A Place of Hiding

A rattle outside the cottage prompted Frank to walk to the grimy window. He saw that a cyclist had just squeaked to a stop, and its youthful rider was in the process of dismounting and setting the kickstand into place. He was accompanied by the thatch-furred dog who was his constant companion. It was young Paul Fielder and Taboo.

Frank frowned at their presence, wondering what they were doing here, all this way from the Bouet, where Paul lived with his disreputable family in one of the dismal terraces that the Douzaine of the parish had voted to have constructed on the east side of the island to accommodate those whose incomes would never match their propensity to reproduce. He had been Guy Brouard’s special project—Paul Fielder—and he’d come with him often to Moulin des Niaux to squat by the boxes stored in the cottages and to explore their contents with the two older men. But he’d never come to the Talbot Valley on his own before, and Frank felt a clutch in his gut at the sight of the boy.

Paul started to head for the Ouseleys’ cottage, readjusting a dirty green rucksack that he wore on his back like a hump. Frank stepped to one side of the window so as not to be seen. If Paul knocked on the door, Graham would never answer. At this time of morning, he’d be mesmerised by the first of his soaps and oblivious of anything beyond the telly. Getting no reply, Paul Fielder would go. That was what Frank depended on. But the mongrel had other plans. As Paul walked diffidently in the direction of the last cottage, Taboo headed directly for the door behind which Frank skulked like a dim-witted burglar. The dog sniffed round the base of the door. Then he barked, which caused Paul to change routes. As Taboo whined and scratched at the door, Paul knocked. It was a hesitant tap, irritatingly like the boy himself.

Frank replaced the copies of G.I.F.T. in their folder and shoved this back into the filing drawer. He closed the cabinet, wiped his palms along his trousers, and swung the cottage door open.

He said heartily, “Paul!” and looked beyond him to the bike with a pretence of surprise. “Good Lord. Did you ride all this way?” As the crow flew, of course, it was no great distance from the Bouet to the Talbot Valley. Nothing was a great distance from anything else as the crow flew on the island of Guernsey. But taking the narrow serpentine roads added considerably to the journey. He’d never made it before, and Frank wouldn’t have bet money on the boy’s knowing how to get to the valley on his own, anyway. He was not too bright.

Paul blinked up at him. He was short for his sixteen years, and markedly feminine in appearance. He was just the sort of lad who would have taken the stage by storm during the Elizabethan age, when young boys who could pass for women were in high demand. But in their own age, things would be mightily different. The first time Frank had met the boy he’d registered how difficult his life had to be, particularly at school where a peach-skin face, wavy ginger hair, and eyelashes the colour of corn silk were not the sort of qualities that guaranteed someone immunity from bullying.