The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  “I cannot eat.” Her voice was dull, a monotone without expression or warmth.

  I reached out with my free hand and touched her arm and at that, she caught her breath. Her lip twitched, but still she did not meet my eye; she only resumed her former watching, staring out unblinking at the hillside. I found myself wondering what had so caught her attention and I peered out too, but there was nothing: only the flowers nodding gently in a faint breeze, and the blackbird, digging its beak into some fleshy morsel it had discovered.

  “I will wait downstairs for you if you wish, Helena, but pray, do take something, my dear. It will make you feel more yourself.”

  “I cannot eat.” She spoke in the same dull tone as before, words without emotion.

  “Helena, let us not quarrel. What is it that ails you?”

  She would not acknowledge the question; she did not even show that she had heard. I looked into her face a moment longer and then I turned and left the room. I was outwardly calm, but inside, my blood was rising. She had said such things—dreadful things—in her frenzy. How could she now spurn my overtures in such a provoking fashion? I had taken on the role of the peacemaker and yet was being met with nothing but rebuff.

  I stopped dead on the landing.

  These changelings can be identified by their weaknesses, or some disfigurement, or by a sweet temper turning of a sudden into querulous and unnatural ways. They might refuse to speak or eat. A good wife may be transformed into a shrew.

  I shook my head in rejection of my wife’s actions, my own thoughts, the constable’s words, the new day that awaited. I returned to my own room, closed the door firmly behind me and removed the journal from its hiding place. I began to read the earliest pages. The entries bore no dates and the simple modes of expression needed a little deciphering, but soon I started to draw some sense from the words.

  Jem got a hare yester-night, from one of the men at the Horseshoes. I didn’t ask, though he promised at least it were took in the day, not in the dark. Even that rabble would not risk that. I skinned it and roasted it with a bit of rosemerry. We ate it all, and it were fine. It was as if we were just wed again, for a bit. Then he got that look in his eye, and it were even more like. Happen we should have a third along to join us soon, God willing. Jem goes on about it enough. Maybe this time . . .

  I shook my head, this time in irritation. This was not what I sought. Last night my selections had been serendipitous, as if the book had opened at something meant for me to read. Now it resisted. I tried another.

  Mary killed her pig and she gave me some of the scrattlings and a leg. We shall not starve today. I can smell it sizzling. Jem’s still working at the Grange so he doesn’t know yet. He is fitting them all up there and he says it shall be a relief when he has done it, for certain. And then he shall make boots for Mary’s bairn, so we shall last a bit. It is a blessing the rent is so low, though he never does think to be grateful to me for thinking of this place.

  Meat and boots and petty local matters. For such a book, discovered in such a way, to repay me thus! I tutted over it and riffled through the pages, wondering if it would all be the same, more of their meals and the uneventful passing of their days. I had only some small gratitude that although she may have neglected in life to pronounce her aitches, she had not forgotten to write them. But this was merely the dull observation of a dull life; why had she nothing of import to say?

  I realised I was crumpling the pages in my frustration and I smoothed them down. There had been some urgent reason her husband had wanted this book to be found. But he might never even have read it; his claim might have been nothing more than a bluff. Its existence could be purely a matter of coincidence, his insistence an invention to save his worthless neck from the rope.

  I closed it and stared at its dried, cracked cover, but what I saw was my cousin’s face: her own cracked and blackened skin, that awful smile shining through it. I shuddered, feeling for a moment as if a chill presence had passed through the room. Perhaps it had; perhaps my cousin had been drawn here by the way that I had judged her.

  But I believed in ghosts no more than I did in fairies: they were all the product of overheated and unregulated imaginations. However, in one sense, I was correct: I should judge neither my cousin’s clumsy modes of expression nor the affairs of which she had written, for these were private matters, never intended for my eyes, nor perhaps for anyone’s. Besides, she had been forced by circumstance to live among coarse creatures so I should not be surprised at a little vulgarity of expression, some slight provincialism in her speech. And yet it was so long ago that I had seen her, the actual flesh and blood of her, that her image was fading. It was almost as if she had come to be not quite real to me.

