She regretted that haste now. The sky was blue, and the sun warm enough to release the scent of the grass in herby green and daisy white wafts. Sunny had made sandwiches out of thin white bread with no crusts, half of them filled with cucumber and half with chicken salad. There were cheese scones, too, peppery with cayenne, and lemon curd tartlets in buttery-crisp short pastry. Everything looked and smelled so delicious, April was very nearly forced to sit on her hands.
And the people. The children. Laughing and happy. The maypole dancers were halfway through now, their carousel of ribbon topped by a lolly-bright weave. The accordion players stepped into a bright, uptempo number, as if to ginger up any child who might be flagging. The girls wore white dresses, the boys white shirts and pressed shorts. It could have been fifty years earlier, if the May Queen had not had her phone in her lap, texting from her throne, her floral crown slipping down her forehead.
Ben could have been one of those children, April knew. He loved to dance …
‘Did you have any luck with Connie?’ Edward was saying to Sunny.
‘Will she come to your birthday?’
‘She prevaricated madly,’ said Sunny. ‘Which I suppose is better than an outright no.’
Sunny pinched a cucumber sandwich between her fingers.
‘Stathis, Connie’s husband,’ she continued, ‘who really is extraordinarily handsome, said my children are afraid to commit. He said they are afraid that if they say yes, they will tempt Fate, and then I will die before my birthday, just like their father did.’
‘Hubris,’ said Edward. ‘The gods punish those who presume. He should know; the Greeks invented it. Among other things.’
‘A fancy name for superstition,’ said Sunny. ‘I may very well die before my birthday, but neither the gods nor my children will have had one jot to do with it.’
‘Superstition is the mot du jour,’ said Edward. ‘May Day is oozing with it. Lurking beneath this sanitised perkiness is a miasma of atavistic savagery.’
‘Pish,’ said Sunny. ‘It’s a lovely celebration of spring.’
‘That once included the ripping apart of a green man, and ritual leaping over bonfires,’ said Edward. ‘The fire represents the sun on which all life depends. No sun, no crops. No crops, no food. Starvation. Death. May Day is less a celebration of life than a plea for it. Please don’t let us die.’
‘Well, the celebrations in my time had none of that nonsense,’ said Sunny. ‘It was all good, clean fun. I remember particularly the May Day when I was fourteen, as it was right before the king’s coronation. We had two fêtes in as many weeks.’
‘Which king?’ said Edward. ‘George VI? The one who stuttered?’
‘The very same. I remember being at the Blythes’ once, listening to him on the radio. All the children were laughing, and Lily’s mother told us to be quiet because we’d put the poor man off. He should have come to our village fête,’ she added. ‘We had a women-versus-men football match, where everyone dressed in drag. The shock might have cured him.’
‘Was this a village tradition?’ Edward laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought transvestism played a large role in royal ritual. Not publically, anyway.’
‘No, it was some local’s bright idea,’ said Sunny. ‘My mother was the only one who didn’t look terribly different. Her hair was short anyway, and she wore her own plus-fours and a golfing vest. Most of the other women went as sailors or soldiers, though I recall that Mrs Cake, the headmaster’s wife, wore a safari suit and pith helmet. The men favoured long skirts and very large bonnets festooned with flowers, neither of which aided visibility or movement, which was probably why they lost three–nil. That and the fact Mrs Cake proved very handy in goal.’
A breathy accordion finale, cheers and applause signalled the dance’s end. The maypole was patterned like a stick of fancy seaside rock. The children were releasing ribbon ends, reaching out for bottles of soft drink and cake. They were laughing and calling, ribbing each other, mustering allies, splitting into the ancient tribal groupings of boys and girls, milling around the standing stones of adults and the giant central totem of the day.
‘We’ve rather lost it, haven’t we?’ said Edward. ‘Our ancestors’ drive to live, to stay alive. Once we raged, refused point blank to go gently. Now, we hold our lives more lightly, as if they matter less. Yet if our forebears had not been so driven, we would not be here to hold them at all. Is that irony, or how life is? I cannot say.’
‘What a misery guts.’ Sunny offered him a plate. ‘Have a lemon tart.’
