The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  My wife knew none of this; she simply stood back and waited as I pushed open the door, steeling myself against the smell which must surely rise again from the cottage’s interior—but there was nothing, only the faint hint of polish. Now the funeral was done, we could throw the shutters wide open and let God’s light in onto the scene of all that had occurred. Something inside me lifted in response; it felt like the correct thing to do, the good thing to do, and I set about it at once, beginning with the parlour.

  From thence, through the glass, I could see the road to the village: a white road now, so brightly did it shine in the sunlight, which was beaming down more strongly than ever. Bees lifted heavily from the nodding heads of foxgloves just beyond the glass, then settled once more. All was harmony.

  I turned and realised Helena was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She withdrew and smiled. “It is all so clean and neat,” she exclaimed. “I had not expected it to be so tidy.”

  She was right; I had tried not to look at the empty hearth, but I did now, and found the spill of cinders was no longer in evidence; it had been neatly swept, as had the floor. The lamp, its glass chimney polished and sparkling, had been replaced upon the table, which was now covered by a thick chenille mat with a tasselled fringe.

  I walked over to Helena. The kitchen’s plain brick floor was clean, the open range, though cold, recently blackleaded, and a deal table looked freshly scrubbed. The scullery area was small but just as orderly, with pans, scoured and polished, arrayed on a dresser, along with several coppers. A roasting jack, surely intended for use before the open fire in the parlour, was set back against the wall. I walked into the room, feeling as if I were stepping into the heart of Lizzie’s domain. There was nothing out of place; every surface shone.

  I opened another door and found a small pantry and larder combined, set into the north side of the cottage for coolness, with only a small window, just enough to let in the light. It was cast further into dimness by an elderberry tree planted outside, no doubt to keep away the flies. I could see how smartly my cousin had kept everything: the floor here was of tile and the larder shelves of wood, slate and stone, each for their various purposes, were arranged with neat rows of pickles and preserves, flour and sugar. There were baskets on the floor for vegetables. Opposite them, pantry shelves were stocked with cups, dishes and some china and glassware. Another, smaller door was set into the far wall and I opened it to find a store that must fill the space under the stairs. Here were mops, buckets and beaters, a coal-scuttle, kindling and a cinder sifter, all in their place and ready for use. There were supplies of carbolic soap and borax, laundry blue, insect powder and other such things; a tray of candle ends and a snuffer; and a box of oddments, including an old pair of scissors and what appeared to be an ancient and rusted pair of iron shears.

  “It is odd, is it not?”

  I frowned and entered the kitchen once more. “Why, my dear? There is nothing to suggest my cousin a slovenly housekeeper, though she may have been reduced in circumstance.”

  “No! That is not what I meant.” It was Helena’s turn to frown. “There is nothing here spoiled—there is no meat hanging on the hooks, no mouldy bread, no eggs, no foul milk in the jug. Whatever does it mean?”

  It took me a moment to understand her, but she was right. My cousin had not gone off on a journey, preparing everything for her absence; her husband had not willingly left the house, but had gone in company with the constable. Both their lives had been suddenly curtailed, each by other hands than their own, and so surely the larder should have been full of rotting things; the scullery sink could have been filled with sooty pans a-soak in greasy water; beetles might have taken up residence in the ceiling corners and dust settled upon the floor. Instead all looked as if it was intended to be so, the house closed up as if awaiting the arrival at any moment of its family.

  “Someone from the village must have come in, that’s all,” I said. “A maid, perhaps.” And yet the landlord’s words echoed in my mind: It’s not a good ’ouse, or a lucky ’ouse, neither. Had my cousin even had a maid?

  “Well, that is exactly what we shall need: a maid, Albie, at least for the very short time we shall be staying here.” My wife wrinkled her nose.

