A Place of Hiding

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?