Gerald was unsettled in his new home. In the evenings when he climbed those stairs, having kissed his mother and father goodnight, he would turn and look down their steep descent before entering the unfamiliar room which didn’t feel his own. He lay awake for hours as when he stayed at a friend’s house, the strangeness of the house left him feeling something between scared and sad. The darkness of the wood clouded around him so that when the lights were out he wasn’t sure as to the dimensions of his new room, the blackness causing it to feel both the tiniest of closed spaces and the vastest of empty spaces. He had recently put a lamp beside his bed so that he need only yank the string close at hand. Several times he had bashed into the sharp corners of the house. It comforted him to hear his parents talking downstairs and to have the light lining his door frame. When they went to bed the house was hushed to a perfect silence and he felt nervous to know he was the only one still awake.

“Look at those bags under your eyes!” said his father. “They look like bruises.”
“Oh Gerald look at you” said his mother as she stooped to rub a little makeup under his eyes.
“I’m fine Mum! Don’t, people will notice”
“Nonsense” said his father from the kitchen, “Anyone’s gonna see those bags, they’re darker than these asparagus tips.” And chuckling to himself he kissed Gerald’s mother goodbye. She jumped at the slam of the door. “Oh he’s such a dick isn’t he?” she said. Gerald was busy at the mirror checking to see that he didn’t look like a girl.
“Don’t you be late it’s already eight thirty. I’m off,” and she closed the door lightly. Gerald was left alone. Remembering the man he saw every morning since their arrival he raced over to the window. His eyes passed over the blossom trees in their garden and up to the houses where the old man lived. Surely enough he saw him as he did every other morning in those ten minutes he was alone in the house; the old man with his knee-length coat and corduroy hat. The man went into the field and became smaller with each step. As he reached the forest he glanced over his shoulder both left and right before stepping into the trees. He was gone. Gerald wanted to follow him but he thought he better hadn’t. As he walked down the hill to his school he thought about the man. What was he up to? The thought filled Gerald’s mind for most of the morning, clouding his spells with the pull of his imagination so that he operated automatically, being in two places at once, one mental and one physical.
“Gerald” came the teacher’s voice. His mind had wandered into that forest so that he hadn’t heard. “Gerald” she repeated and, jumping at the sudden surge of his mind returning to the physical world, he stammered a reply. “Present.” She shook her head and the other boys laughed. They thought he was strange. Gerald sat at the desk in his freshly ironed uniform, the collar and tie pressing at his throat and the blazer restricting his freedom to move as if the formality of the uniform were designed to prevent child-play. He thought the first year of high school would be enjoyable. His father had become interested and eager in his education now that it moved into higher planes. Gerald tried to maintain his father’s happiness by pretending to enjoy the history lessons. “Yes and have you learned about Stalin?” his father would ask. “No, but I think it’s coming” he had said, feeling he ought to be interested in the things that his father wanted him to be interested in. Gerald had enjoyed the things he did at intermediate, the teachers were nicer, they were freer to do things they wanted to do, to build things, even if it were with mere glue and popsicle sticks, crayon and dye. So again Gerald’s mind sailed outside of the classroom, the sight of his teacher and the blackboard with the mingled equations of letters and numbers dissipated into white noise. He was jerked into reality again when his teacher asked him for the answer.
“So. Gerald!” and she looked at him evilly, “what is X?” He was completely confused. They were doing mathematics. He knew his alphabet. Was it a trick question? “A letter in the alphabet miss.” Laughter erupted from the classroom. He felt his neck red hot against the collar of his shirt. He wouldn’t dare look up.
“It is Algebra!” she spat into the students, “Algebra requires focus Gerald.”