  I sighed. It was just like her to think of such matters. “I shall enquire in the village,” I said, “but for now, let us settle ourselves. If you really wish to stay here, of course. There will be none of the elegancies to which you are accustomed, Helena—there is only one parlour; there is no musical instrument. There will be no creams or blancmanges or any of the things you are used to—”

  “Well, we must have tea, at least.” She did not meet my eye, but instead pulled a face, looking about the room. “We must light the range, I suppose. How—interesting.”

  It was only then that I realised my wife had never before done such a thing herself. I had not thought of it; my father was fortunate enough to keep a parlour maid and a cook as well as a housemaid. Helena was more accustomed to learning watercolours and the piano than the work of a household. I thought of Lizzie’s neat and shining dishes and pushed the thought from my mind: of course my wife was unused to such things; it had never been her expectation. And yet this would be the first house in which we would reside together, even if it was, as she said, for only a short time; our first establishment of our own.

  I said that I would see about some water, and I went through to the back door. The key was in the lock; I turned it and went out, almost tripping over a boot-scraper, to be greeted at once by the sound of birdsong. I had thought that all in the countryside would be silent after the rattle and clatter of London, but it was not. To the birds’ calls were joined the busy humming of insects; from somewhere came the lonely call of a cuckoo.

  I was relieved to see that the cottage had its own pump; we should not have to haul water up the hill. There was also a little outhouse and, in the far corner, a privy, all grown about with fragrant jasmine and honeysuckle. In the garden between was a gooseberry bush, along with red- and whitecurrant bushes, all heavy with fruit. Peas and runner beans were rampaging over their stakes. There were abundant herbs; I identified mint, marjoram and thyme, but the rest were a mystery.

  When I finally turned to go inside, I noticed for the first time a little date stone set above the door. I drew myself up and peered at it, but no matter how I tilted my head, I could not make out the year; the figures were misshapen, appearing to have melted in the heat rather than succumbed to wind or rain.

  I found Helena all impatience. She had discovered the store and was exclaiming over the heaviness of the coal-scuttle and the inconvenience of the tinder, which was nothing but dried gorse; it had scratched her fingers. I helped her with it, picturing my father’s face at the idea of such a thing. But Helena was right: she was unused to arduous household tasks, so we must have a maid, or at least a charwoman for the rough work. I had not any idea of where we should find one, and yet someone must have been here: the hearth, after all, had been swept. The scattering of ash I had seen on my first visit was gone; the little china jug with its mysterious contents had entirely disappeared.

  So short a time after leaving I found myself once more at the Three Horseshoes and in conversation with the landlord. I had already enquired about the primary purpose of my visit, which was the hiring of a horse. The shillings I passed to him lightened his somewhat dour countenance, shadowed perhaps by the loss of his lodger, though his manner was helpful, even deferential, as if he wished to make up for his shortcomings in the matter of my cousin’s funeral.

  Before I should lose the advantage of his current helpfulness I turned to the subject so dear to my wife’s heart, but at this his face closed up at once. He drew in a breath that whistled across his teeth. “Dun’t know about that, sir. None’ll go up there, see. I did war—I teld thee. I can speak to t’ farms, ask them to call on you fer your orders, like—milk, an’ such, but that’s it. I’m not sure I could even get a girl up there once a week,
to ’elp with t’ washin’ an’ the like—I reckon they’d spook at it.”

  “But that’s nonsense,” I blurted. “Someone has been there already—and quite alone, presumably! Why, the place has been made neater than a new pin.”

  At this, he started; I might even have said that his cheek paled. “That cannot be right, sir, beggin’ your pardon.”

  “And yet it is. Someone else must have a key—possibly my cousin’s maid? Or Mrs. Gomersal? Someone has most certainly been there since—” I left that sentence unfinished.

  He shifted his feet. “Sir, there’s no mistake. That key were put into my ’and for safekeeping by t’ owd squire, an’ that’s because ’e lives over towards Kelthorpe, at Throstle Grange. ’E din’t want no visits from t’ constable an’ such, an’ ’e din’t want to be troubled comin’ over ’ere, not bein’ poorly an’ all. ’E wanted it kept ’ereabouts, like I told you afore. It’s t’ only key I know of. There’s nubbody else been in that ’ouse since it ’appened, an’ no mistake.” He paused. “Not since t’ police theirselves went over it nohow, an’ they dun’t clean up nothin’, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “But the hearth has been swept,” I protested, “I saw it myself. And the smell is different . . .”

