Along one edge of the graveyard stood a line of yew trees, bowing and bending in the wind. They’d been growing side by side for so long that their branches had entangled them together. In one place, that entanglement had formed a hollow, a kind of den that Davy called home.
The air around the yews was bright with bird voices. Davy shared the trees with a clan of sparrows. He’d been in the graveyard one spring day shortly after the Home’s closing had left him on the street. Watching the birds coming and going as they fed their young, he’d realized that a nest was a thing of wonder and thought one might well do for him, too. It would surely beat living in an alley among the dumpsters.
In the four years since he set up home, he’d become friendly with his feathered neighbours. Now he pushed into the hollow among the branches. His nest was snug and dry and dark, lined around with cardboard, with two sleeping bags for warmth. Davy quickly wound up his flashlight. The book was really his, he could scarcely believe it. He immediately flicked to where he thought he’d seen the mysterious forest scene with the warrior and the hound. It wasn’t there. But he had no time now to look properly, that would have to wait until later. The book went into the drawstring bag in which he kept his few belongings.
He tucked the bag deep into the branches, next to the potato sack with his brooms, then hurried off to find some work so he could eat.
At the parsonage, the breeze snatched at the last of Davy’s swept-aside picture. Urgently, as if there were a waiting train it had to catch, it raced the dust across town to the museum and threw its load upon the chequered tiles.
It could do no more. The rest was down to others.
They were all elderly folk on their own, the ones Davy would call on to see if they had any odd jobs or errands going. Between the handouts and small coins they gave in payment, he just about managed to sustain himself.
But he was out of luck today. ‘What a shame . . . if only you’d come yesterday. Maybe after the holidays . . . try me then. Another boy got here early, beat you to the punch.’ Davy called on every person he’d ever worked for and some he hadn’t besides, but the message was the same everywhere.
‘I’m sorry, young man. Merry Christmas.’ Mrs Hattie Grigg shook her head regretfully as she closed her door.
She was his last hope. Davy sloped along, kicking at the dirt and mentally kicking himself. He should have been knocking on doors first thing instead of sweeping pictures and getting into trouble. He’d just have to make do on that lone bread roll. Parson Fall’s church ran the soup kitchen but everyone got herded into the chapel to be preached at beforehand, with all the doors locked so no one could bolt. Davy avoided any handout that came with conditions. Nine years at the children’s home had seen to that.
He looked up and suddenly realized where he was. His search had taken him all the way to the end of Main Street, where it became the road east to other places.
The dog had shown up and begun to follow him apologetically. Davy sat on the kerb in front of the shuttered town museum. The dog sat next to him and they watched some clean-cut town boys playing kickabout on the rough ground opposite. He had no expectation that they might ask him to join in. The wind was in a mischievous mood, snatching at their ball.
Davy said to the dog, ‘That was some trouble you got me into with the Reverend.’ The dog stood, wagging his tail. ‘Sit,’ Davy said. The dog sat. ‘Down,’ he told him. The dog lay down. ‘Why couldn’t you behave before? You’re bad luck, that’s for sure.’ The dog licked his hand. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas,’ said Davy. ‘I can’t take care of you, too.’
The boys playing opposite were Davy’s age, but the kind that lived in houses and attended school. Their bicycles lay on the ground, let fall from their careless hands as they jumped off. One of them noticed Davy and called to his friends, ‘Hey! Keep a look out for your bike.’
Davy felt himself redden. He’d never thieved a single thing in all his life. He picked up a twig and began drawing in the dirt. He outlined the head of the great hound from the forest painting. He was just saying to the dog, ‘If you saw him, I bet you’d run a mile,’ when the sound of shouting made him look up. The wind had stolen the boys’ ball and the game came to a halt as they watched it sail over top of Davy’s head.
After a brief discussion one of them shouted, ‘Hey buddy, would you get our ball?’
Such uncommon politeness sent Davy scrambling to his feet. Then he saw why they’d not chased for it themselves. And why the courtesy. The wind had flown their ball into the tangled yard of the museum.
The museum had been closed and boarded up years ago and been falling to ruin ever since. A plywood For Sale sign lay rotting by the path. Braver kids would sometimes edge through the gate on a dare, especially at Halloween time. But mainly everybody kept away. It was said that an old witch lived inside.
Davy hesitated. The boys shouted, urging him on. He gathered his courage and went in, followed by the dog.
