Gerald was unsettled in his new home. In the evenings when he climbed those stairs, having kissed his parents goodnight, he would turn and look down their steep descent before entering the unfamiliar bedroom. He lay awake for hours as when he stayed at a friend’s, the strangeness of the house left him feeling something between scared and sad. The darkness of the wood surrounded him so that when the lights were out he wasn’t sure about the dimensions of the room, the blackness causing it to feel both the tiniest of closed spaces and the vastest of empty spaces. It was comforting to hear his parents downstairs, 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 awake.

“Look at those bags under your eyes!” said his father. “They look like bruises.”

“Oh Gerald look at you” said his mother, stooping to rub makeup under his eyes.

“I’m fine. Don’t! People will notice”

“Anyone’s gonna notice those bags, they’re darker than these asparagus tips,” sad Gerald’s father, chuckling to himself and kissing Gerald’s mother goodbye. She jumped at the slam of the door. “Oh he’s such a dick” she said. Gerald was at the mirror making sure he didn’t look like a girl.

“Don’t be late it’s already eight thirty,” and she closed the door. He raced to the window, looking over the blossom trees in their garden and up to the houses along the bank. Sure enough he saw him as he did every 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, becoming smaller with each step. Reaching the forest he glanced over his shoulders before disappearing into the trees. Gerald wanted to follow him. As he walked to school he thought about the man. What was he up to? The thought filled Gerald’s mind, clouding his class with the pull of his imagination so that he was in two places at once, one mental and one physical.

“Gerald” said the teacher. “Gerald.” Jumping at the sudden surge of his mind returning from the forest, he stammered a reply. “Present.” His mind left the classroom again, teacher and blackboard dissipating to white noise. He was jerked into reality.

“Gerald! What is X?” It was math. He knew his alphabet. “…A letter in the alphabet.” Laughter erupted from the classroom.
“It’s Algebra!” she said, “Please focus Gerald.”
He shuddered as ‘Idiot!’ was hissed from behind. Gerald was an unwelcome newcomer in a close-knit community. He spent his time exploring the fields and the river and the gardens and the trees. It was far away from the dread of school when he came across a stream or a new tree to climb. Gerald found company in himself and in non-living things. When he used to stay overnight at a friend’s house he was devastated at having to sleep in an unfamiliar room. He would steal away to his bag to be alone with his belongings and their smell of home; a smell that usually went unnoticed being the smell of normality, but one that was instantly noticed in the strange smell of a different home. He would see his parents on the couch watching TV and talking in their usual way about nothing in particular. Brushing past his conscience he would feel less lonely for a spell. When he returned to his friend and their family he left behind himself and the smell of normality. Save for his parents, Gerald felt estranged when he was with other people.

Lunch hour was a tense filling of time. He blended with the children who hadn’t a care neither for social status nor for anyone at all. Why did he value their opinion? Why couldn’t he be indifferent like adults? As a child he was too sensitive to shrug off unwanted emotions. Gerald played his game of foursquare in the closed shadow of the damp courtyard. The school buildings were the glaring faces of teachers. The last eternal hour snailed along, and Gerald fled the classroom when he heard the ring of the bell, closing the dreadful school day.

*

“Gerald darling are you hungry?”
“No thanks.”
“Good day?”
“No. I’m going for a walk.” Leaping down the stairs he flung on his jacket and went to explore the fields. He walked along a bank where houses puffed smoke into the pink sky. The dusk made the trees appear less gaunt as they do against the white sky of the younger day. Autumn had turned the trees into cages for the birds, leafless and silver like smoky clouds. When the sky turned a deeper red and a blacker blue Gerald’s mother worried. Now that she couldn’t see him the beauty disappeared. It was no longer a painting because Gerald wasn’t in it. There lay in the backdrop two hundred metres away a dark wood. Usually he returned well before dark. But the sun was dipping faster as the days grew shorter. He had mentioned the woods too. Was it a story from school? And she had to draw herself in, calm herself down.

“There was someone in the forest.” Her heart both melted and started at once, relieved he was back, but concerned at what he said.

“Who?”

“I think the man lives down there” he said, pointing towards the houses on the bank.

“What was he doing? Did you speak to him?”

“No. I could just make him out, it was pretty dark. An old man.”
Gerald’s father entered. His nose was red from the cold. He rubbed his hands together. “Was that you I saw in the field?”

“Yeah. Where’d you see me?”

“As I was walking up the hill. Don’t wander into the pines. Have you seen those posters? A Mrs Tourbelle’s gone missing. People tell me she has Alzheimer’s. From one of the houses along the bank there.”