The whispering of the children repeating his answer as they giggled to their neighbour cut at his confidence. A pang of pain stabbed at him when he heard the word ‘Idiot!’ hissed from behind. These were snobby boys. They had gone through the same primary school together. The town was a close-knit community and Gerald was an unwelcome newcomer. It had been a dreadful two weeks. Gerald lived for the weekend. He chose to be alone when he had the option. He explored the garden and the fields by his new house. He was far away from the dread of school when he came across a brook or a new tree to climb. Gerald found company in himself and in non-living things. The sky was like a grandfather smiling over him, the trees were his father and uncles, the flowers were his mother, but it was his conscience that served the best company. When he used to stay at a friend’s house for the night he was devastated at having to sleep in an unfamiliar room. He would find satisfaction in stealing away to his bag in the friend’s bedroom, being alone with some of his things with their smell of home, a smell that usually went unnoticed being the smell of normality, but a smell which was noticed only in the midst of the strange smell of a different home. He slightly revisited his home when he did this, glimpsing his parents in their lounge watching TV, stroking the cat and talking in their usual way about nothing in particular. Coming closer to his conscience in these moments he would feel less lonely for a spell. When he returned to his friend and their family he left himself and the smell of normality, returning to loneliness. Gerald felt more alone when he was with other people, besides his mother and father. He spent his time exploring the fields and the river and the gardens and the trees. As he sat in the classroom both physically and mentally, he was distracted by the clock and its progression to three o’clock. During lunch hour there were always children he could play with. These were children who had not a care for their social status and probably not a care for anyone at all. His lunch hour was a tense filling of time. He hated himself for caring so much about what people thought. But it was true; he felt such a pain when he heard them laughing about him. He couldn’t understand why he valued their opinion. Children do not feel indifference as adults do. Due to their sensitive emotions they lack the ability to shrug it off. This develops when they reach adolescence. But the indifference attaches to the wrong things. They become careless about proactive work and are always aching over the pettiest trivialities. Gerald would dash across the courtyard to retrieve the ball he had kicked, only to return with his tail between his legs. Gerald would’ve joined their circle if they let him despite the names they called him. The possibility that they would invite him into their group was far removed because Gerald never spoke once to them. He would return to the children he played with, ones who were like he, except they probably didn’t care about the other boys. He resumed his game of foursquare in the closed shadow of the damp courtyard. The school buildings glared over them with their windows as if the teachers had become them during the lunch break. No one ever knew where the teachers went and what they did during lunch hour. They would return to the class with an expression of relief as if they’d had a spa. The last part of the day, the eternity after lunch hour, snailed along. Gerald fidgeted as three oclock approached. The bell sounded triumphantly.
“Remember your homework” she declared in her authoritarian tone.
Gerald walked home, a ten minute walk away. He ambled on towards the foreign house. It was comfort compared with the school, and its surroundings provided adventure. When he came in the door his mother was in the kitchen.
“Gerald darling are you hungry?”
“No thanks.”
“Good day?”
“No”
“Oh… it can’t be bad for long. It’s always a pain being the new kid.”
“Just going for a walk,” and skipping the last few stairs with a leap he flung on his jacket and went to explore the fields. His mother watched him through the window. He raced along a bank with houses lining the fringe puffing smoke into the pink sky. The dusk was beautiful here, as it complimented the trees, making them appear less gaunt as they do against the white sky of the younger day. Autumn had settled in, the trees were stripped of their leaves and looking like clouds of smoke. She wished she had seen it last month when the trees would’ve be balls of fiery red and yellow. The leafless trees, like cages for the birds, were gaunt-looking. Depending on her mood it was either beautiful or depressing. When the sky became a deeper red and a blacker blue she was mildly worried about Gerald. Now that she could not see him, her appreciation of the beauty disappeared. It was no longer a painting because Gerald was not in it. There lay in the backdrop some two hundred metres away, a dark wood. She didn’t fancy him playing in there at this time of day. He was good about returning before the sun went down. But the sun was dipping faster as the days grew shorter. He had mentioned the woods too. She could not remember what he said. What was it? Was there a story he was told at school? And she had to draw herself in, calm herself down, as Mark always told her. “Stop worrying about him he’s fine. Your anxiety will make him an anxious boy. Boys always grow up to be nervous if their mother’s worry about them too much.” “Nonsense where did you ever read that one” she would laugh. “I just observe it”. “What being a mechanic? Ha ha.” “I saw it in my brother when we grew up. Mum always worried about him. Always phoned him. Cried when he was doing something rebellious, if he drank too much. He grew up an anxious child.” She heard the front door open. She hoped it was Gerald.
“There was someone in the woods.” Her heart both melted and started at once, thankful that he was back safely, but concerned at what he said.
“Who was it?”
“I think the man who lives down there” and he pointed towards the houses on the bank.
“What was he doing? Did you speak to him?”
“I think he was collecting pine cones for the fire or something. Nah but he looked up he woulda heard me. I could just make him out, it was pretty dark. An old man.”
