A Place of Hiding (11 page)

He braked. At his knee, Taboo was panting. Paul felt a sudden excruciating bolt of guilt as he recognised the little dog's unwavering devotion to him. Taboo had barked to protect Paul from Mr. Ouseley's anger. He'd exposed himself to a stranger's wrath. Having done that, he'd then run half way across the island without hesitation. Paul dropped his bike with an indifferent crash and fell to his knees to hug the dog. Taboo responded by licking Paul's ear, as if he hadn't been ignored and forgotten in his master's flight. Paul choked back a cry at the thought of this. In his entire life's experience, no one but a dog could have offered Paul more love. Not even Guy Brouard.

But Paul didn't want to think of Guy Brouard at the moment. He didn't want to consider what the past had been with Mr. Brouard and even less did he want to contemplate the future with Mr. Brouard gone from his life.

So he did the only thing he could do: He carried on as if nothing had changed.

This meant that, as he was at the gates to
Le Reposoir,
he picked up his bicycle and entered the grounds. Rather than ride this time, however, he pushed the bike along beneath the chestnut trees with Taboo trotting happily beside him. In the distance, the pebbly drive fanned out before the stone manor house, and its line of windows seemed to wink their welcome in the dull December morning sun.

At one time, he would have gone round the back to the conservatory and entered there, stopping in the kitchen where Valerie Duffy would say, “Now, here's a pleasant sight for a lady in the morning,” and smile at him and offer him a snack. She'd have a homemade scone for him or perhaps a tea cake, and before she'd let him find Mr. Brouard in his study or the gallery or elsewhere, she'd say, “You sit down and tell me if this is up to scratch, Paul. I don't want to have Mr. Brouard taste it without you giving me the high sign, all right?” And she'd add, “You wash it down with this,” and she'd present him with milk or tea or a cup of coffee or on occasion a cup of hot chocolate so rich and thick that his mouth would water at the smell of it. She'd have something for Taboo as well.

But Paul didn't go to the conservatory this morning. Everything had changed with Mr. Guy's death. Instead, he went to the stone stables beyond the house, where in an old tack room Mr. Guy kept the tools. While Taboo snuffled round the delectable odours that the tack room and the stable provided, Paul gathered up the tool box and the saw, shouldered up the planks of wood, and trudged back outside. He whistled for Taboo and the mongrel came running, dashing on ahead to the pond that lay some distance beyond the northwest side of the house. To get to it, Paul had to pass the kitchen, and he could see Valerie Duffy through the window when he glanced that way. When she waved at him, though, he ducked his head. He moved resolutely forward, scuffling his feet through the gravel in the way he liked, just to hear the crunch made by the pebbles against the soles of his shoes. He had long liked that sound, especially when the two of them walked together: he and Mr. Guy. They sounded just the same, like two blokes setting off to work, and the sameness of the sound they made had always assured Paul that anything was possible, even growing up to be another Guy Brouard.

Not that he wanted to duplicate Mr. Guy's life. He had different dreams. But the fact that Mr. Guy had started out with nothing—a refugee child from France—and had actually gone from that nothing to become a giant in his chosen life's path made the promise to Paul that he could do likewise. Anything was possible if one was willing to work.

And Paul was willing, had been so from the first moment he'd met Mr. Guy. Twelve years old at the time, a skinny kid in his older brother's clothes which would soon enough be handed down to the next brother in line, Paul had shaken the hand of the gentleman in jeans, and all he'd been able to say at the time was “White, that” as he stared with abject admiration at the pristine condition of the T-shirt that Mr. Guy wore beneath his perfect V-necked navy sweater. Then he flushed so hotly that he thought he'd faint. Stupid stupid, the voices shrieked in his head. As sharp as a tack without a point and just about as useful, you are, Paulie.

But Mr. Guy knew exactly what Paul was talking about. He'd said, It's not my doing, this. It's down to Valerie. She does the laundry. Last of her kind, she is. A real housewife. Not mine, unfortunately. She's spoken for by Kevin. You'll meet them both when you come to
Le Reposoir.
That is, if you want to. What d'you think? Shall we try each other out?

