Mrs Fall was right. The wind was on the rise.
A breeze brisked through the front gate and circled the parsonage yard. It nosed around the edges of the Tolmeo magi, then moved on. Like it was in search of something quite particular.
Under the laurels it found what it was seeking. And what it sought was the raised ridge of earth, the swept-aside leavings of Davy’s forest scene, the strange picture of the warrior and his dog.
The breeze lifted a drift of that earth and whisked it off down the street. Past the whispering church, the library’s murmur and the bakery’s yeasty warm breath. Past the hum of the movie house and the buzzing window of First Electric, with its TVs that few could afford.
It came upon the little black-and-white dog, sitting on his own. The breeze kicked him with a bit of dust to make him sneeze and, with a quick nip at his tail, hurried on.
It flew the earth from Davy’s picture over to the far edge of town, where Main Street became the road east to other places. It flew it to the boarded-up museum, a tall gingerbread villa from Brownvale’s prosperous days. Its girders groaned with tiredness from holding up the walls. Creaks crept along its floors and up and down the stairs. The glass-cased exhibitions, forgotten by the town, sighed as they dreamed of their living times.
The breeze dashed up the path and slipped under the front door. It set its dusty load down in the entrance hall. And there, on the chequered tiles, the earth began to whirl in an urgent dance.
The church clock was chiming nine when Mrs Taft, the Falls’ daily help, left by the parsonage back gate. She came along the lane with an armload of grocery bags, passing the wall where Davy lay in wait. He slipped out from behind it and began to follow. Hearing his footsteps, she glanced back. When she saw it was him, she went faster. But the wind was snatching at her skirt and in her struggle to stay modest, she stumbled and dropped her bags. There was a crash of glass.
Davy ran to retrieve the cabbage and potatoes that went rolling. Her cheeks were pink as they gathered what had spilt and repacked the bags. Wordlessly, Davy handed her a parish calendar for next year. He chased down a sheaf of paper headed with the parsonage address. Judging by the sudden strong smell of perfume, the broken glass had been a bottle of scent. Mrs Taft had been pilfering from the Falls. Davy took the bags and, side by side, they proceeded in silence through the breezy morning. Old newspapers slapped against dead lamp posts. Rubbish tumbled in confusion at where to go.
Davy had never seen Mrs Taft close up before. She was almost pretty, though fading fast. It was a fact that Brownvale husked people early. The place seemed to suck on their youth, draining them dry like a thirsty desert traveller. Davy thought of Mrs Taft’s husband, laid out just three months ago in Field & Sons’ viewing parlour. Davy had sneaked in to see for himself what the town whispered of on every corner. And his skin, like all of theirs, had crawled in delicious horror at the sight of Ben Taft lying in his coffin and the heavy drape of black silk carefully arranged where his head ought to have been. He’d had it kicked off by a cow out at the slaughterhouse.
At last Mrs Taft spoke. ‘Parson Fall will have the gangmaster after you,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got any sense, you’ll leave town like he told you to.’
‘I won’t tell about the liquor, I swear,’ Davy said. They walked on for a bit, then he said, ‘Would you speak to him on my account?’
‘And why should I?’ Mrs Taft stared straight ahead, not looking at him.
‘I live here,’ said Davy. ‘I always have. Where would I go?’
‘It’s nothing to me where you go,’ she said. ‘You and them angels. Oh yes, he told me. They don’t bother me, of course,’ she went on, tossing her head. ‘Unlike some, I’m glad to say I’ve got a clean conscience. What d’you want to go sweeping pictures in the dirt for, anyways?’ There was real curiosity in her tone.
Her question gave Davy pause. He’d never had to find the words to say why he swept. At last he said, ‘It’s this feeling, inside of me. I need to make pictures. I just have to.’
Her lips thinned to a tight line. ‘We all do what we have to,’ she said.
Davy thought about what he could say next, how he could persuade her. The toes of their shoes kept time together as they walked. Hers were worn just about as badly as his. Her stockings had been mended many times.
‘I see plenty around town,’ he said. ‘What folks get up to, I mean.’
She walked quicker, her head held high. Her cheeks were flushed.
‘But I keep what I see to myself,’ he said. ‘Please, would you speak to the Parson? Would you speak for my character to him?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ she said.
