The Silent Forest

by Guy Sheppard

  ‘Because it might be magic.’

  ‘You don’t know anything, Sam.’

  ‘We should at least say a prayer. We should call on Freya to send us her war boar to ride.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sam put his face to the gates’ cold metal bars and peered intently into the gloom beyond. Then he picked up the mysterious spade, ready to take it home.

  ‘So we can defend ourselves, of course.’

  *

  ‘Hurry up,’ cried Freya as soon as she saw Sam arrive back at Tunnel Cottage. ‘Run inside immediately and fetch your things.’

  Jim Wilde frowned; he could see how flustered she was; he could rightly read the signs.

  ‘How long can this go on, Freya?’

  ‘Where were you, dad? James thinks I’ve gone shopping in Gloucester. You know how he doesn’t like me coming to see you for too long.’

  ‘Your own father!’

  ‘You two will never get along.’

  ‘I can’t abide someone who doesn’t respect his own wife.’

  ‘Shush. Not in front of Sam.’

  ‘As if he doesn’t know.’

  Freya stood with one foot on the running board of her green Riley 9 Lynx Tourer.

  ‘James is under a lot of strain right now. He doesn’t mean to lash out the way he does and he’s always so sorry afterwards.’

  To Jim Wilde the words issued from Freya’s bruised mouth as if they were dreamy and unreal. They seemed not to belong to anyone he knew, but to someone else – to a ghost of her real self.

  ‘How did this happen? If only your brother were still alive…’

  ‘Well, he’s not,’ said Freya frostily.

  ‘More’s the pity.’

  The loud ringing of a phone startled them from inside the house, suddenly.

  ‘That’ll be James wondering where I am.’

  At that moment Sam saw his chance to throw his newly acquired spade aboard the black-hooded sports car. There was only one way to describe the awful panic that came into his mother’s face. It was an expression of utter dismay – he could have been looking at a hunted animal.

  But he knew this deadly game well enough.

  ‘Let’s go, mum. I won’t breathe a word to dad about where we’ve been. I’ll be as silent as the Forest.’

  ‘You mean as secret as the grave.’

  ‘That, too.’

  For once Jim Wilde wasn’t sorry to see his family depart. He had to get back to his coal mine as quickly as possible – he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew who or what was in there, but first he had to lie through his teeth down the phone.

  His cheery wave was almost desperate.

  What on earth had Sam meant when he said he wanted to defend himself? And what could he possibly want with a spade?

  THIRTY-ONE

  Really? At this hour! She couldn’t have looked worse if she’d tried. Jo opened the door in her pink fluffy slippers, ready to retrieve a pint of milk from her doorstep, in Edwy Parade. It was only 8 a.m. With her hair tied in a towel and dressed in her shabby dressing gown, she cringed as she saw Tia Boreman cruise to a halt in her gleaming, two-seater red sports car. A rhinestone butterfly clip sparkled in the driver’s immaculate red beret.

  ‘I do hope this is absolutely necessary, Mrs Wheeler.’

  Jo couldn’t help thinking how terribly incongruous such an expensive vehicle looked outside the front garden of her modest, redbrick home. It was too sleek, black and aggressive. Too like its driver. Jaguar sprang to mind, of course. So did panther and puma. Cougar was no less a possibility. The large silver headlights observed her like eyes. The streamlined bonnet that housed the straight-6, overhead valve engine built for speed filled her with the vague expectation of menace.

  ‘It really is, Miss Boreman.’

  Tia must know by now that she was investigating her brother?

  Hadn’t John told her they were as thick as thieves?

  That was no reason why she need lose the initiative. Not if she did this right. This was her chance to get the measure of her rival. All she had to do was to feign outraged innocence. Play the fool. Not show her hand too soon.

  Yeah, like Tia was any better.

  ‘As I explained on the phone, Miss Boreman, whoever gained entry to my home the other night broke the window to the scullery. I’ll need a new pane of glass as soon as you can arrange it.’

  Tia stepped gracefully from the Jaguar SS 100’s running board and advanced up the short garden path. As she did so, she scooped the pint of milk from the step and in one fluid motion marched inside the house. A bird had been pecking at the bottle’s cardboard top to reach the cream.

  ‘One thing at a time, Mrs Wheeler. Guess what? In Birmingham, dairies are printing SAVE for Victory and SAVE FOR MUNITIONS on all milk bottles. We should do that here.’

  Jo watched nervously as her landlord deposited her find in the hall and pulled off her soft leather driving gloves. Her elegant knee-length, fox fur coat with square, padded shoulders and silk-lined sleeves was a perfect example of the furrier’s art, she noted. Tia’s faintly smiling face, aloof and disdainful, had in it an impatience that went beyond mere time wasted as she clicked her black, daywear shoes with ankle straps and chunky heels; dyed pale blue inside, they were made from robust black calf with reptile trim. Her dark eyebrows and strawberry-coloured lips were all frown and pout, her walk a proud strut.

  Meanwhile Bella sniffed a fresh hole in the skirting board.

  Tia’s attention was similarly focused on dark, squishy things on the floor.