While his parents talked in the kitchen Gerald went over to the window to see if he could spot the man. Gerald remembered him glancing over his shoulders when he ducked into the trees as if he were hiding something.

In bed that evening his thoughts about the man occupied his sleepless mind. He would go and see him the next morning.

*

“Mum I’m feeling croupy, I think it’s a cold” said Gerald upon entering the living room where they ate breakfast.
“Well… if you’re not well you’d better stay home. Don’t go running around the fields. Will you promise me?”
“Yes” and he glanced at the clock. His parents left for work. The house fell silent. Gerald went over to the window. The sky was bruised with throbbing black clouds and sheets of rain were 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 was eight thirty exactly. And then he saw him hobbling down the path of the bank. As he turned to close the gate he looked up at Gerald and their eyes met. Gerald froze. The man remained staring at him. Gerald rolled behind the curtains. The rain pat-patted reluctantly upon the tin roof and then it erupted into a roaring release. He looked out the window and the man was nowhere to be seen. Gerald scanned the bank, but he couldn’t have made it up that fast. The man had disappeared.
Gerald dashed upstairs to put on wet weather clothes. 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, seeing it through the falling rain, dark green against the yellow field. It beckoned Gerald despite his fear of it. It was a huge forest reaching 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 if the man was watching him and so turning around he looked up at the houses along the bank. A person stood at the window. He made out the pale complexion of a face, an elderly man staring down at him. Gerald grew frightened. He might have turned back but he realised he had left his key. The man went away from the window. Gerald suspected it was the old man, knowing he lived in one of those houses.

Gerald came to the opening of the forest. It was quiet. He smelt the pine and felt the cushy nettles underfoot. He walked further into the forest where it was dark, seeing nothing unusual. As he was about to turn back he glimpsed an opening in the trees where a bush of purple flowers trembled from the raindrops. Gerald pushed his way into the opening. It was vast, but deep into the heart of the forest and hidden from the field. A garden of flowers encircled a pond, green algae and Lillypads covering the water. On the opposite side there lay a white upturned dinghy. It was like something out of a book where lovers stole away to be alone. Was the man hiding something here? Gerald’s eyes stared across the pond where the upturned dinghy lay flat. As he approached it he clutched the tree trunks at the water’s edge. A silence fell upon the forest now that the rain stopped. A few drops plopped into the water from the boughs leaning over the pond.

Gerald kept his eyes on the upturned dinghy. Perhaps it was too heavy. It was three metres long and the wood was thick. He stooped down, gripped the edge and stood up. His arms trembled as he held it inches above the ground. His fingers slipped and the dinghy dropped to the ground. Gerald collapsed in exhaustion. A strong putrid stench wafted from underneath the dinghy as it hit the ground. Gerald backed away with a hand to his nose. He jumped at the sound of a crackle from the trees.

“Hello?” Gerald called. He stood up and squinted at the darkness beyond the trees. The brightness of the sky above blinded him from seeing into the forest. His eyes flashed ahead of him. Another crackle from the side closest to the field broke the silence. He rushed 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. He ran when he heard the trees groan. The wind picked up his heart rate and he raced towards the field, seeing the yellow grass ahead. Stepping out into the field he stopped. As he turned he glimpsed a silhouette pass between the trees.

“Who’s there?” he called. The forest absorbed the sound. The smell that billowed from under the dinghy reminded him of death. If he hadn’t smelt it he might have approached the shadow that dashed between the trees. Walking back to the house he wondered whether it was a body. He thought about the man. Who was he and what was he doing? When Gerald reached his house he remembered he was locked out. The rain was coming on again. His mother wouldn’t be back for hours. Kicking at the puddles in his courtyard he pressed his nose against the glass. He made towards the hedge encircling the courtyard, overlooking their blossom trees and the field beyond. The man was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone at the window of the houses along the bank. Gerald wanted to talk to him. Not in the forest. Out in the open where it was safe, where people could walk past them. Someone whistled a tune from the street. As the whistling grew louder Gerald watched the patch of footpath beyond his open gate. Upon seeing it was him he raced after the old man.

“Hello” said Gerald. The man turned casually.

“Hello there young man. You must be the new kid eh?”

“Yes, arrived two weeks ago.”

“How’re you liking it? I must say it’ll be grim come winter, but it is beautiful don’t you think?” and his eyebrows moved 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 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 the rain wetted his chin, his hat not keeping it from his under bite. They were silent for a moment. Gerald spoke first.