  I turned to a later section of the journal. To judge by the thinness of the written pages that followed, it could not have been long before her death. Her hand was more than usually wild.

  I said no to him again tonight and he was having none of it. He said I would take it and like it, and I said there was nowt wrong with me, only a chill and nothing a bit of kindness wouldn’t fix. He wouldn’t have none of that neither and then there was a knock on the door. He says go and see who it is, wife, only he said wife like it meant summat else. And I didn’t move so he went to see and they came in and stood there as if they didn’t even know who I was.

  Then he says tha shall take it like it or not, and he had it in a jug, and it stunk. I knew it was what she had given to him because he started to say daft words, about wings and flowers and charms, and meadows and water, and I don’t know what else. Then he said in the name of God I had to say me own true name, and I said it. And then he said I had to drink it and I would not. I don’t know what she puts in that stuff, but its fowl and I said I would not have it, not in my own house with my own husband, and he did nowt but laugh. The others didn’t though. One of them got a hold of my shoulders and shoved me down, and held me on the floor, and I said it hurt but they didn’t care. The other went and grabbed my hair, right at back of my neck, and I started to cry then since I didn’t think they would have done that, helping just as if owt they said even made any sense. All the time, they would not even say nowt to me nor look at me. It were like I was nothing.

  Jem pushed the jug into my mouth then, bashed it in he did and cut my lip, all swole up it is, and he poured stuff down my throat, and I had to swallow it but I choked and he said in the name of God, tell me you are my true wife, just tell me for God’s sake what is your name, and I told him I would not, and I never ever would.

  I stared down at the rough scrawl. I could sense her terror and her dismay, not just in her words or how they ran on so rapidly, but in the way she had scratched them into the paper. My eyes stung at the cruelty that had been inflicted upon her, and yet a more terrible notion had risen to the uppermost of my mind: what if the constable should see this? Would he take this cruelty for the “proof” of which he had spoken? Here was her husband, attempting his “cure,” and here was Lizzie, by her own admission, refusing to state in the name of God that she was indeed his wife. And yet, was that truly unnatural? There was a more rational interpretation: she must have long regretted entering into matrimony with such a villain. It would be terrible indeed if Lizzie’s attempt to unburden herself of her cares and anxieties within these mean pages led to Jem Higgs’ escape. Such a thing must never happen. My cousin must have justice and he must pay for his actions. The journal must never fall into the wrong hands or be made the instrument of his release.

  I flicked through the pages, the words blurring before me, catching only a word here, a phrase there:

  He said I were a fairy, but I think he was only angry at me. He . . .

  I hid my new bonnet. I think perhaps I should not keep it, but then why should I not have such a thing . . .

  And then:

  He filled up every cranny and crevice in the house, even the keyhole.

  I blinked and read more.

  He filled up every cranny
and crevice in the house, even the keyhole. He said Mother Crow had told him he would not see owt because he were blinded, but he might be able to hear summat if he filled up every last chink and listened. He said fairies would come then and tell him owt he wanted to know. And then he said it would be all up with me, and I would not hide nowt from him ever again. I followed him when he stuffed rags under the door and round the windows, up stairs and down, and I laughed at him all the while and told him he was being ignorant.

  I closed the book and held it closed, as if it should open of its own accord and accuse me. I was justly chastised, I knew that, and yet knowing did not lessen its sting. I pressed my eyes closed and heard the echo of a woman’s mocking laughter, though I could no longer be sure it came from Mother Draycross.

  It impressed upon me further that her husband, that wicked brutish creature, had at least not been so dull as to forget the upstairs windows. I told myself it did not signify; it was only that I had possessed greater sense than he; yet somehow, it merely served to drive deeper how stupid I had been, how lost in the mire of superstition.