“Ohh that old fellow,” she smiled “him yes I’ve seen him about.”
“What’s his name?”
“Didn’t say”
“So you spoke to him?”
“He was walking. He asked if we were the new family.”
“How’d he know about that?”
“Oh they all know. It’s smaller here people know everyone.” The front door burst open. It was Gerald’s father. His nose was red from the cold. He rubbed his hands together. “Shit it’s freezing!” he said.
“Don’t swear,” she said.
“Was that you I saw in the field?” he said to Gerald.
“Yeah just got in. Wait, where’d you see me?”
“As I was walking up the hill. Could just make you out near the forest. Don’t go wandering too far into those pines, you’ll get lost.”
“Yes and he saw that old man collecting pine cones,” said his mother.
“What old man?”
“I saw him on my walk last week. Friendly man,” said Gerald’s mother.
“Right. Come on then what’s for tea I’m starved.” Gerald’s parents busied themselves at the kitchen but Gerald went over to the window to see if he could spot the man walking back from the forest. There was something mysterious about him. Gerald remembered the suspicious glance over his shoulders as he ducked into the trees. It was as if he were concealing something.
“What are you looking so concerned about eh?” said his father.
“Nothing” he said, “let’s eat”. When he took himself off to bed that evening his thoughts about the man occupied his sleepless mind. He would go and see him tomorrow morning.
*
The next morning Gerald woke with a croupy cold. “I don’t think I’m well enough for school Mum,” he said as he came into the living room where they ate breakfast.
“Nonsense,” said his father, “when I was your age I went to school with sore throats often.” His mother let him stay behind. It would be best for him to be in bed that day and rest it off.
“Don’t you go running around the fields. Will you promise me?”
“Yes” he said, glancing at the clock. His parents left for work. The house fell silent. Gerald went over to the window. The sky was dark outside, the clouds were throbbing with rain, and sheets of rain could be seen in the dreary distance suspended as if time had stopped. Gerald scanned the field and the bank with the row of houses. Where was he? Gerald looked at the clock. It read eight thirty exactly. And then Gerald saw him hobbling down the path of the bank, opening the gate to the field. As he turned to close the gate he looked up at Gerald and their eyes met. Gerald froze. The man paused and remained staring at Gerald. Gerald rolled behind the curtains. He hid for ten seconds. The rain pat-patted reluctantly against the tin roof and then it erupted into a roaring release. He looked out the window and the man was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Gerald scanned the bank, but he couldn’t have made it up that fast. The man was gone. Gerald dashed upstairs to put on wet weather clothes. He was in such a rush he left the house without remembering the key. He ran down the road and came to the path where the man had been a moment ago. The gate was ajar. He looked into the distance where the forest lay. It could be seen through the falling rain, dark green against the yellow field. It beckoned Gerald even though he was afraid of it. It was a huge forest extending right up into the hills. Gerald thought if he stayed within the light of the forest edge he wouldn’t get lost. As he trudged closer he wondered whether the man was watching him from his own house and so turning around he looked up at the houses on the bank. He saw a man at the window in one of the houses lining the edge of the bank. He could make out the pale complexion of a face, an elderly man, standing at the window staring down at Gerald. Was it him? Gerald grew frightened. He didn’t know why he kept walking towards that forest. He would have turned back but for the realization that he had left his key! The man went away from the window. Gerald suspected it was the old man, as he knew he lived in one of those houses, though he didn’t know which.

Gerald came to the opening of the forest. He went in. It was quiet. He smelt the pines and he felt the cushiness of the nettles underfoot. He walked further into the forest where it was dark. He saw nothing unusual in this place. It was a forest as he would have expected any forest to look like. Just as he was about to turn back he glimpsed an opening in the forest. There was a bush of purple flowers trembling from the raindrops. The opening was vast, but deep enough into the forest to be hidden from the field. There were many flower bushes. Gerald pushed his way into the opening. In the middle was a pond completely covered with green swamp matter and lillypads. Gerald’s mouth was agape. He saw on the other side of the pond a white upturned dinghy. It was like something out of a book where lovers stole away to be alone together. Gerald wondered what the man did here. Was there something he was hiding? His eyes looked across the green pond where the upturned dinghy lay flat at the edge of the opening. As he went over to it he had to clutch to the tree trunks to avoid falling into the water. The rain eased off and he noticed the silence that fell upon the forest now that the rain had nearly stopped. A few drops plopped into the pond from the boughs of trees which lent over the water. Gerald kept his eyes upon the upturned dinghy. Perhaps it was too heavy to lift. It was three metres in length and the wood looked thick. He stooped down, wrapped his fingers under the edge and stood up. He felt the weight in his lower back and his thighs. His arms trembled as he held it five inches from the ground. His fingers slipped and the boat dropped onto the ground. Gerald collapsed with exhaustion. An awful stench wafted from underneath as the boat dropped onto the ground. It was a putrid smell. Gerald backed away with a hand to his nose. A crackle came from the trees.