Davy didn’t want to say what he said next, but she’d left him little choice. ‘You and him, I’ve seen you kissing,’ he said.
Her face was burning now. ‘Parson Fall’s pledged to marry me,’ she said. Davy didn’t know much about such things but it seemed unlikely. Though he said nothing, she sensed his doubt and bristled. ‘Oh yes, he will,’ she said. ‘It’s for certain. Just as soon as that wife of his does the decent thing and dies.’
They’d reached Boxcar Row, the railway sidings filled with rusting boxcars abandoned when the railroad went bust and the trains stopped running. Davy knew this part of town, but had never had cause to visit until now. It was common knowledge that Mr Taft’s death had left his family on the skids. Mrs Taft must have moved here to keep a roof over their heads.
Limp clothing danced jigs on the drooping washing lines. The wind rattled the flimsy stovestacks in tinny song. People went about the everyday business of cooking and washing and talking to their neighbours, but Davy sensed a sullen hopelessness in the air. Mrs Taft was one of the few lucky ones, with her job at the parsonage. She made for a boxcar where a skinny boy of eight or nine stood lookout at the open door. He held a thumb-sucking baby hitched on his hip.
Davy hauled her grocery bags up the makeshift steps and followed her inside. ‘If I happen to see a thing, I can just forget it right away. I’m no snitch, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Parson Fall holds you in such high regard.’
She had a quarter section of the boxcar at the front partitioned by furniture and flimsy curtains. It was gloomy within, but Davy could see enough. They would have been getting by all right before with two wages coming in, but Ben Taft’s death had brought them down. There was a mattress, a tin trunk and a camp stove on a folding table. The broken perfume couldn’t hide the smell of cabbage and damp bedding. Inside a crate, a little girl hugged a torn cloth dolly. Her dirty napkin sagged to her knees.
‘Peter, for pity’s sake, change Cora’s didie,’ said Mrs Taft. ‘And wipe her face, can’t you see the child’s nose is a crust?’ She chided him further for not meeting her eyes, saying he’d get nowhere with such a hangdog look. Davy felt sorry for the boy. There was an oil lamp but Mrs Taft didn’t light it. She tied an apron over her dress and began to unpack the bags.
Davy stood there, wondering whether he should offer to help. Her frown told him not to. Beyond telling Peter off, she had no words for her children. The three of them watched her silently, their eyes following her every move.
‘I never asked for anything, not till now,’ Davy said. ‘I’ve been shifting for myself since I was your boy’s age.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll speak to him,’ said Mrs Taft. ‘Now I’m busy, you’d better go.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Davy jumped from the boxcar to the weed-choked track below. He peered back inside, shading his eyes from the sun. ‘The Parson . . .’ he began, then stopped himself. He was about to tell her he didn’t think that Parson Fall could be trusted, but who was he to say? Mrs Taft was a grown woman. She knew her own business.
In the front yard of the parsonage, the wind was busy underneath the laurels. It whisked another drift of earth across town. When it reached the museum, it nudged its dusty load to join the whirling dance underway in the hall.
Mrs Taft would speak to the Parson.
Davy’s feet took him lightly back into town. He’d wait a day or two for things to settle, then he’d sweep another picture for Mrs Fall in the parsonage yard. She’d said he was good, maybe she’d pay him again.
Pay him. Mrs Fall had given him money! What with all the fuss, he’d almost forgotten. He put a hand in his pocket to feel the coin’s friendly weight. Surely his luck was on the up.
He kept half an eye out for the dog. After the ruckus he’d caused, Davy had chased him off. He hated having to shout at the creature. The dog had looked so tragic. But Davy couldn’t afford any more trouble.
As he walked, the Taft children began to burden his heart. And he felt the heat of shame for his low methods flush his face. It was no better than blackmail when you got down to it, telling Mrs Taft he knew about her and the Parson. She had those kids to think of, where Davy only had himself. The coin was suddenly unbearably heavy.