April heard someone start to sing. She knew the voice well, and it did not take long to find him. Oran was at the edge of the green under a tree, sitting cross-legged, resting his back against the trunk. A small crowd began to gather, the odd person throwing a coin into a battered hat by his feet. April could not make out the song, but it sounded like one of his wistfully sad numbers. She supposed he’d decided that full-blown tragedy would not be in keeping with the mood of the day.
The crowd was swelling now, people of all ages drawn by the singing. Some had dogs with them, and each animal sat or lay facing Oran, as if they were listening, too. April would not have been surprised to see birds alighting on the tree’s branches, so they could pay homage to a fellow songster.
‘My goodness, he does sing beautifully,’ said Sunny. ‘Such a pity he gets stage fright.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Edward. ‘If he were famous, he wouldn’t be free to sing when and where he pleased. And we’d all be the poorer for it.’
‘He has such a sweet nature, too,’ said Sunny. ‘I believe that draws people as much as his voice. I have so enjoyed his company over — goodness, can it really be twenty-five years?’
‘You knew Oran when he was a child?’ said April.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sunny. ‘When Perry retired, we moved back to Kingsfield and George Rose was a great help in fixing up the cottage. George would bring Oran with him — he was about ten years old then. To be honest, I badly missed having young children around and treated Oran as if he were a grandchild. But he repaid my attentions. He was polite, generous, interested and, quite frankly, a joy to have around. George was elderly and becoming unwell, and though he made it clear the boy could not let any of his other responsibilities slip, he let Oran spend a lot of time with Perry and I. Poor George. He died not six years later. Had nothing to leave Oran except his tools.’
‘Oran never told me exactly what you and Sir Peregrine did for him,’ said Edward, ‘but I gather that if it had not been for you, he would have been in dire straits.’
‘Oh, pish.’ Sunny looked embarrassed. ‘It was nothing the boy didn’t deserve.’
Edward delicately removed a blade of grass from his trousers.
‘Oran told me something else of interest,’ he said to Sunny. ‘Apparently, he has some doubts about his mother’s adoption. It was organised by Reverend Brownlow, George’s employer, and Oran seems to think it may not have been entirely legitimate. Do you have any knowledge of it?’
‘None at all,’ said Sunny. ‘But surely, if it concerns him, he could make further enquiries?’
‘He is reluctant to do so,’ said Edward. ‘I gather that George never wanted to talk about it. And even now that George has been dead nearly twenty years, Oran continues to respect his wishes.’
‘How very like Oran,’ said Sunny. ‘Loyal to the last.’
A sudden ripple of unease ruffled the crowd. People began to leave, some hastily, pulling away reluctant dogs and children with a sharp word, some less quickly, as if they resented their own anxiety and considered for a moment not giving into it.
As the crowd thinned, April saw what had disturbed them. Four people, clad in black, white-faced and thin beneath clothes too heavy for the warmth of the day. Even from a distance, they radiated a nervous, brittle energy — neediness layered with aggression. They were closing in on Oran.
‘Oh, curses,’ said Sunny. ‘I’d hoped she’d gone for good.’
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Oran got to his feet, slowly, not with his usual bounce. He ignored three of the intruders, his attention on one only. A woman, April saw. Black-haired and possibly once beautiful. He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned in to kiss her, but she laughed and pushed him away, hard enough so that he staggered backwards. Oran held out a hand to her, a plea for her to hold it. Instead, she dropped into a crouch, her back hunched over like a rat’s, and snatched up the hat, now so full of coins April could hear it chinking. She folded up the brim and shoved it under her arm, then said a few words in a jeering tone that was echoed by the others as they left, their walk becoming swifter, in a rush now to be somewhere else.
Oran took a step forward, as if he meant to run after them. But he went no further. April saw him slap his palm against the tree trunk, hard, angry with himself or with them, she could not tell. He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and, shoulder blades pointed high with tension, strode off across the green in the direction of the pub.
‘I’ll look in on him later,’ said Edward. ‘See if I can encourage him out before he’s thrown.’