“Hello?” Gerald called. He stood up from the ground and stared at the fringe of trees encircling the opening. It was dark. The brightness of the sky above blinded him from seeing into the trees. His eyes flashed in front of him as moved away from the boat. Another sound came from the side closest to the field. He rushed away into the darkness of the trees. Keeping his eyes on the way he came he circled it so as not to walk into the man. His heart was racing. He ran when he heard the groan of the trees. The wind picked up his heart rate and he raced towards the field. He could just see the yellow grass ahead of him. Stepping out into the field he felt safer. As he turned he thought he saw a shadow of movement pass between the tree trunks.
“Who’s there?” he called. The forest absorbed the sound. He looked towards his house and jogged back eagerly. He realized the old man must be in there. The putrid smell that billowed from under the dinghy reminded him of death. If he hadn’t smelt it he would have approached the shadow of movement that dashed between the trees. As he walked back to the house he wondered whether it was a body. Mostly he wondered about the man. Who was he and what was he doing? When Gerald reached his house he remembered that he was locked out. There were no windows open. The rain was coming on again and he didn’t know how to get in. His mother wouldn’t be back until much later. He kicked at the puddles in his courtyard and pressed his nose against the glass. He made towards the hedge encircling their courtyard which overlooked their lawn with the blossom trees. The man was nowhere to be seen in the field. Nor was there anyone at the window of the houses along the bank. Gerald wracked his brain. He wanted to talk to the man. Not in the forest. Out in the open where it was safe, where people could walk past them. A whistling came from the street. The gate remained open. The whistling grew louder. Gerald watched the patch of footpath beyond the opened gate. As the man walked past he noticed it was him. He raced after him along the footpath. “Hello” said Gerald. The old man turned casually.
“Why hello there young man. You must be the new kid eh?”
“Yeah. Arrived about two weeks ago.”
“How’re you liking it here? I must say it’ll be grim come winter, but it is beautiful don’t you think?” and his eyebrows rose up his head and touched his hat.
“Yes it’s nice.”
“And why aren’t you at school?”
“I’m feeling sick today.”
“Oh well, I suppose you wouldn’t want to accompany me on my morning walk then.”
“Yes I’ll come” said Gerald. He joined the man in the brown felt coat and the corduroy hat. His arms were deep inside the trench-coat pockets and his chin caught the rain, the hat not keeping it from his under bite. They remained silent for the first few minutes. Gerald was the first to speak.
“So what do you do?” he asked.
“I was a teacher at the University of Cambridge. I’m retired now.”
“What’d you teach?”
“Botany”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the study of plants. Science! You’ve heard of biology have you not?”
“Yes.”
“Look,” and he put his finger around the neck of a flower in the garden they had stopped at. “The hyacinth. Look at the differing shades of colour. Aren’t they beautiful? These are in the light. They get sun all day. This is why they are flourishing.” The man passed his hand over the scene as if it were a spectacle to behold. “This lady is a great gardener. I told her to arrange the flowerbeds this way. These need less sun,” he said, pointing to dark purple flowers. The daisies spilled over the trough and rambled around the base of the rosebush. “Ah and look it is the darkest rose of them all. It is the black jade. Don’t you think it has the attitude of a woman in velvet who lives a lavish lifestyle? These need lots of sun too.” He reached for a lighter in his pocket, flicked it till it flamed, and passed the flame over the stem.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m burning the aphids. They’re a menace.” Gerald watched as the aphids turned from green to black. How funny that he had never noticed these before. They were unseen from a distance. He took a stem in his hands and observed the leeching bugs. The man walked on. Gerald caught up with him. He glanced back at the roses and felt a pang of appreciation. He had never considered flowers at all. They were things his mother liked to display in the house in summer. He associated them with summer. But now he associated the rich red rose and the clustered little hyacinths with rain drops tricking down their throats. They turned down a cul de sac. At the end there was an empty lot and a gateway into another field like the one beyond Gerald’s house. A sudden fear swept over Gerald as he realised they were leaving the streets. There would be no one in the field. Any cries for help would be stifled by the wind. Who was he kidding? The man was old. Gerald guessed eighty. His jacket looked as if it contained nothing and by the looks of his sunken cheeks he was a man withering away.