  Again, I caught myself, and was startled when he grasped me by the shirt-sleeve and drew me to him, leaning in and speaking most earnestly.

  “Sir, I’d ’ave a care, beggin’ your pardon. That ’ouse—it’s a wrong ’un. Up there—there’s strange matters, on that there ’ill. I shan’t go there meself, not nohow.” He took a deep breath. “That’s where they live, see? That’s where they dance, under t’ moon. Tha mustn’t listen to ’em. Tha mustn’t partake of owt they leave yer.” At this I pulled away, but still there was no brooking the man. “But I’ll tell yer summat else fer nowt. If they’s tidied and cleaned up, like they was said to do in years gone by—you mun thank ’em forrit, sir. Leave ’em a little water on t’ ’earthstone. Or pour ’em a little milk onto t’ ’illside. They’ll be content wi’ that, sir. They’ll not turn on yer then.”

  I silenced him with a hand and said, “Sir, I am astonished. Must I be thus addressed—have I fallen, without my knowledge, into Bedlam? You talk of myths and stories, nothing more. You seem a sensible man, sir—a practical man. You cannot truly believe—why, you are having a joke, at our expense! And I with my wife to keep—”

  “Aye, an’ I’d keep ’er close, an’ all!”

  “How dare you!”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, I meant no ’arm, only to ’elp. But—gah!” He shook his head. “There’s none so deaf as them as’ll not listen, an’ that’s the truth on it. I know such things are passed, sir. Some say as t’ railways ’ave chased ’em all away—that the world’s changed, an’ we all know better now. Well, mebbe it ’as an’ mebbe it an’t. I dun’t profess mesel’ wise in such matters. But I do know this place, sir, an’ I know I cannot ’elp believin’ in what I know to be true.”

  He spoke this last right into my face, so that I felt the spray of his spittle; his eyes were aflame. I could do nought but stare at him in dismay. I was in Bedlam. There could be no doubt that he at least believed himself sincere, though I knew not what reply I could make to his madness. After a moment, I gathered myself. “So this is what they think—the villagers? They stayed away from my cousin’s funeral because their minds were deceived, as your own, with this devilish superstition—they really believe her stolen away by the fairies?”

  He straightened himself at that as if he were at last recollecting himself. I could only hope that my words had made him ashamed of the crazed notion that had taken possession of his senses. I remembered then something that had been said to me and attempted to press home my advantage. “The parson, you know, is in full agreement that fairies and goblins do not exist. He says that your creatures of the hill are nothing but devils and demons, come to torment the simple and fool their minds—to lead them astray—even down to the very depths from which they came!”

  My speech served only to revive his intensity of feeling. “Aye,” he said, “Aye!” He leaned in close once more, meeting my look with his own shining eyes. “But ’e still believes in ’em, dun’t ’e!”

  I was struck speechless by this undeniably logical, if outrageous, riposte. There was little else for me to do but shake my head over the stubborn ignorance in which I had found myself mired, to take to my horse—the bay mare I had seen peaceably nodding in its stall—and to set out upon my journey.

  We clopped along, hooves raising dust from the rutted lane, the dry smell of it secondary only to the musky scent of the mare and the almost cloying floral notes rising from a froth of wild carrot along the verges that shone so brightly in the sun it hurt my eyes to look upon it. It was so bright, and indeed so beautiful, that I found my mind wandering gratefully from my errand, even whilst the rocking gait of the mare carried me steadily towards it with almost the regularity of a machine.

