The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  The laying out of the dead. I imagined the woman I had met, cowering about the wash house doorway, trying to clean the charred thing I had seen; her cloth rasping away the layers of burnt skin . . .

  I closed my eyes. I opened them to see the parson leaning back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling.

  “I—I have met her,” I faltered. “Mrs. Gomersal, I mean.” I recounted our odd meeting on Pudding Pye Hill and the parson stirred then, as if he were angry, but just at that moment the door opened and in came our tea and bread and butter, borne on a tray the dimensions of a moderately sized table. It was followed into the room by a red-faced buxom woman taking short, noisy breaths. We fell silent as she laid it all out and bustled away again without ever once glancing at either of us.

  I felt a hand close about my wrist and I started and looked up to see the parson leaning towards me, his eyes staring most earnestly into mine. “What you have to know,” he said, “is that they’re riddled with superstition and nonsense. Riddled! Have a care not to listen overmuch; simply tell them what you need of them.” He let me go and settled back once more. “That is what I recommend. Ha!”

  Again, I did not know how to reply.

  “Their beliefs have only the barest tincture of holy writ,” he continued. “There is little wonder that God chose to smite the tree at the heart of the village with lightning. It reeks of sulphur, and they are little more than heathens!”

  “You have heard their tales, then? That my cousin was stolen away by the fairies?” I threw a trace of mockery into my voice so that he should know at once I would have nothing to do with such outlandishness.

  He leaned forward once more, this time fairly hissing into my face, a light burning in his eyes, “Fairies and elves? Brownies and goblins? Do you know what they are in reality?”

  Nothing, I thought. Nothing is what they are. But I contented myself with merely shaking my head.

  “Devils, sir! Devils and demons, sent to lead good men astray. Fairies? There is no such creature. All are children of Lilith; they are nothing of Pan. These fellows think them things of nature, but they are none! Only emissaries of Satan himself, aye, of old Mister Splitfoot as they call him, and by their split feet shall ye know them. Look into their eyes and you shall see no soul! If they seek to steal humans away, it is only to pay their tithe to Hell! They are come to enchant and to enrapture and whisper in ears that are eager to listen, and as for those who seek them out—those who go looking to find evil—why, they shall find it, sir, and only harm shall come to them!”

  Before I could even consider that his sermons might be more lively than I had heretofore imagined, he slammed down his palm for emphasis, unfortunately catching the edge of the tray. The teapot slopped; the cups jumped on their saucers and the thinly sliced bread greedily drank the tea which spilled upon it. I stared down at the darkening edges.

  “Such was her husband,” he said, “and see what came of it, God have mercy upon his soul!”

  To that I had no answer, and it came to me that it was odd to hear the man spoken of at all, let alone in such a way. Indeed, I could barely recall any other person even mentioning him to me—in my mind he was some shadowy, faceless creature, something a little less than human who had emerged from darkness only to commit this terrible deed before melting into formlessness once more the moment I ceased to think of him.

  Mercy upon his soul? An image rose before me, a white grin in a blackened visage, and I passed a hand across my eyes.

  The parson did not appear to notice my distress. “The day after tomorrow, then,” he said, and poured out the tea as if nothing untoward had happened, then passed me a cup, the saucer still swimming in what had already been spilled.

  Chapter Six

  Harry Widdop wore an almost sombre expression beneath his sandy brows, appearing as sage a fellow as the parson had been earlier. “Friday,” he said, shaking his head as if all meaning in the world was compressed into the word. “Unlucky day, that.”

  I sighed. I thought for a moment of asking him to elaborate, but decided against it. I merely repeated the word—“Friday”—and he shook his head once more, as if that were all that needed to be said.

  Despite his misgivings, he agreed that the inn was the best place for refreshments after the service, and that he could provide whatever was necessary. For a moment I had considered whether it would be best to throw open the cottage so that her friends and neighbours could bid her farewell in her own dwelling place, then decided I could not bear to do so. I had determined that the unhappy house at the edge of the village could remain in its present state a little longer, and I was so lost in imagining it settling further into its nook on the hillside, its garden being overtaken by dandelions and creeping vines, that it took me by surprise when he said, “’As she a frock?”

  I blinked. I could not, for a moment, fathom his meaning.

  “For the layin’ out,” he said.

  I stared at his seamed face, my eyes opening wide as I tried to comprehend his words, and then I understood. If my cousin had a frock—well, surely everything she had was still in that cottage, shut up close with its acrid scent and its bad memories.

  “You’ve got t’ key,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  I caught my breath. “I have. And a day at liberty tomorrow, but really, I should prefer—” I took another deep breath, which failed to quite settle me. “Really, it would be better if a woman could go—an individual who would understand her needs. I am happy to lend them the key, you know, if there is anybody you could recommend. Mrs. Gomersal, perhaps?”

  It was Mr. Widdop’s turn to draw in a breath; his was a sustained draught that whistled between his teeth. “She’ll not go in there,” he said slowly. “Not many will, not now. Not many would afore, truth be told—it’s an unlucky place, bein’ so near t’ top o’ that ’ill. It’s not right; we allus said it, ’round ’ere, but she would ’ave it, all t’ same.”