When he got to Main Street, he went straight to the Christmas toy booth in the square. There he pondered the selection of wooden toys, all painted in cheerful colours. The man, who was not from Brownvale, was helpful. ‘Babies like,’ he said, shaking a rattle. ‘I dye with vegetable so when baby suck, it make no harm.’ Davy chose one and, with the man’s help, a caterpillar pull-toy for the little girl. He agonized over his final choice, picking up one thing, then another. It seemed to Davy that, of the three, young Peter was in most need of a gift and Davy wanted badly to get it right. At last he said to the man, ‘It’s for a boy, about nine. If it was you, what would you like best?’
The man looked at Davy, then gave a nod as if he understood. Their heads met as they both leaned over the toy display. ‘OK, I am a boy, I have nine years. Not this one, not this. Ah,’ said the man. ‘Here. The red yo-yo. This is very special, the one we want.’
He took care parcelling the gifts neatly in brown paper and string. Davy borrowed a pencil from him, brand new from the stall. Baby Taft. Cora. Peter. Merry Christmas, he wrote. Then he drew a small angel on each one. ‘You are artist,’ smiled the man. ‘Please, keep the pencil. A gift from one artist to another.’
Christmas had brought the travelling holy book hawkers and apocalypse pamphleteers to town. Their loud hectorings tangled in the air. Davy paused at the shabbiest of them, who was resting from his labours, sitting on the pack that contained all he owned. The last time Davy had seen him, back in the summer, he’d been predicting The Rapture for September. But here it was Christmas and the world seemed likely to carry on. ‘Hey, Mr Helm, it’s me, Davy,’ he said. ‘We’re still here. Guess you’ll have to carry on with your pamphlets for a while yet.’
At the sound of Davy’s voice, Mr Helm’s milk-filmed eyes turned towards him. ‘We ain’t here for long, Davy boy. Not for long.’
Davy crouched down and rustled the stack of pamphlets, as if he were taking one. ‘You sold many today, Mr Helm?’
Mr Helm’s reply was swift. ‘There’s none so blind,’ he said fiercely, ‘none so blind as they who will not see.’
‘That’s for sure.’ Davy took his hand and pressed coins into it. ‘Here you go, I’m taking six. For Christmas presents.’
Mr Helm pulled him in close. ‘The angels are gathering. I can hear their wings,’ he whispered. ‘I speak to them, but they never answer. If they speak to you, will you ask? Ask if they got a message for Levi Helm.’
‘I will, sir,’ Davy said. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Mr Helm passed through Brownvale several times a year, with his badly printed pamphlets warning of the end of the world. In Davy’s opinion, no angels would be coming to save anyone any time soon, but if Mr Helm believed otherwise, who was he to say?
Christmas meant more people than usual had their personal effects laid out to sell. Shoes and clothing, bits of furniture, kitchen goods. Davy had it in mind to replace the perfume Mrs Taft had dropped and broken. The woman selling her dresses, dancing on hangers in the branches of a tree, also had a bottle of French perfume. Her hands were eager, tugging out the stopper for him to sniff. Her two skinny kids clung to her legs. He felt bad, but it was down to the dregs and the label was worn. Instead, he bought from a sharp-eyed hawker selling new boxed colognes from a suitcase. Davy had to show the man his money before he’d spray the demonstration bottle for Davy to smell.
He was well pleased with his purchases, making his way among the other shoppers, listening to the Brownvale brass band trump out carols. For the first time, he had an armload of gifts to give out. For once, he was a bit like other people. He spent the last of his money on a plain bread roll, which he ate as he whistled back to Boxcar Row.
Davy leaped the library steps two by two. There’d been only the baby and little Cora, asleep in the crate, when he’d returned to Mrs Taft’s boxcar. Of Mrs Taft and the boy, Peter, there was no sign. Davy had tiptoed in and out again, leaving their presents piled on top of the tin trunk.
He made a beeline for Mr Timm’s room to wash his hands, then went to the ‘Reference Only’ cart behind the desk. But Renaissance Angels wasn’t there. In fact, not a single book was on the cart. Puzzled, Davy looked around for Mr Timm.
He spotted the librarian in the science section, clearing a shelf of books into a cardboard box. Rushing in, so intent on his mission, Davy had not noticed what was now obvious. He turned in a slow circle with rising alarm. Almost every shelf was empty of books. An uncommon rush of borrowers for the Christmas holidays could not account for it.