The ball had lodged itself in a sprawling bush near the sagging front steps. It had been a rich man’s house before the town took it for the civic museum, and a badly ripped screened verandah ran along the front and down the sides. Davy grabbed the ball and, to show he could, kicked it from where he was, flying it above the trees that choked the yard. He heard the cheers as the boys saw it coming.
‘You. Young man.’ The voice came from the verandah.
Davy froze. It was an old woman’s voice, creaky with age. The witch! Fear tingled his skin.
‘Will I bake you in a pie or drink your blood?’ she said. ‘Oh, I know what you all think I get up to.’
Davy turned around then, greatly daring. He could just make her out, a dark shape behind the torn screen of the verandah. It looked like she was sitting in a chair.
‘You’re safe enough,’ she said. ‘I wish to speak to you. Approach.’
With his heart banging hard against his ribs, Davy’s feet moved him along the path, up the wooden stairs and stepped him through the gap where the screen door had been. The dog scampered ahead of him without hesitation.
She beckoned Davy forward. ‘Stand where I can see you, just there.’ He did as she said and stood in the patch of daylight that filtered through the trees. She herself remained in shadow. All he could make out was that she sat in a wheelchair with a rug tucked over her knees. The dog made himself known to her, sniffing all around. She brushed him off. ‘Your name?’ she demanded of Davy.
He had to swallow twice before he could answer. ‘Davy David,’ he whispered. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Whoever named you lacked imagination.’ She regarded him in silence. He could feel, if not see, the keenness of her inspection. Then, ‘I am Miss Flint,’ she said, ‘Miss Elizabeth Flint.’ She began to rise, with great difficulty, from her chair.
He made a hesitant move to help.
‘Get back,’ she snapped. ‘My decrepitude is mine to bear. I brook no interference.’
Her tone was commanding despite the quaver of age. Davy kept out of the way as she manoeuvred herself behind her wheelchair and pushed it, haltingly, towards the open front door.
Miss Flint was an ancient wreckage. Bony and beaky, like some lizard bird, she was bent nearly in half as she inched along behind her chair. Davy couldn’t help but stare.
She stopped and pierced him with a look from her hooded eyes. ‘Am I a wretched sight, Mr Davy David?’
He didn’t want to anger her by lying. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Do you pity me?’
‘No, ma’am.’
He’d clearly passed some kind of test. ‘I have business to discuss with you. Come inside. Your dog may come too, if you wish.’
‘He’s not my dog, he just follows me around,’ Davy told Miss Flint.
They had to pass through an odd whirlwind of dirt that was dancing in the large tiled museum entrance hall. Visitors were greeted by a small dinosaur reconstructed from its own bones, posed forever in mid-run on a plinth. The brass plaque identi
fied it as Leptoceratops. The skeletons of other creatures were displayed around the hallway.
Davy breathed in wonder, ‘You live with dinosaurs.’
‘The poetic irony is not lost on me,’ said Miss Flint.
The dog seemed to know how to behave properly indoors and stuck to Davy’s heels. They followed her through the large main room, Davy’s eyes widening at the array of items on display. Glass cases with stuffed creatures, animal skeletons, collections of butterflies and insects, rocks and fossils.
‘You’re the first visitor for twenty years.’ Miss Flint named items as they passed. ‘Stone arrowheads of various dates, all local finds . . . Rocky Mountain locust, thankfully extinct . . . Harlan’s musk ox . . .’
Davy looked around him in amazement. ‘All of this here and no one sees it.’
‘I was the curator when they closed it down. It suited me to stay. Keeping things in order has passed the time. Are you an ignoramus, Mr David?’
‘I’ve never been to school,’ he said.
‘That’s a point in your favour. There’s nothing wrong with ignorance,’ she said. ‘The truly ignorant are more likely to be curious and open-minded. Would you say that you’re curious, Mr David?’
‘I guess so. I go to the library.’
‘Then there may be hope for you. If you like books, you’ll be interested in this.’ She’d stopped by a case with a large book of old maps open on display. ‘You may unlock it, the glass slides back, don’t touch anything else. They’re sixteenth-century, not originals of course, not in Brownvale. This is a facsimile from the early nineteenth century. Still, it’s fine quality, they’re all hand-coloured.’
On the open page, in each of the four corners of the map was a chubby putto blowing a blast of wind from its puffed-out cheeks. Sea serpents coiled in the waters. Small sailing boats rode upon the waves.
‘At that time large parts of the world were still unknown. Look here,’ said Miss Flint, ‘this little island off the coast of Ireland, Hy-Brasil. Many believed it was where the soul went when the person died. It was widely held to be there, expeditions were sent out. They never found it, of course.’