“I often walk along here. There’s a Rowan tree just beyond the crest of that hill.”
“What’s a Rowan tree?”
“You’ll see.” The grass was knee-height and smelt good from the rain. The hill wasn’t far and when they reached the top Gerald saw a massive cloud shaped tree bursting with red berries.
“The birds love them” the man said. “It must be very old. They start as shrubs do Rowans”. The red was a brighter red than the black jade. They hung in close bunches around the outer branches so that the entire tree was covered in them.
“They’re like holly” said Gerald.
“Yes the colour of the berry is the same but their leaves are not curled and sharp. It’s a nicer tree to climb,” added the man. “Ah look it’s a bird’s nest.” He pointed towards the nest. Gerald went inside the tree and climbed along the end of the branch to where it was.
“There are blue eggs inside.” The old man smiled up at Gerald.
“It must be a very old tree. I remember passing through here when I was younger. It was here. I remember distinctly. We took a sample of the berries back to Cambridge. They’ve been used in folk medicines, and even in food and drink.”
“Can I eat it?”
“Sure.”
Gerald went to put one in his mouth and then he stopped. He looked at the man. He was staring towards the way they had come. His arms remained deep inside the pockets of his coat. Gerald dropped the berry.
“Tastes earthy don’t it?” the man said.
“Yeah” said Gerald.
“When you see this tree in May it will be white with flowers. The berries arrive in August and stay til October. But yes it is a completely different spectacle in full bloom. I prefer the berries myself. The tree becomes laden with yellowish white corymbs in clusters like the berries. But seen from a distance as up on that hill it is nothing like the succulent red berries. And they attract the birds for they’re tasty as you know.”
They climbed the hill and before descending towards the street the man stopped and turned around. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Gerald admired the tree as he did the rose. And for the first time he felt a real admiration for plants, for the colour of nature’s spectacles. How different the two plants were, the rose being of a rich velvety scarlet, like a dangerous woman in lipstick, and the hawthorn being a delectable Christmas spread for the birds. They returned to the wet cobbled streets and when they reached the intersection the man walked towards his house without a glance towards Gerald. Gerald followed him. They walked past the lady’s garden where they had stopped earlier.
“Ha ha the old black jade eh?” said the man. “She’ll be retiring sooner or later and tightening into buds again.” He seemed to be talking to himself. Occasionally he would wave a gentle gesture towards another plant so as to show Gerald something about it. But he was removed and speaking as if from a distance. His tone was reminiscent as when old people talked about their early days. Gerald didn’t know whether he should ask about the garden in the forest. The man would have spoken about it had he wanted to share it. It was a secret place for him. Gerald was an intruder. But the whiff of death under the upturned dinghy irked Gerald. And it was this irksome thought rather than his respect for privacy that made him bite his tongue.
“Well this must be you,” said the man, as he gestured towards Gerald’s house, “you be good now,” and the man continued towards his own house without stopping for a smile. Gerald watched him stoop to smell a yellow flower before continuing in his usual fashion, his hands deep in his jacket. Gerald realized he hadn’t even asked for the man’s name nor had he asked for Gerald’s. As the man turned the bend and disappeared out of sight Gerald remembered he was locked out of his house. Again he circled the house but couldn’t find a way in. There were no windows open. He lent against the glass and stared into the lounge helplessly. He glanced the clock on the wall. It was ten thirty. He heard the phone ringing inside. It would be his mum! Soon she would be worrying. He listened as the phone rang until it stopped. It came a second time. His heart beat faster. He would tell her he went outside to get some air. Whatever, he went for a walk, as she advised him not to, but he was feeling much better. She would likely leave on an early lunch break to come and check on him. It would still take her forty minutes to drive back from town.