  ‘Really you should sweep up more, Mrs Wheeler.’

  She was worried about her heels?

  You bet.

  ‘Yesterday I found rats’ droppings all along the windowsill in the kitchen,’ said Jo. ‘This place is infested.’

  Tia clutched her coat below her chin as if she might choke.

  ‘How awful. Are you sure it’s not squirrels?’

  ‘I hear them every night, scratching and clawing. Bella has killed several already.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I can’t. She eats the evidence.’

  ‘Did you know that none of us is ever more than a hundred feet from a rat? I heard it on the radio. Rats outnumber us two to one. Particularly in Paris.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make it okay?’

  Tia sidled past grubby walls and peeling paper. She gave a flick of her blue linen scarf printed with gold, green, purple and blue Armed Forces badges. In so doing, the words ‘Into Battle’ showed up all round its hand-rolled hem.

  ‘Believe me, Mrs Wheeler, as senior representative of Boreman Properties, I’m on your side.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘The rats or the burglary?’

  ‘Both, of course.’

  ‘Here’s the thing, Boreman Properties can’t be held responsible for an act of God.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Those rats are migrating up from the sewers. It’s an instance of uncontrollable, natural forces in action.’

  ‘That it? That’s all you have to say?’

  ‘Technically, the problem is not on our land.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘If I were you, Mrs Wheeler, I’d pay to have a one-way valve fitted to the soil pipe. Then, whenever you flush the toilet things will go out but won’t come in.’

  Jo was all raised eyebrows for a moment.

  ‘But the house is so dirty and germ-ridden as to be insanitary.’

  Tia took from her shoulder bag a thick wad of papers.

  ‘I have here a copy of your rental agreement. The lease clearly states that you will undertake to pay for all necessary internal and external repairs. That goes for break-ins, by rats or otherwise.’

  Jo felt her heartbeat quicken. Most of all she mustn’t lose her temper.

  ‘How about the loose tiles on the roof?’


  ‘Believe me, this is one of our finer properties. Is it not ‘on the phone’?’

  ‘No chance you’ll fix the copper, then? It sprang a leak yesterday.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘But the parlour walls are so cold and damp that the plaster is all blisters and bubbles. You can smell it.’

  ‘Again, what’s a little damp here and there? Don’t get me wrong, Mrs Wheeler, I like you a lot. But do please remember that the houses in this street were built a hundred years ago without any proper foundations. Those Victorians were real cheapskates.’

  ‘At least let me show you where the burglar broke in.’

  But Tia refused to proceed another step.

  ‘To solve your particular damp problem a trench several metres deep will have to be dug at the front of the house and filled with granite chippings. That should soak up the rain. Dry out your walls. Then you can redecorate.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘The window pane or the trench?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I had no idea that a house this small could be so unsound.’

  ‘No one ever does.’

  ‘That’s it then, I’m leaving. I’ll go and stay in the Station Hotel. I’ll not pay a penny of rent until the problems are fixed.’

  Tia turned on her heel.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare be so inconsiderate. You signed up for three years.’

  ‘Who else will you find to live in a dump like this?’

  ‘Believe me, Mrs Wheeler, some homeless evacuees will pay almost anything to get temporary accommodation, now that bombing has reduced their own houses to piles of rubble.’

  ‘That your only answer? To profit from other people’s misfortunes?’

  ‘Yeah, long story.’

  ‘Hey, slow down.’

  But Tia had already walked out of the house in order to resume her place behind the wheel of her car. While her lips half curled in a smile, her eyes did not look kind.

  ‘Please do pay the rent on time, Mrs Wheeler. Or else.’

  Jo scowled.

  ‘Or else what?’

  ‘The bailiffs will take away that beloved Brough Superior Combination of yours.’

  ‘I’ll go to the press. I’ll ruin your good name.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs Wheeler.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘This little meeting of ours never happened.’

  ‘Surely you’re a person of some principle?’

  ‘We both know I’m not.’

  *

  Jo had just slammed the front door when the phone rang on the table in the hall. To her astonishment it was Freya Boreman.

  ‘Hello Jo, I called the cathedral and the verger gave me your number. Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  Clearly Freya still had that card she’d given her on the day of Sarah’s funeral.

  That was good to know.

  Never thought she’d keep it.

  Bella pricked up her ears. Alerted to her owner’s uncharacteristically delicate tone, she eyed Jo’s face intensely – she noted her wide-eyed expression and reacted accordingly. That’s to say, she was suspicious.

  It wasn’t as if she had rushed to contact Freya.

  But she’d wanted to.

  Bella barked a loud bark.

  This was her helping.

  Jo held the heavy black telephone receiver closer to her ear and its voice came across as hushed and cautious.

  ‘It’s like this, Mrs Wheeler. I’ve been thinking about your offer to show Sam and me round the Cathedral crypt.’

  ‘I thought you were against it.’

  ‘Not exactly against.’

  ‘….’

  ‘Of course, it must seem like a waste of your valuable time.’

  ‘Not to me it doesn’t. One of the radiating chapels is full of switches for the cathedral’s electric lighting, but the other four are perfectly accessible and very impressive. You can see where the pillars have settled due to the heavy weight of the choir above.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Meet me by the prayer candles. The sooner the better.’