Paul didn't know how to reply. His third-form teacher had sat him down in advance and explained the special programme to him—adults from the community doing something with kids—but he hadn't listened as well as he might have done because he'd been distracted by a gold filling in the woman's mouth. It was close to the front and when she spoke, it glittered in the overhead lights in the classroom. He kept trying to see if there were more. He kept wondering how much her mouth was worth.

So when Mr. Guy talked about
Le Reposoir
and Valerie and Kevin—as well as his baby sister, Ruth, whom Paul had actually expected to
be
a baby when he finally met her—Paul took it all in and nodded because he knew that he was supposed to nod and he always did what he was supposed to do because to do anything else sent him directly into panic and confusion. Thus, Mr. Guy became his mate and together they embarked upon their friendship.

This consisted mostly of messing about together on Mr. Guy's estate, because aside from fishing, swimming, and walking the cliff paths, there wasn't much else for two blokes to do on Guernsey. Or at least that had been the case until they'd begun the museum project.

But the museum project needed to be dismissed from his mind. Not to do that meant to relive those moments alone with Mr. Ouseley's shouting. So instead, he plodded over to the pond where he and Mr. Guy had been rebuilding the winter shelter for the ducks.

There were only three of them left now: one male and two females. The others were dead. Paul had come upon Mr. Guy burying their broken and bloody bodies one morning, innocent victims of a vicious dog. Or of someone's malice. Mr. Guy had stopped Paul from looking at them closely. He'd said, Stay there, Paul, keep Taboo away, too. And as Paul watched, Mr. Guy had buried each poor bird in a separate grave that he himself dug, saying, Damn. God. The waste, the waste.

There were twelve of them, sixteen ducklings as well, each with a grave and each grave marked, set round with stones and headed by a cross and the entire duck graveyard fenced off officially. We honour God's creatures, Mr. Guy had told him. It behooves us to remember we're just one of them ourselves.

Taboo had to be taught this, however, and teaching him to honour God's ducks had been something of a serious project for Paul. But Mr. Guy promised that patience would pay off and so it had done. Taboo was now gentle as a lamb in a dream with the three ducks that remained, and this morning they might have not been at the pond at all for the degree of indifference the dog showed them. He trotted off to investigate the smells among the stand of reeds that grew near a footbridge which spanned the water. For his part, Paul took his burden to the east side of the pond, where he and Mr. Guy had been working.

Along with the duck murders, the winter shelters for the birds had been destroyed. These were what Paul and his mentor had been re-building in the days preceding Mr. Guy's death.

Over time Paul had come to understand that Mr. Guy was trying him out on one project or another in an effort to see what he was suited for in life. He'd wanted to tell him that carpentry, brick laying, tiles setting, and painting were all fine and well but not exactly what led one into becoming an RAF fighter pilot. But he'd been reluctant to admit to that dream aloud. So he'd happily cooperated with every project presented him. If nothing else, the hours he spent at
Le Reposoir
were hours away from home, and that escape was fine by him.

He dropped the wood and the tools a short distance from the water and he shrugged out of his rucksack as well. He made sure Taboo was still within sight before he opened the tool case and studied its contents, trying to remember the exact order in which Mr. Guy had instructed him when building something. The boards were cut. That was good. He wasn't much use with a saw. He reckoned the nailing part came next. The only question was what got nailed to where.

He spied a folded sheet of paper beneath a carton of nails, and he remembered the sketches Mr. Guy had made. He reached for this and unfolded it on the ground, kneeling over it to study the plans.

Large A circled meant here's where you begin. Large B circled meant do this next. Large C circled was what followed B and so forth till the shelter was made. As easy as easy could be, Paul thought. He sorted through the wood to find the pieces that corresponded to the letters on the drawing.

This was a problem, though. For the timber pieces had no letters scrawled on them. They had numbers instead, and although there were also numbers on the drawing, some of these numbers were the same as others and
all
of them had fractions as well and Paul had been an utter disaster at fractions: He couldn't ever sort out what the top number meant to the bottom. He knew it had something to do with dividing. Top into bottom or bottom into top, depending on the least common nomination or something like that. But looking at the numbers made his head swim and brought to mind excruciating trips to the chalk board with the teacher demanding that he for heaven's sake just
reduce
the fraction, Paul. No
no.
The numeration and nomination will
change
when you divide them properly, you stupid stupid boy.

