A Place of Hiding

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 rebuilding 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’recrying ’bout, I do.

“Ah. There you are.”