  Suddenly another voice – a male one – butted in.

  ‘Who are you ringing?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘It’s just a friend. Not even that.’

  ‘Give me the phone.’

  ‘I’m not finished yet.’

  Jo called down the line.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Boreman?’

  ‘Sorry Jo, but I have to go.’

  ‘You wanted to arrange a meeting?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Is that another woman on the line?’

  ‘Think what you want, James.’

  Jo spoke again into the phone.

  ‘Are you in trouble, Mrs Boreman?’

  ‘I can’t explain right now.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  The voice was both rushed and aggressive. Almost breathless. Someone had snatched the phone from Freya’s hand.

  ‘Mr Boreman?’

  ‘I said who’s this?’

  ‘….’

  ‘Are you Fire Guard Jo Wheeler?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want, Mrs Wheeler, but stop interfering in my affairs. That includes my wife. Understood?’

  ‘I hardly know her.’

  ‘She’s none of your business. None of it is.’

  ‘What have you got against me?’

  ‘You know very well.’

  ‘Excuse me, what?’

  That was it, the line went dead, but not in a way that made Jo feel any better – she felt outraged. She hung up the receiver while Bella tucked her tail between her legs and looked at her with her head on one side. In so doing she best captured her own low, feeble sound indicative of shock, pain and disappointment.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘How’s he doing now?’ asked Thibaut and banged the caravan’s door shut on the snowstorm. Something told him that this wasn’t going to end well.

  Nora grimaced and went on mopping Raoul’s hot forehead. The injured man looked horribly pale as he tossed and turned relentlessly on the dirty mattress. Didn’t exactly help. Not at present.

  ‘Do I really have to say it?’

  ‘He seemed to be doing so much better yesterday.’

  ‘Luckily that cold water he poured over himself limited some skin damage.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘So why is he running such a nasty temperature?’

  ‘We should never have wrapped him in newspaper. I think ink from the print may have infected his wounds.’

  Nora unfolded Raoul’s bare arm and rested it flat on her knee. The hideously red flesh was spotted with big hollow blisters from shoulder to wrist; the bubbles of skin were thin, bloated and transparent. Each one had a hideously unnatural, whitish appearance as if large areas of the limb were already dead or diseased. He began to roll his eyes at her the moment she wielded her needle.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ said Thibaut. ‘Are you literally pricking each blister?’

  ‘I’m just not sure there’s much more I can do. Hold him still for me, will you?’

  ‘We should have taken him to hospital long ago.’

  ‘An obvious point.’

  ‘A point lost on our employers.’

  Thibaut wrung his hands. Did they even know where to start? Raoul had wrenched off one glove in his haste to stem the terrible burning sensation but in so doing had sent a dollop of red-hot lava flying on to his other, upper arm. In his panic and pain he had thought only to hose down the flesh that he could see was melting – he hadn’t realised that it was this other limb that was really suffering, under his shirt. That hot, sticky caustic mixture ha
d seared through muscle and tendon which were now doing their best to turn gangrenous.

  ‘Some blisters might not leave too much of a mark, but he’ll have a nasty scar on his right biceps. He’ll have an ugly lump of hard skin above his elbow for life.’

  ‘Since when are you the expert?’ asked Nora, popping another bubble like bubblegum.

  ‘I saw people get cooked alive in burning tanks on the battlefield.’

  Raoul uttered a moan. More beads of perspiration stood out on his brow.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ asked Nora.

  ‘No, but I feel funny.’

  ‘The sooner you stop fighting me, the sooner we’ll be finished here.’

  ‘If I don’t get back to work I won’t get paid.’

  ‘We need to go on cleaning your wounds as well as we can.’

  ‘Devaney’s going crazy,’ said Thibaut. ‘Raoul’s the only one of us who knows how to work that caustic soda vat properly – only he can turn rifle bolts black. Everyone else makes them go red or green.’

  ‘You have to get the temperature and mixture just right,’ said Raoul, responding with a hoarse whisper. ‘Not too much water. Not too hot. It’s just like cooking.’

  ‘So I have to ask myself,’ said Nora, laughing. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘As a boy I helped my uncle bake bread in his village.’

  ‘There, I’m done. Now lie back and rest. You’ll feel much better in a moment. You went faint on me, that’s all. Needles have that effect on some people. Here, try one of these.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Fruit gums. I found them in the foreman’s trailer. Normally they cost 7d and 4 points on your Ration Card for four ounces.’

  ‘You thought anymore about what we said?’ asked Thibaut, the instant he joined Nora in the bitterly cold air outside the caravan. He passed her a cigarette. ‘If we don’t do it soon we could both end up like Raoul.’

  ‘We can’t leave him, not now he has taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘He got careless. He said so himself.’

  ‘Are you making excuses? You blaming Raoul?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, of course I don’t blame Raoul…’

  ‘You know how hard Devaney drives us all. We hardly ever get a break.’

  ‘But accidents will happen.’

  ‘Who else will look after him if we don’t?’