Gerald went back through the gate and into the street. He walked towards the shops and his school, in the opposite direction of the man’s house. He couldn’t bear risking the chance of seeing him through the window staring out at him. Although he seemed a nice man, the thought of their eyes meeting as they had done earlier that morning scared Gerald. It was as if Gerald had caught him doing something he shouldn’t. So Gerald went down the hill. He made sure to avoid the school as the children would be playing on the court. They would point and run towards those prison-like bars encircling the grounds and call out “look it’s him!” As he came to the corner shop he stopped. A notice caught his eye. On the lamp post was a white A4 picture of a missing lady. ‘Daphne Tourbelle, went missing since last week 1st of October 2012. Please call Police if you have any information as to her whereabouts’. Her picture was black and white; an elderly woman perhaps in her seventies. She wore no glasses or jewellery. A turtle neck sweater embraced her neck. She was smiling rather forcibly. Gerald remembered once seeing a poster of a missing boy. It disturbed him. He could not fathom how one could go missing unless something horrible happened to them. Gerald was sure that bad things happened to people who went missing. He thought of this lady being kidnapped, gagged and tied up. She wouldn’t have fallen down a steep bank after walking in the country. Someone would’ve found her in that case. Gerald’s heart smashed against his rib cage. Should he ring the police? It was only a smell. He could not lift it. He saw nothing. But the smell was rot. The smell was death. Gerald rounded the corner past the shop and went along a hundred meters. Outside the post office was a corkboard with various notices attached. There again he saw Daphne Tourbelle in her high collared sweater and her forced smile. The words ‘if you know of her whereabouts’ flashed before his eyes. He didn’t know anything. Not yet. He had but a whiff of speculation. And the fear that it was a body under the dinghy filled his mind and twitched the corners of his mouth. If it really was her then she was dead and nothing could be done. No one smelt like that alive. Gerald persuaded himself that it wasn’t like he was going to save a life by calling the police. He wished he didn’t know. He walked briskly back towards his house going up another street and traversing across others until coming to his own. He didn’t stop when he saw the third poster. Daphne Tourbelle flew past him like a staring ghost. The reflection in the car window was that of a boy running from trouble. The rain started again. His mother’s car was parked outside their house. He almost bumped into her.
“Gerald! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m okay I forgot the key. I was locked out. I was only gone a short while to get some fresh air –
“I told you not to!”
“Yeah but I was bored in the house. My cold has gone.”
“You don’t look good.” Gerald’s mother calmed down, her panic deteriorating into a furrowing concern. “Oh Gerald get inside.” He went in, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his wet weather gear.
“Look I’m worried about you walking around in these streets it mightn’t be safe because there’s a woman gone missing just last week.”
“I saw the posters.”
“Yes and that man you see in the fields and in the forest its Mr Tourbelle.” Gerald’s mouth became dry.
“H-huh?”
“The girls from work told me his wife went missing last week, Daphne Tourbelle. They described him, the one living up here along the bank, the old man” she said. She was tinkering away in the kitchen fixing some lunch for them. The sounds were far away to Gerald as he was deafened by the sound of his conscience. He imagined her laying under the dinghy rotting into the soil. The flowers would not be beautiful. The trees would be bowing over her, tickling her carcass with the roots of their feet. The man would be staring out his window at the forest and the field. Gerald went to the window.
“But the police have questioned him. They have nothing. The man is a gentle-natured widely celebrated professor. He doesn’t work much anymore. Biology I think it was. Anyway they have no pin on him. He’s devastated. He was married to her fifty three years. Madly in love said the girls.”
“Right” Gerald said.
“Your voice doesn’t sound good. You still sound croupy to me. Have some lunch.” He stared at the forest and squinted. It was impossible to see through to the flowers. He could not even see the opening at the tree tops. “Come on stop gazing out the window,” said his mother. They sat and ate sandwiches at the table. She babbled on to him about other things he did not hear. She squawked about the dreadful weather. He heard mention that it will do the flowers some good. Then she went back to work leaving Gerald alone.