“So what do you do?” he asked.

“I was a teacher at Cambridge. I’m retired now.”

“What’d you teach?”

“Botany”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the study of plants. Biology! 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 need the light. They get sun all day. It’s why they’re flourishing.” The man passed his hand over the scene as if it were a spectacle to behold. “This lady’s a great gardener. I helped her arrange the flowerbeds this way. These need less sun,” he said, pointing to the dark purple flowers. The daisies spilled over the trough and rambled around the base of the rosebush. “Ah and look. The darkest rose of them all: The Black Jade. Don’t you think it has the attitude of a woman in velvet living a lavish lifestyle?” He took a lighter from his pocket, flicked it till it flamed, and passed the flame over the stem.

“What’re you doing?”

“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. Before running after him Gerald glanced back at the roses and felt a pang of appreciation. He had never considered flowers before. They were things his mother displayed in the house at summer. He associated them with summer. Now he pictured the rich red roses and the clustered hyacinths with rain drops tricking down their throats. They turned down a cul de sac. At the end there was a vacant 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. Ah 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 beyond the crest of that hill.”

“What’s a Rowan tree?”

“You’ll see.” The knee-high grass smelt earthy from the rain. When they reached the hilltop Gerald saw a massive cloud shaped tree bursting with red berries.

“The birds love ‘em” said the man. “It must be very old. They start as shrubs do Rowans”. The red was a brighter red than the black jade. The berries clung in tight bunches around the outer branches so that the entire tree was brimming.

“It’s like holly” said Gerald.

“Yes, but their leaves are not curled and sharp. It’s a nicer tree to climb,” said the man. “Ah look it’s a bird’s nest.” He pointed towards the nest. Gerald went inside the tree and climbed along the branch to where it was.

“There’re blue eggs inside.” The old man smiled up at Gerald.

“It’s a very old tree. I remember passing through here when I was young. 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 who was staring towards the way they had come, arms deep inside his coat pockets. Gerald dropped the berry.

“Tastes sweet don’t it?”

“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’s a completely different spectacle in full bloom. I prefer the berries myself. The tree becomes laden with yellowish white corymbs. You’d think it were a different tree. And they attract the birds, being tasty as you know.”
They climbed the hill and before descending towards the street the man turned. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Gerald admired the tree as he did the rose. And for the first time he genuinely adored plant life, and 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 Rowan a delectable Christmas spread for the birds. They returned to the cobbled streets. Reaching the intersection they continued towards their respective houses, passing the garden where they’d stopped earlier.

“Ha ha the old black jade eh?” said the man. “She’ll be retiring soon 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. He was removed and speaking as if from a distance. His tone was reminiscent as when old people talk about their early days. Gerald refrained from asking about the garden in the forest. The man would have said something if he wanted to. It was his secret place. Gerald was an intruder. But the whiff of death under the upturned dinghy irked Gerald. And it was this irksome feeling rather than his respect for privacy that caused this refrain.

“Well this must be you,” said the man without stopping. “You be good now,” and he continued towards his house without even looking at Gerald. The old man stooped to smell a yellow flower, his hands in his jacket pockets. Gerald watched him turn the bend and disappear out of sight.

Leaning against the glass Gerald stared into his lounge helplessly. He glanced the clock on the wall. It was ten thirty. He heard the phone ringing inside. 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 to get fresh air. Whatever, he went for a walk, as she told him not to, but he was feeling better. It would take her half an hour to drive home from work.

Gerald walked towards the shops, in the opposite direction of the man’s house. He couldn’t bear risking the chance of seeing him at 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 he’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. He made sure to avoid the school. Coming to the corner shop he stopped. A notice caught his eye. On the lamp post was a white A4 picture of a lady. ‘Daphne Tourbelle, went missing on 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. She wore no glasses or jewellery. A turtle neck sweater embraced her neck. It disturbed Gerald. He was sure that bad things happened to people who went missing. Gerald’s heart thumped against his breastbone. Should he ring the police? It was only a smell. He couldn’t lift it. He saw nothing. But the smell… the smell was death.

Outside the post office was a corkboard with various notices attached. Again he saw Daphne Tourbelle in her high collared sweater and her forced smile. The words ‘if you know of her whereabouts’ flashed behind his eyelids. He knew nothing. Not yet. A mere whiff of speculation. And the fear that it was a body under the dinghy filled his conscience 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. It wasn’t like he was going to save a life by calling the police. He clenched his teeth and walked briskly back to his house another way. 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 fleeing from fear. The rain started again. Outside his house his mother’s car was parked.