  An unlucky day; an unlucky place. I found myself remembering the parson’s words about superstition and nonsense, and fought to smother the outward signs of my irritation. It appeared that the landlord did have limits to his usefulness after all, and I would have to go myself—and then it crowded in upon me that it was right somehow, that I, her only relative to stand by her, should be the one to minister to her final needs. Thus I found myself agreeing to the errand and I tried not to think of it as I dined, retiring soon afterwards to my room.

  The view from my window was lit once more by the moon’s silvery witch-light. The fields lay still, not a bird or a branch moving, and the sight answered something deep within myself. I realised I did not feel the lack of all the London evening sounds: the hails of tract-sellers; the constant rumble of carriages and cabs; the step and chatter of passers-by; the tormenting of a Jew’s harp or tin whistle for coin; the bustle of those hurrying to lectures and recitations; the chiming of doorbells and churches. All the hurry-scurry of the City was far distant; everything was peace.

  Eventually, I shifted my gaze from the scene without to my own hazy reflection in the glass, nothing but a shadow amid shadows. I lifted my hands and let them fall, the answering movement clarifying what was my outline and what was the trace of the line of trees in the distance. Beneath it were the more regular hunched shapes of the quiet outhouses and their single lonely occupant. Soon, I thought. She would have company soon, beneath the ground, in a quiet grave open to rain and sunshine alike and grieved by neither. There were worse things, perhaps. At least then she could forget, although I would endeavour to ensure that she would not be forgotten.

  After a time, all the homely sounds of the inn began to impinge on my consciousness. There was the scrape of a chair; the rumble of laughter at some morsel of gossip or a local joke; a cry for more drink. And then, strident and somehow merry and sad all at once, there rose the higher, piercing tones of a fiddle.

  I listened to it for a time, though I did not recognise any of the tunes it played. I know not ho
w long it was until I slept, but the music followed me into my dreams.

  Chapter Seven

  I had first to see to the completion of various other matters regarding the funeral the next day, so that the sun was already beginning to decline from its zenith as I set out upon my task and walked along the now almost familiar lane. I was learning to think of it in local terms, thus it was “along t’ big road” I went, in the direction of “t’ little road,” my steps quite steady so as not to betray my innermost thoughts. My hand strayed so often to the key in my pocket, where I felt also the touch of my cousin’s hair, that if I had found it not I would most sorely have felt its lack.

  It may have been an impression lent by the fresh clean air and the perfect sunlight but I had the sense that I was doing the correct thing; that in fact all was right with the world. Something dreadful had happened, interrupting the course of days with its outrage, but calm had returned, along with the natural order of things. God was surely in His heaven, smiling down with the sunlight that warmed me as I went. I realised I had never known a day of tempest in the countryside; all was sunny and beautiful before me, and I found that I could almost forget the purpose for which I had come.

  I crossed the little bridge and the softly running waters beneath it and set foot upon the track that led upwards on its singular course to my cousin’s door. I had learned from the landlord that many about these parts called it the Reeling Road; though I knew not why, for it did not reel at all; its course was straight and true. There was no need or opportunity to linger or stray, and almost I wished there were.

  The sun grew hotter and the air thicker as I pointed my steps upwards. It reminded me of dreams in which running became at once imperative and impossible, the limbs slowed as if mired in the blackest treacle.

  All too soon there was the gate before me, standing a little ajar, and I tried to remember if I had left it that way. My spirit quailed inside me. All was too quiet, too isolated, too ordinary. It took only a few steps to reach the door and I found I was holding my breath as I drew out the key, reluctant to breathe in any of that awful stench. When I did taste the air, I found only the sweetness of honeysuckle and at the edge of my hearing there was sound after all: the somnolent murmur of bees.

  I turned the key in the lock. I expected it to stick meanly, some badly made, cheap thing, but it turned true and I heard a sharp snick.

  I bowed my head a moment, thinking of the fair curls that had hung down from my cousin’s cap, and then I reached out and turned the handle. The door opened smoothly without creak or jarring. Inside were stone flags, softly gleaming—perhaps from my cousin’s own hand—leading away to a back door, that entrance being guarded by a little mat of oilcloth. The sight of that at first raised unpleasant images in my mind, but this one was neatly cut and placed and had been polished to a sheen like marble.

  There were two doors set midway along the passage. To the left, I knew from my glimpse of what felt an age ago, was the parlour. The one to the right was unknown to me. Between them and the back door was a staircase and it occurred to me that I could simply go up and find my cousin’s wardrobe, take what I needed without ever entering another room. And then I told myself I may as well see it all, and I turned to the left and opened the door to the parlour.

  As soon as I did, the smell of burning rushed upon me, more strongly than ever. The first thing I saw was the hearth with its spill of cinders; before it was a rag rug, much spotted with sparks from the fire. The fire irons hung neatly on their stand, all save the poker, which was lying upon the hearthstones. A lamp standing on the floor under the hood-end had been knocked awry and was tilted against the edge of the grate. I stood for a while, staring into the empty fire, as if it could whisper all its secrets. I suddenly longed, strongly and painfully, to know the truth, however dreadful, of the last days of my cousin’s life. I shook my head. Could any good be the result of such delving? I had come here to gain some sense of her life. I had come to say good-bye.