  After a time I saw men working in the fields, hacking at their crop with scythes and raking it out into lines, tasks that were entirely mysterious to me. There were women there too, wearing capacious bonnets which covered the backs of their necks so that only their hands would be browned with their labour. Children worked at their sides, too industrious, too young or too poor to attend school. The sight made me rein in the mare and gaze at the scene as a corresponding image appeared to me of clerks flooding into the City, clinging to omnibuses and thronging the streets at the clock’s command. Here, where the church clock bore two minute hands, they surely had need of none. They would go to the fields at sunrise and cease when darkness fell. Outwardly, too, they were different; here, the workers wore pale cottons which shone back the light of the sun, and I felt suddenly the stark contrast of my own night colours; what a crow I was in comparison! Dark wools were a requirement in the City, where such pale tones would quickly be ruined by the coal smuts which were all about. Here, things were of necessity different. Materials so strongly dyed would quickly fade in light such as this; smart blacks would soon turn to rust. And there was another difference, of course: for even a peasant in the country was likely to live far longer than a city man.

  I tipped my hat and wiped my forehead with my pocket handkerchief, realising I appeared half faded already with the dust that clung to my clothing. The mare, as if in full knowledge that my period of reflection was over, started again at her steady pace. Shortly afterwards the road widened and I made out most plainly the frozen imprints of footsteps and of hooves as well as the ridges thrown up by cartwheels, all speaking of animals being driven to market and village folk going to make their purchases. I had spied nothing but an occasional waggonette in the distance; I never drew any closer before they vanished in at some gate or other. There had not been a single hawker, peddler, cheapjack or farmer’s wife with a willow basket swinging on her arm. The road did not look familiar to me, although I must have been brought this way from Kelthorpe. Had I simply not noted which way I had come? There had been no landmark I recognised for some time, nor a waystone or fingerpost. I drew the horse to a halt once more and it stood and waited patiently, shifting its haunches, and for a moment I did nothing. Then I realised, with a start, that I was not alone. I became sensible of the presence of an old man sitting almost in the hedgerow, clutching a half-devoured plum, its bright yellow flesh all a-drip with juice. His beard was red as a fox and his eyes were darkly twinkling and fixed on me, though he said nothing. He simply nodded, as if that expressed everything he needed to say, his face alight with some barely concealed amusement.

  “Good day, sir,” I said. “Can you tell me if I am on the right road to Kelthorpe?”

  The words must have been wasted as I said them, for however could I have gone amiss? The road was straight and true, marked by its market drovings and other business.

  “Oh yes,” he replied, his voice as merry as his expression. “Oh yes, you are on the right road indeed!” And the little fellow rose to h
is feet and pushed his way through a rent in the hawthorn. I stood in the stirrups, peering after him, but I saw him not.

  I knew not whether to nod at his reassurance or shake my head over the singularity of its expression as I nudged the horse into resuming its steady motion. This time I did not stop until the town of Kelthorpe was all around me. I had had little opportunity, when I had passed through it previously, to make any examination of the place. Now I saw that it had its own little church, the doors thrown open and lined with flowers. There was an inn, and on the far side of a square, a series of pens that must accommodate its market; the generosity of their provision made me grateful indeed that it was not a livestock day. The faint whiff of singed hooves suggested a farrier not far distant, and that of hides indicated a sadler. There were several small shops; a baker’s boy emerged from a nearby doorway, setting out on his rounds. There was also a pleasant green with a well and chained bucket, a little bench and a rather curious jutting of stone that might once have been the base of a buttercross; possibly a remnant of the Dark Ages now fallen into ruin. I could not see the railway station from this vantage, though I knew it must lie behind the taller, grander structure, no doubt constructed for some civic purpose, which took up most of one side of the square.

  I found someone to feed and water the horse at the inn and the sleepiness of Halfoak returned to me more keenly at the sight of the ostlers briskly rubbing down a pair of post-horses and the rows of occupied stalls. I wondered if Halfoak had once had such business. The greater number of its stables were empty, so perhaps the horses were at work in the fields; or perhaps Mr. Widdop’s fortunes were somewhat in decline. I remembered the revelry that had sounded from below my room in the Three Horseshoes and pursed my lips.