A Place of Hiding

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, eyeswide 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 eyeswide 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.

Paul cried out and tore the shirt from her hands. He flung it away. Taboo barked sharply.

“Why, Paul,” Valerie said in surprise, “I didn’t mean to...It’s not an old shirt, love. It’s really quite—”

Paul snatched up the rucksack. He looked left and right. The only escape was the way he’d come, and escape was essential. He tore back along the path, Taboo at his heels, barking frantically. Paul felt a sob escape his lips as he emerged from the pond path out onto the lawn with the house beyond it. He was so tired of running, he realised. It seemed as if he’d been running all his life.





Chapter 4