool of herself, so she said nothing. What did she really have against him, anyway? Not much, and she was still wrestling with how far to push her line of inquiry.

  She went on playing the perfect stranger.

  Hedged her bets.

  As did the foreman. He definitely wasn’t stringing her along without a reason.

  He knew all the time.

  The piranha floated back into sight and filled her with caution.

  Well, two could play that game before one of them got eaten.

  ‘Forgive me. I suppose the boss is about? Is he?’

  ‘No, actually he isn’t.’

  ‘No one knows more about restoring quality bikes than you, Mr Devaney, I’m sure. I bet I could get you a first-class write up in next month’s Motor Cycling Magazine.’

  ‘You could?’

  ‘I have connections.’

  ‘The real question is, who are you?’

  ‘My name is Mrs Jo Wheeler and I’m chief Fire Guard at Gloucest
er Cathedral.’

  ‘You sound very posh.’

  ‘How can I forget?’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘But I can tell you’re busy…’

  ‘Relax, I’ll give you a quick tour of our factory, Mrs Wheeler. My pleasure. We’ve nothing to hide. Nothing at all.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Because she had more to discover.

  *

  Beyond a rusty metal door, a foul taste in the air straightway caught in Jo’s throat. So much so, she wanted to spit, cough and choke. This chemically based atmosphere was all acid and steam, the floor was wet and slippery; something about the warm, bluish fug prickled her face and blew up her nostrils.

  It was hard to say what it was exactly.

  Meanwhile condensing steam dripped on her head from the workshop’s rusty roof. Worse still, all windows had been painted black to hide any glow from enemy planes and the artificial light was scarcely adequate.

  The result was horribly gloomy, not to say depressing.

  ‘First we’ll degrease your badge, then we’ll strip off all the old plating in here,’ said Devaney, pointing to the dirty green liquid that seethed with electrical current inside the nearest tank. ‘This stuff is so strong you could dissolve a body in it.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  The foreman, as crafty as ever, wove a dangerous path along slippery wooden duckboards beneath whose slats flowed an open and evil-looking drain.

  ‘Trust me, it’s almost pure sulphuric acid.’

  But his exaggerated boast was lost on her because she had become aware of shadows shrouded in the factory’s misty veil. These were living human beings, but not as she knew them. Their faces were drawn and grey, their eyes deeply sunken, their skin deathly pale without so much as a hint of a smile. Busy hands, impossibly deft, tied jewellery to wires on copper jigs with a speed that was positively unnatural. Workers’ eyes, peculiarly blank, stared straight ahead, almost totally blind to her presence.

  They might have been absorbed in their work or completely indifferent.

  She couldn’t tell which.

  Two more women stood at a noisy, double-ended polishing machine whose spindles spun at great speed. A deafening extractor fan attempted to suck up all the dust, fragments of cloth mop and polish that flew off pieces of hot brass that each worker burnished at her fingertips.