*

“Gerald! Where on earth have you been?”

“I’m okay I locked myself out. I was only gone a short while to get some fresh air –

“I told you not to!”

“But I was bored in the house, I’m feeling better –

“You don’t look good,” she said, her panic fading into
furrowing concern. “Get inside.” He went in, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his wet jacket.

“I worry about you walking around these streets it mightn’t be safe, that woman went missing just last week.”

“I saw the posters.”

“Yes and that man you see in the fields and in the forest he’s Mr Tourbelle.” Gerald’s mouth became dry.

“The girls said his wife went missing last week, Daphne Tourbelle. She was losing her mind. The wife of the old man up here along the bank.” She was tinkering away in the kitchen. The sounds were far away as Gerald was deafened by the sound of his conscience. He pictured her lying 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.

“But the police have questioned him. The man’s a gentle-natured widely celebrated professor. He’s devastated. They were married fifty three years. Madly in love said the girls.”

“Oh” said Gerald.

“You don’t sound good, still sound croupy to me.” He squinted at the forest. It was impossible to see through to the flowers. He couldn’t even see the opening at the tree tops.

“Come, stop gazing out the window,” said his mother. They ate sandwiches at the table. She babbled on about other things he did not hear. She talked about the dreadful weather. He heard mention that it will do the flowers some good. Then she went
back to work. Gerald was alone.

*

Gerald gazed out at the forest. She’d 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. He went to check the door was locked. And then he saw the police car hissing along the wet road. It stopped outside the man’s house. Stepping out of the car, the Officer put on his hat and entered the old man’s gate, disappearing out of sight. Gerald watched through the dripping window. They must have found the body. And yet how? He never saw a search party. Had the owner of the land discovered the glade and become angry that his land was cultivated without his permission? He imagined the owner gasping at the beautiful sight. His anger would have followed his awe, incensed that a person had taken the liberty. 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 Mrs Tourbelle.

The Officer stepped onto the street alone, returning to his car. Gerald watched these scenes like a movie, the clock becoming background noise as the moment grew tense. All was quiet again and the ticking clock came into the foreground. He felt suspended in mid-air. It was ten to five when the door sounded.

“Gerald you’ll never believe it they’ve found Daphne Tourbelle!” Gerald closed his eyes and waited for it. “They found her in a car off the edge of a cliff. Her body had to be lifted out of the bushes by a helicopter. ” Gerald’s mother went to make tea. 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. Was he wrong in his suspicions? After all it was only a smell. He had never smelt a dead body. How was he to know it smelt like that? It was an animal! He was relieved. He smiled at his mother to avert her gaze. Staring out the window, his mind dwelled on the smell under the dinghy. He couldn’t recall the exact smell, but then isn’t that impossible? He could remember music, images and even tastes to an extent. But smell was outside of the mind having its own place exclusively in the nose. He remembered the feeling he felt upon seeing the glade, the hundreds of colours of flower. He yearned 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.” Gerald’s mother went to the door. “Not since last week but Gerald’s seen him. Gerald,” she called.

“Your mother tells me you seen this man?” said the Officer, producing a photo. It was him. In the photo he didn’t wear his hat, his bald head 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 – a Rowan he called it - in the field beyond the cul de sac,” and Gerald pointed down the road.

“Do you know where he might be now? Neighbours haven’t seen him all week.”

Gerald quickly spilled what he knew. “There’s a garden beyond the pines. Under a dinghy… it was a smell, a bad smell… I couldn’t lift it.”

“Ma’am we’ll need to take him with us.”
With their raincoats on, Gerald and his father followed the officer. Another officer joined them from the car. They trudged towards the forest in the yellow grass of the field. Gerald turned and, looking up at his mother at the window, he was reminded of the old man staring up at him from the gate. He glanced up at the old man’s house. Nobody stood at the window.

When they reached the forest Gerald led the way. It was dark now and the officers shined their torches. He held to the wet 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 men were stunned. “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. The light was cast upon it. Gerald tensed as the men approached it. It was lifted with ease. He couldn’t help but look. Under the light of the torch there was an elderly man, his face a yellowish white. The stench engulfed them. “Agh!” cried Gerald, casting his eyes away from the man’s ballooned face. Gerald watched the dinghy sink into the water. They talked among themselves but Gerald did not hear. Looking to where the spirit of the man might be, he saw a clear sky bristling with stars.

“Son,” said the 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.