‘You know, there are surprisingly few people I could be bothered to murder,’ said Sunny, ‘but Cee-Cee Feares is most certainly one.’
‘Feares?’ said April. ‘Is she his sister?’
‘If she were his sister, I might be more tolerant of her behaviour,’ said Sunny. ‘Family ties being what they are. No, that woman is no blood relation. Cee-Cee Feares is Oran’s wife.’
April asked Edward to drop her at the old gate rather than at Empyrean. Walking kept the restlessness at bay, but for the last two weekends April had limited her walks to places she felt were safe, where she was unlikely to meet Jack. Places away from the woods and the garden. Right now, her plan was to walk along Empyrean’s drive and down the lane, and then across the neighbouring fields, avoiding the farm machinery that was out in force now, spraying and cutting and drilling. The warm weather had boosted growth, and many crops were past knee-high. The cows were out eating fresh green grass instead of hay, and the lambs were no longer tiny and shivering but plump and woolly. April tried not to recall how many she’d eaten over her lifetime, the roasted meat pink and moist, flavoured with whole garlic cloves and rosemary.
Last weekend, she’d made a wrong turn where two paths had crossed in a field, and for a moment could not reorient herself. Every direction looked identically lush and green. It wasn’t until she’d glimpsed the roof of the red phone box that she’d known where she was, and how to get back to the lane.
As she now walked up the pitted gravel drive, April found the idea of becoming lost and never found both terrifying and liberating. Perhaps that’s how she could escape all this? She could defy everyone and disappear, just like James Morrison’s mother.
Oh, God. She’d read that poem once to Ben when he was four and he had been distraught. ‘Is the mummy okay?’ he’d kept saying. ‘Is she back yet?’ On the spot, April had added a stanza not penned by A. A. Milne. It didn’t rhyme, but that hadn’t mattered because it had brought Mrs Dupree home safely, still wearing her golden gown, and Ben had gone to sleep happy. April had slotted When We Were Very Young back onto the shelf, and vowed to stick to Maurice Sendak, whose characters at least came back in time for supper.
April pictured what she’d be having for supper. Soup out of a packet, a piece of bread and some sliced carrot and apple, to ward off scurvy, as her mother used to say. Her father had always replied that he’d prefer scurvy to raw carrot, and rickets, too, if it came to that. Ben, however, had devoured carrot sticks and apple slices like they were lollies. He had never been a fussy boy.
The trees lining the drive were shushing in a light wind. The sound was soothing, but not enough to calm her. Since she’d fled from the woods two weeks ago, the restlessness had dialled up yet another notch. Now it was not bees but a flock of rapacious starlings wheeling about and pecking at her constantly as if she was made of seeds. If she stayed still for any more than a few minutes, her body twitched and fluttered and forced her into movement. Her mind swooped and chattered and careened from thought to thought on some random and erratic flight path — a photo of an egg-and-dart moulding in a book would suddenly morph into a china rabbit eggcup, a christening gift, the gritty crunch of knife on shell, crisp Marmite soldiers clutched in a small fist and plunged messily into a melting yolk. Egg crust and crumbs on a face thrashing to and fro, unwilling to be wiped. A nest on the lawn, fallen from a tree, downy feathers and plastic twine among the twigs, pieces of pale blue broken shell inside, a tale of a baby bird that’s flown safely away, though the true ending probably involved cats. Coaxing, failing to persuade a hand to reach under the neighbour’s hen for a still-warm egg. A storybook about a bird that hatched while its mother was away, and went looking for her, asking, ‘Are you my mother?’
At night, her mind went more haywire still. In her dreams, she did not fly but ran and ran, through woods, over fields, panicked, sobbing, gasping for breath. She could never tell whether she was chasing or being chased, but it didn’t seem to matter — the fear was the same, that whatever she was running to or from meant a loss so great she could not let it happen, she could not stop. In her dreams, April would have to run until she dropped.
Pecked at and pushed, hounded and tormented, day and night, relentlessly. She had given up on trying to use her willpower to stop it; it was too strong. All she could do was subdue it by keeping moving, keeping busy.