*
Gerald sat at the window and gazed out at the forest. She would be under the upturned boat decaying into the earth. His eyes darted between the forest and the man’s house in time with the rhythm of the clock. It was drizzling. He went and checked the door was locked. And then he saw the police car hissing along the wet concrete. It stopped outside the man’s house. The officer stepped out of the car and put on his hat before entering the old man’s gate and out of sight. Gerald watched through the dripping window. They must have found the body. And yet how? Gerald wondered. He never saw a search party. Had the owner of the land discovered the flower glade and become angry that his land was cultivated without his permission? Gerald imagined the owner of the land stumbling upon it and gasping at the beautiful sight. His anger would have followed the admiration, incensed that a person had taken the liberty to do this. So as to get his own back he would have gone to remove the dinghy, intending to destroy it for fire wood, before finding the body of the missing lady. The police officer stepped onto the street alone and returned to his car. Gerald watched these scenes like a movie, the clock slipping into the background noise as the moment grew tense. All was quiet again and the ticking of the clock came into the foreground. The time was ten minutes to five when the door sounded.
“Gerald you’ll never believe it they’ve just found Daphne Tourbelle!” Gerald waited for it. He closed his eyes. “She was in a car accident. Found dead in the car. Another car was involved. A head-on collision. The other is in hospital apparently.” Gerald’s mother went to make tea in the kitchen. To her it was mere gossip.
“What?”
“Yeah she’s dead,” and she glanced up at Gerald. “Oh darling don’t look so frightened.” Gerald couldn't make sense of it. Had he jumped to the conclusion? After all it was only a bad smell. He had never smelt a dead body. How was he to know it smelt like that? Perhaps it was an animal. He was relieved. He smiled at his mother so as to avert her gaze. She continued making tea. He gazed out the window and his mind dwelled on the smell under the dinghy. He couldn’t remember the exact smell, but then isn’t that impossible? Thoughts can evoke music, images and even tastes to an extent. But smell was outside of the mind having its own place exclusively in the nose. His thoughts went back to the feeling he felt upon seeing the glade. There were possibly a hundred different colours of flower. He wanted to see it again. The front door opened and Gerald’s father bellowed above the wind: “Honey the police are here. They’re asking whether you’ve seen that old man lives along the bank.” “Mr Tourbelle” came the officer’s voice. Gerald’s mother went to the door. “No not since last week but Gerald saw him. Gerald,” she called.
“Your mother tells me you seen this man?” He produced a photo of the old man. It was him. In the photo he did not wear his hat. His bald head was covered in liver spots. “Yeah I saw him today when I was locked outta the house.” The officer raised his eye-brows. “I joined him on his walk. We went to see a garden down that way, and a tree in the field beyond that cul de sac,” and Gerald pointed down the road.
“Do you know where he might be now? Neighbours say they’ve not seen him all week.” Gerald told him about the clearing in the forest and the smell under the upturned dinghy. Finding the old man was more important than protecting his secret garden.
“Oh Gerald you didn’t?” his mother said. “You could have got lost in there.”
“Ma’am we’ll need to take him along with us.” Gerald and his father put on their raincoats and went out with the police officer. Another officer joined them from the car. The four of them trudged towards the forest in the yellow grass of the field. Gerald turned and looked up at his mother at the window and it reminded him of the old man staring up at him from the gate. He looked up at the old man’s house. Nobody stood at the window. When they reached the forest Gerald led the way. It was darker now and the police officers had their torch on. He held to the wet bark of the tree trunks to save from tripping on the roots. After five minutes in the trees Gerald spotted a flash of purple in the wavering beam of the torchlight. “Here”, he said motioning forward. They stepped through the trees and entered the glade. A slither of moon shone between the clouds casting its silver light onto the cultivated garden. The others were stunned. Gerald spotted the hyacinths he had seen earlier. “Mind the pond” he said. The torchlight floated over the green mildew as if it were one of the lillypads. “There’s the dinghy” said Gerald. It lay in the torchlight’s full beam. The two officers and Gerald’s father went towards it. Gerald became tense. They slipped their fingers under the side and lifted it with ease. He couldn’t help but look. It was impossible! Under the light of the torch there was an elderly man. He was a yellowish white. The stench engulfed them. Gerald cried out in terror, casting his eyes away from the man’s ballooned face. The officers heaved the dinghy away and it slid into the pond. Gerald watched it sink into the water. The men talked among themselves but Gerald did not hear. He looked to where the spirit of the man might be. He saw a clear sky bristling with stars.
“Son,” said the police officer, “you say you were with Mr Tourbelle today?”
“Yes,” said Gerald. And a flash of doubt flickered in the eyes of the frozen officer.