A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(31)
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.”
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.