It had occurred to her that whatever — whoever — had been signalling before had grown tired of her wilful deafness, and had upped the volume. They had moved from suggestions to shouted orders: ‘Stop now! Go back!’
But how could she? Going back would be a betrayal — not only of Ben, but of his father, too, and everyone who’d cared about her, everyone she’d walked away from. How could she suddenly turn around and say to them that she’d changed her mind? That all the hurt she’d caused them had been unnecessary because, she could see now, her actions had been misguided?
If she said that, then she was also saying that the hurt she’d caused herself had been unnecessary, that everything she’d done had been for no good reason. That April could not buy. Atoning for her son’s death was an unassailably good reason, and April stood by her decision to do it. Going back was not an option. No matter how testing it might be to continue on.
Still, she could not shake the feeling that forces greater than her were at work. What they might want remained to be discovered. Perhaps, thought April, that’s what all the internal fuss has been about? Perhaps it was nothing more than the shapeless din of an orchestra warming up for a performance? Or the ear-piercing microphone feedback that precedes an announcement? Testing, testing, one, two, three …
A few feet ahead, at the edge of the drive, April saw a brownish lump, which, as she neared, became a bird. It was sitting as if dazed, its head tucked down into its body, beak pulled back. It looked rather like a cold spectator hunkering down in coat and scarf at a football match.
A fledgling blackbird, April guessed. It must have fallen out of its nest. That’s why it was sitting so still. It wasn’t hurt, but it did not know how to fly and instinct told it that movement would only attract predators.
April crouched, sat back on her heels, slowly, so as not to scare it.
‘What am I going to do with you?’
She couldn’t leave it. It would die from cold or hunger, or be killed. So many creatures out there that would eat it, including other birds, such as hawks, that might well have fledglings of their own to feed.
But if she picked it up, even carefully, it might die of fright. Perhaps she had no choice but to let nature do its thing?
There was a rustle in the grass verge, a sound of panting, and then a damp, cold nose in her face knocked April off her heels and onto her backside on the gravel. Gabe was about to sniff the baby bird, too, but a sharp whistle warned him away.
April looked up. Gabe’s master had his head tilte
d to one side, and he was smiling, cautiously, as if unsure whether he should.
Her words rushed out, unbidden but unstoppable. ‘Where have you been?’
And though she knew she shouldn’t, she took the hand he offered and let him pull her up off the ground. She let him pull her close enough to do what she had let no one do in years — touch her face and smooth the hair back from it, and brush the gravel from her palms with gentle thumbs.
‘I’ve been right here,’ he said, ‘all the time.’
CHAPTER 19
mid-May
‘I’ve found someone to help me with the garden,’ April told Oran.
Oran was sitting on the dining room floor, head resting against the wall, eyes closed. He did not respond.
It was Tuesday. Oran had not come to work in the house all of the previous week, and when he had not appeared yet again on the Monday, Edward had gone to wherever Oran lived and forced him to wash and put on fresh clothes and eat. As Oran had not been entirely sober, Edward had driven him up to Empyrean in the Alvis and said he would be back at five to drive him home again.
The drawing room needed its floor — herringbone parquet, to Oran’s delight — cleaned and sanded, but was otherwise finished.
April, not wanting to be idle, had spent the week without Oran working her way through the upstairs rooms. She ripped up carpet and pulled down curtains from bedrooms. She washed and dusted any surviving light fittings: wall sconces and the central pendant style of the period fitted to the ceiling with chrome or copper roses, shades in reeded or opaque glass, most round or hexagonal, with some sconces shaped like shells. The switches were white Bakelite, square and stubby. She found the bathrooms in better condition than she expected. The remaining fittings gave away which sex each bathroom had been primarily designed for. The men had solid, squared-off white basins with black trim on thick pedestals, whereas the ladies’ basins were daintier, set into slim chrome frames with tapered front legs and a towel rail. The baths were all the standard roll-edge cast-iron numbers with white enamel inside and on the roll. Only one bathroom had a stand-alone shower, tiled in black and white with a marble base. Mr Potts’s, April assumed. He sounded like a man who wouldn’t have the patience to run a bath.
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