  Another thought came swift upon it, this time a more rational observation. They, she had written, and I had not been oblivious to the word when Constable Barraclough had used it. He says they tried to cure her before the night she was burned—aye, and not just once either, but several times. I had thought then that he had meant my cousin’s husband and some medical man; of course I saw now that he had not.

  They would not even say nowt to me nor look at me.

  I wondered what Jem Higgs was thinking of at this very moment. I hoped he felt despair. I hoped he felt isolated. I hoped he believed the whole world was ranked against him. He had acted cruelly; he had killed his wife—but he had not been alone, not the way my poor Lizzie had been. Not the way that I felt now.

  But I was more determined than ever: I would have the truth. Lizzie would have it. And everybody would know who had helped to send a poor innocent creature to her terrible death.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I left the cottage not long after I had again concealed the journal. I did not tell Helena that I was leaving, and nor did she emerge from her room. I supposed if I left her alone, she might eat something at last, and perhaps, upon my return, she might be restored to her own sweet self.

  The day was once again the picture of summer’s glory. What need had man, I wondered as I stepped out, to invent a land of ever-present summer beneath a hill? How could there be a summer away from the open presence of the sun, that now brightened all things, chasing spooks and scares away and exposing everything for what it truly was? But, I chastised myself, perhaps I was being uncharitable, for life in Halfoak must perforce be a trial in the winter, when damp stole through floor and thatch, and freezing blasts found their way around doors and down chimneys. How limbs must ache then, about their out-of-doors toil—how fingers must swell! Then there would be every need to invent tales of lasting sunshine. They would stuff their shirts with newspapers for warmth, instead of rolling up their sleeves and mopping their brows. No, despite the slight discomfort afforded by the heat, I was fortunate that my visit here had coincided with what appeared to be an unsurpassed and endless summer.

  I had no time to marvel at the day’s beauties. I had set myself a task, and I would see it completed before the day was over. I made my way to the inn, glancing upward as I reached the door to spy a heavy old iron horseshoe nailed above the lintel. I tossed my head, the better to examine it as I stepped across the threshold and into the taproom, directly into the view of the landlord standing at his hatch. He greeted me with a nod, but at the sight of my expression, his demeanour darkened.

  “What can I do for thee today, sir?” His tone was cautious and I noted that he did not proffer refreshment, drink or anything else. That my purpose was otherwise must have been evident to his eye.

  The taproom was empty save for an old gaffer in one corner, his face pitted with smallpox and his eyes misted, his fingers playing with a set of dominoes, much as I once had. He set one down with a sharp click.

  I went closer, to address Widdop without being heard. “I need a little information,” I said, and to ease any concern, “nothing you might not tell anyone who were to pass through the village.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I wish to know who was closest to Jem Higgs in the world—his mother, his father? Did he have a brother?”

  He raised his eyebrows ruminatively as he took down a tankard from a hook and began to run a cloth over it, although it was already polished to a high gleam. “Well, now. His mother’s passed, o’ course. His father, now: ’e’s passed too. Then there were one brother, gone to Barnsley to be a farrier’s lad. The younger ’un’s gone to an aunt ower Selby way—she’s owd now by all accounts, seventy-odd, hearing’s gone.”

  “How old is the boy?”

  He sniffed. “Eleven or so.”

  “Too young.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “To be of service. What of other relatives—close relatives?”

  “There’s none closer’n mother and father and brothers, sir, beggin’ your pardon.”

  “I meant in distance, not in degree of kin. Who is closest to him here?”

  “Here, sir? Why, ’e’s not even ’ere hisself.”

  “I know that.” I had to force down my exasperation. “There must be someone. Who were his friends—or special customers, perhaps?”

  “Well, ’e worked for t’ squire a-times, sir, but none o’ the likes o’ Jem Higgs’d be close to t’ squire.”

  “The labourers, then. Was there no one who would help him in a strait? None who would help him take care of his wife?”

  “Take care of ’er, sir?”

  “Someone who would nurse her when she was ill. For she was ill, was she not? So the story is told.”