Laughter, laughter. Thick as shoe leather. Paulie Fielder. Brains of a cow.

Paul stared at the numbers, and he went on staring till they swam away. Then he grabbed the paper and crumpled it up. Useless, looseless, goose of a git.
Oh, tha's it, cry, li'tle nancy pantsy prick. Bet I know wha' you're crying 'bout, I do.

“Ah. There you are.”

Paul swung round at the sound. Valerie Duffy was coming along the path from the house, her long wool skirt catching against the fern fronds on the way. She was carrying something folded neatly across her palms. As Valerie drew near, Paul saw it was a shirt.

“Hello, Paul,” Valerie Duffy said with the sort of good cheer that sounded deliberate. “Where's your four-legged mate this morning?” And as Taboo came bounding round the pond's edge, barking his greeting, she went on with “There you are, Tab. Why didn't you stop for a visit in the kitchen?”

She asked the question of Taboo, but Paul knew she really meant it for him. It was how she often communicated with him. Valerie liked to make her remarks to the dog. She continued to do so now, saying, “We've got the funeral tomorrow morning, Tab, and I'm sorry to say that dogs aren't allowed in church. But if Mr. Brouard was having his say, you'd be there, love. Ducks would, too. I hope our Paul's going, though. Mr. Brouard would've wanted him there.”

Paul looked down at his scruffy clothes and knew he couldn't go to a funeral, no matter what. He hadn't the proper kit and even if he had, no one had told him the funeral was tomorrow. Why? he wondered.

Valerie said, “I phoned over to the Bouet yesterday and spoke to our Paul's brother about the funeral, Tab. But here's what I think: Billy Fielder didn't ever give him the message. Well, I should have known, Billy being Billy. I should've phoned again till I got hold of Paul or his mum or his dad. Still, Taboo, I'm glad you've brought Paul by to see us, 'cause now he knows.”

Paul wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans. He hung his head and shuffled his feet in the sandy earth at the edge of the pond. He thought of all the dozens and dozens of people who would attend the funeral of Guy Brouard, and he was just as glad that he hadn't been told. It was bad enough to feel how he felt in private now that Mr. Guy was gone. Having to feel it all in public would be more than he could face. All those eyes fastened on him, all those minds wondering, all those voices whispering That's young Paul Fielder, Mr. Guy's special friend. And the looks that would go with those words
—special friend—
the eyebrows-raised, eyes-wide looks telling Paul that something more than words alone was being said by the speakers.

He looked up to see if Valerie had the eyebrows-raised eyes-wide face on her face. But she didn't, which made his shoulders relax. He'd been holding them so tight since fleeing
Moulin des Niaux
that they'd begun to ache. But now it felt like the pincers gripping his collar bone had suddenly been loosed.

“We're setting out at half past eleven tomorrow,” Valerie said, but she spoke to Paul himself this time. “You can ride with Kev and me, love. You're not to mind about your clothes. I've brought you a shirt, see. And you're to keep it, mind you. Kev says he's got another two like it and he doesn't need three. As for the trousers . . .” She studied him thoughtfully. Paul felt the heat at each spot that her eyes rested upon his body. “Kev's won't do. You'd be lost inside them. But I think a pair of Mr. Brouard's . . . Now, you're not to
worry
about wearing something of Mr. Brouard's, love. He'd've wanted you to if you had the need. He was that fond of you, Paul. But you know that. No matter what he said or did, he was . . . He was that much fond . . .” She stumbled on the words.

Paul felt her sorrow like a band that pulled, drawing out of him what he wanted to quell. He looked away from Valerie towards the three surviving ducks, and he wondered how everyone was going to cope without Mr. Guy to hold them together, to set them on a course, and to know what ought to be done from now on.

He heard Valerie blow her nose and he turned back to her. She gave him a shaky smile. “Anyway, we'd like you to go. But if you'd rather not, you're not to feel guilty about it. Funerals aren't for everyone and sometimes it's best to remember the living by living ourselves. But the shirt's yours anyway. You're meant to have it.” She looked round, seeming to seek a clean spot to set it and saying, “Here we are, then” when she spied the rucksack where Paul had left it on the ground. She made a move to tuck the shirt inside.