He hurried to Mr Timm. With a plunging feeling in his stomach, already knowing that it wasn’t so, Davy said to him, ‘Is the library being painted?’
Mr Timm patted his shoulder with awkward concern. ‘Let’s sit down in the office, son. I brought us doughnuts.’
The doughnuts lay forgotten on the side of the desk, seeping jam into their thin bakehouse bag.
Davy took the news in silence, though he felt his ears flame red and his chest go tight. The library was to close. When it closed for Christmas, it would close forever. Something to do with the Board and the budget and no money. Mr Timm was being forced into early retirement. He’d be moving out east to share costs with his sister in her apartment. He gave Davy a full explanation of the whys and wherefores, but Davy couldn’t really take it in.
‘What about Howard? Where will he go?’ said Davy. ‘And Jewel only just learned to read. That’s down to you, you taught her. Does the Board know that? Did you tell them?’
‘I’m afraid people don’t fit on their balance sheets,’ said Mr Timm.
‘Then their balance sheets are wrong.’
‘I offered to go on half-pay.’ The librarian spread his hands in helpless resignation.
‘You’ve got to fight them, Mr Timm! You can’t give up,’ Davy said.
‘The fight’s over, son. Their minds are closed. I’m truly sorry.’ They were silent. Sitting there, hunched, Mr Timm seemed to have shrunk inside his shabby suit.
‘What’ll happen to the book?’ Davy said at last.
At that, Mr Timm perked up a little. ‘Ah. Well.’ With a wink and other gestures of conspiracy, he unlocked the bottom drawer, took out Renaissance Angels and placed the book on his desk. ‘I’ve managed to lose this in the paperwork. It’s yours now,’ he said.
Davy stared, shaking his head. ‘I can’t. It’s stealing. You’ll get in trouble. I’ll get in trouble.’
Mr Timm thought for a moment. ‘I know what.’ He rummaged for a pen and an old receipt book, fished a few coins from his pocket and shoved them over the desk. ‘I always searched out your pictures on my evening walks. I especially like the archangels.’ At Davy’s start of alarm he smiled. ‘Oh, your secret’s safe with me. Go on, take it. I only wish it could be more. Now, what you do with it –’ he looked over his spectacles at Davy – ‘is entirely up to you.’
Davy caught his drift. ‘I don’t suppose that book’s for sale, Mr Timm,’ he said.
The librarian pretended surprise. ‘Why yes, as it happens, it is. And I see you’ve got the exact money. I’ll
just write you a receipt, and I’ll stamp it right here, and that makes it all official.’ He tore it off with a flourish. ‘You are now legally the owner of Renaissance Angels. I know you’ll use it wisely. I have faith in you.’
They stood, Mr Timm gave him the book and they shook hands. Head down, Davy dashed around the desk to hug him with a fierce and sudden love. ‘I’ll never forget you, Mr Timm.’
After Davy had gone, Mr Timm sat there for some time, thinking. It was small, the light he’d held for all these years. But he’d held it steady to show a path through the darkness. Now it, too, would be extinguished. Still, he had reason to hope. For there was Davy. The boy already shone. And one day, thought Mr Timm, he would surely blaze.
Davy ran home to the graveyard with the book wrapped in his jacket. As a rule he didn’t run. A running boy might attract notice and he was always careful not to draw attention to himself. But he was anxious to stash his treasure. The size and weight of it made him feel conspicuous.
His place was as good, probably better, than any safety deposit box. He entered the graveyard his usual way, through the loose fenceboards behind the tiny chapel. There was no one around as he swung the boards back into place.
He made a brief stop at an out-of-the-way section unmarked by any headstone. Known to Brownvale as Potter’s Field, it was the bit of ground set aside for the burial of paupers, orphans, vagrants and suicides. Davy had been told his mother lay somewhere among them, the unnamed girl who’d traded her life to give him his. In the absence of knowing exactly where she’d been buried, he’d claimed a spot in the corner as hers and planted a briar rose to mark it. He retrieved the hidden milk bottle that he kept filled with water and now, crouching, he watered the rose’s roots. After four years of careful attention, it was still struggling to establish itself in the dry soil.
‘Hey, Ma, you’ll never guess,’ he said. ‘That book I told you about? It’s mine now, all mine. I own it. Look.’