  “Oh—aye, sir. Well, we all looks atter each other in these parts, sir. No one’d say no to that. But I don’t know of anyone sayin’ aye neither, if you takes my meanin’.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You are saying that he had no friends? Not one?” I thought of the gatherings I had heard in the taproom of an evening, the raucous clang and clatter of companionable and none too sober men. There must surely have been someone prepared to offer aid to the rascal to whom my cousin had joined herself. I wondered if I would see it when I looked into their eyes: their cruelty; the way they had grabbed her shoulder and forced her to the floor; the way they had held her hair. It occurred to me then to wonder if they might even have enjoyed it: these were rough men, after all, engaged in rough work.

  “I dun’t rightly know of any, sir.”

  Click. Another domino was set in place behind me.

  “You are hiding something, I am certain of it. Come, now, it can be of little concern to you—and it might be important.”

  He stopped his polishing and set down the tankard, hard, upon the bar. “Now, sir, I’ll not be talked to in that way, not for nowt. T’ constable’s spoken to who ’e wanted spoken to, an’ there’s an end on it.”

  I flung my hands into the air with a sound of disgust. “I shall find them,” I said, “if I have to speak to every man in the parish.”

  “Aye, well, that’s as mebbe. If tha’s nowt more important to be doin’.”

  Click.

  “I beg your pardon? Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Only what I says. Tha’s got affairs to watch ower closer to ’ome, I’ll warrant. That place in’t agreein’ wi’ you, sir, if I may speak open-like, an’ anyone can see it. P’raps you’d be best off goin’ back where you came from.”

  Click.

  I stared at him in a fury, and yet he had spoken the words softly, almost with kindness, and it came upon me of a sudden that he actually had my interests at heart. Such foolishness! As if I, a City man, a resolute and rational creature, could really be affected by this little place. I had succumbed to certain emotions, it was true, but I could rise above it still, and would; and
in spite of all, I would carry out my duty to family and—and to God. Yes, to God!

  I leaned in towards him and spoke lower. “I have no need of you,” I said. “Hide them, if you will. All will be revealed. The truth will be told, with you or without.”

  He looked at me, running his fingers across his whiskers, an expression somewhat akin to wonderment stealing across his features. He had not foreseen that I should be so determined. Well, now he knew.

  He settled on meeting my eyes at last, blazing in their sockets, I had no doubt, and I turned on my heel and walked to the door, accompanied by a sound that rang out with new vigour. Click. Click. Click.

  It did not prove difficult to locate Mrs. Gomersal’s residence. I enquired of a stout matron of mature years who was sitting outside her cottage, her needle flashing as she sewed, and she directed me to a house set into a little lane near the green, tucked back into a garden filled to the brim with sunshine. There the lady herself sat upon the step, much as my guide had been. She was engaged upon weaving, her deft fingers sending stems of straw this way and that, forming a neat little mat. A girl of ten or eleven sat with her, set upon the same task, and the youngest, her odd little elfin boy, was at their feet, doing nothing in particular but teasing a small black cat with a blade of grass.

  “Good day, Mrs. Gomersal,” I called to her.

  She started, then set her work aside. She called out to the girl, “Flora, watch ’im!” before coming to the gate. She returned my greeting politely enough, though she glanced over her shoulder with concern, as if wondering whether she should have sent the children inside.

  First, I made apology for the breaking of her jug, and I withdrew some coins to recompense her for its loss, but she waved them away. “Prob’ly for t’ best,” she said, providing no clue as to whether she had disliked the jug, or if this were some new superstition about its contents.

  I prevailed upon her to take something, before saying, “I have a question for you, Mrs. Gomersal, if you would permit me. The answering will be quite simple, I think.” I made my enquiry again, about what friends Jem Higgs must have had, to help him administer his “cures.” “I do not suppose that Mrs. Draycross emerged from her shack to attend my cousin herself. Her husband must have had some connections in this world, at least until he did what he did.”