  I turned about the room. Without knowledge of what had happened in this place, all appeared in almost perfect order. I had expected to find a meanly appointed hovel, but here all was comfort. The table might not have the high mahogany gleam of the one in my father’s house, but it was respectably polished and solidly built. There were some wooden chairs, ill-matching, but serviceable, and a little faded sofa. In one corner, a preserved fox in a glass case endlessly watched the room, its foot set upon a stuffed mouse. The mirror was wider than it was tall, the ceilings being lamentably low, and it hung opposite the fire rather than above it. I noticed that it had not been covered after the sad event.

  Over the fire was a plain shelf bearing a framed engraving of a landscape, a few Staffordshireware plates, a Bible, a prayer book and a card whereon was printed the text: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I stepped closer, staring at it, and only then noticed that a clock stood next to it. It was not ticking; the hands were not moving. Here, time had been stopped, as it should have been. Someone had paid my cousin that little attention at least, even if they had neglected to cover the mirror and shutter the windows. The clock read a little before midnight.

  I let my gaze fall to the floor. It was sullied with footprints and little clods of earth, as might be expected after all the tramplings of the constable and others who had been drawn to this place after its occupant had so precipitately left it.

  I turned from the sight and towards the windows. The shutters were half open, as I had seen them before, perhaps to shield the contents from the full heat of the sun. I left them for now, though they should have been decently closed upon this scene of grief. I would do it upon leaving; after the funeral let anyone else open them who would.

  The walls were of thick stone, and suddenly an image lay before me: a view of London as revealed to me from the train, a terraced kingdom, all colour leached by distance and covered by a constant grey pall. The houses had been identical to my eye, row upon row of pattern-book homes built of brick which was in places so rotten that smoke was escaping sideways from the chimneys.

  The cottage spoke of decency and solidity, and yet . . . and yet. He had killed her, my Linnet. How could such a monster have resided within such a home? But I remembered what the landlord had said: that this was an unlucky house, that none would even enter it. That might have been the only reason my cousin’s husband had taken it: because none other would have it. It had been tainted from the start. And if the cottage was comfortable, if it was homely, that was no doubt the work of her hand, not his.

  I shook my head. What had happened was abominable and could not belong in any place, no matter what silly ideas had grown up around this one. Superstition must be put down for the good of all. I looked around once more, this time thinking as a rational man. All was just so, save the poker and the lamp. Yet here were other things: a greenish stain on the edge of the rug. A little china jug of something left on the table, smelling at once sweet and sour, though still more pleasant than the burnt air of the room.

  I longed suddenly to throw open the shutters and disperse the air, but custom would not allow it; it would be improper until the funeral was over. And for the funeral, a gown—a frock—was needed. I turned my back on the room and the glimpse I could see of a kitchen beyond it, and returned to the hall. Despite all my intentions of rationalism, relief washed over me; I was an intruder expelled from that room, and all the better for it.

  There was still one more intrusion to make. I climbed the stairs, hearing the wood creak and resettle. I wondered how many times my cousin had taken just such a course, bearing a candle to light her to bed, never imagining how her life would be curtailed just yards from where she stood. I found at the top of the stair two bedrooms, to my surprise; both had slanting ceilings and were uncarpeted, and both were equipped with washstands and ewers. One bed was hung with red curtains, the other half-curtained in blue. The latter had a lighter, more feminine appearance, and a glimpse into the wardrobe proved me correct; its she
lves were full of light colours, of fabrics more delicate and fine than I would have expected of a village cordwainer’s wife. Puzzled, I ran a finger over them, detecting the faintest scent of rose petals, only then realising what I was doing and pulling away, feeling more than ever an intruder. Yet who would perform this service for her if I did not?

  I had thought of something in plain white, but instead I found myself unfolding a dress of fine, pretty fabric, trimmed with organdie and with a broad white ribbon at the waist. There was a little bonnet with flowers in a matching colour. Gloves of white kid I placed into my pocket, feeling their softness like skin against my fingers. A memory rose then, of a great clamour of sound: the hissing of a steam engine, the rhythmic rattle of a Jacquard lace machine, the tinkling of a crystal fountain, the high purity of a song. I hung my head, blinded for a moment. I hardly knew how I had come to be here, far distant from my own life and all the people I knew, so surrounded by strangeness I might have been in a foreign land.

  A sudden rapping disturbed my reverie. I half expected to see a bird flapping against the windowpane, but there was only the blue sky, God’s own sky, curving above it all. I did not know if I could have imagined the sound. It had been like a knock, though it came from up here rather than below. Then I whirled as I heard a soft scuffling coming from the landing.

  I hurried to the door and looked out, but there was nothing to be seen. Was it a mouse?

  Another rapping came from the other bedroom and I stared at the closed door. Had I left it shut? I could not be sure. I stepped forward and pushed it open with my foot, still holding my cousin’s dress, suddenly sick at heart as to what I might see, but the room was just as still and quiet as it had been before.