‘Why not?’ said Davy.
‘Because Hy-Brasil does not exist, Mr David. The human race seems unable to accept emptiness, we’ve always invented places that don’t exist. The Fountain of Youth. Valhalla. Mount Olympus. When sailors die, it’s said they’ve gone out west. To Hy-Brasil.’
‘Maybe they weren’t looking in the right place,’ said Davy.
‘Do you have hearing trouble? I’ve just said it’s imaginary. Lock the case and we’ll proceed,’ she said.
He locked it carefully. Following behind her, he had a good back view. She’d scraped her long white hair up into a messy kind of spray and stabbed it, insecurely, with a pencil. Her neck was spare as a turkey’s and ringed with wrinkles of skin. Davy wondered if, like a tree, a count of them would tell her age. She wore a man’s workshirt inside out and men’s trousers belted up near her chest. Her feet, in canvas sneakers, splayed like duck’s feet as she shuffled along.
‘I can feel your eyes upon me, Davy David. If you’ve examined me to your satisfaction, we’ll get down to business.’
She led him into a small back room which, judging by the furniture and dusty shelves of files and books, used to be an office. It was cluttered, with every surface covered, but tidy in its way. There were paintings stacked against the walls. She clearly liked to read. Magazines and books were piled up on the floor. In the corner was a tiny kitchen unit with a sink and two-ring hotplate. A door led through to a small washroom. The cracked leather chesterfield was made up with cushions and a blanket for sleeping. The large window on to the backyard had dead vegetation growing through it. The dog’s nose took him snuffling around the room.
Miss Flint leaned on her wheelchair, resting, out of breath. ‘I need a driver,’ she said. ‘To take me there.’
She pointed her knobbled finger at a small oil painting, propped up among the clutter. It showed a low white house beside water. A lake, perhaps, or maybe the ocean.
Davy spoke cautiously. ‘To take you into a painting,’ he said.
‘Are you a halfwit?’
‘No.’
‘Then listen,’ said Miss Flint. ‘The house in the painting is my destination. I need to go by motor car and I’m hiring you to drive me.’ She enunciated each word crisply, as if he wasn’t all there.
‘I don’t know how to drive,’ Davy said.
Miss Flint just carried on, ‘I’d like to set off as soon as possible, no later than mid-afternoon. As you can see, I’m ready to leave.’ She indicated the battered briefcase lying on the chesterfield. She couldn’t be taking much.
Maybe she was hard of hearing. Davy raised his voice. ‘I’m thirteen. I don’t have a licence.’
‘There’s your uniform.’ She gestured towards a striped paper package from Warners, the men’s clothiers for those with money. ‘This is a journey I’ve planned carefully and I want my driver to look smart. The distance is just over two hundred miles. We should be there in good time. Once you’ve dropped me, you don’t need to wait.’
Davy tried another tack. ‘I don’t have a car.’
‘We’ll take mine,’ she said.
‘Miss Flint, I don’t drive, I don’t have a licence, I’m just thirteen.’
‘Nonsense.’ She swatted his words away, as she would a fly. ‘Nobody bothers about all that these days. Any fool can drive. If you lived on a farm, you’d be an old hand by now.’
Even if he could drive, thought Davy, he wouldn’t want to drive anywhere with Miss Flint. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t think . . .’ he began.
‘What you think, what you think, I don’t have time for what you think!’ With each ‘think’ she thumped her wheelchair for emphasis. Miss Flint glared at him, hawk-like. ‘I’m going to die on Christmas Day,’ she declared. ‘And I intend to die where I was born, in that house in that painting. And I intend for you, Mr Davy David, to drive me there. I’ll pay you good money. Now that’s an end to this discussion. Be back here no later than two.’
She thought she was going to die.
‘If you’re sick,’ Davy said, ‘I’ll run and get the doctor.’
‘You are a halfwit. Look!’ She fumbled with the small leather bag slung across her chest, unzipping it with fingers crabbed by rheumatics. ‘I’ll pay you half in advance and the balance on arrival. And when we’re done, you can have the car, you can keep it.’
Davy stared. ‘I can have your car,’ he repeated. Miss Flint might not be a witch, but she might very well be unhinged. Maybe she was having a brainstorm, like Howard from the library. He’d sometimes think he was still in the navy and go around calling people ‘Captain’ and start shouting if you didn’t play along. Davy would have to try and get away without upsetting her.
‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘keep the car, sell it, do with it as you please, I won’t be needing it, I’ll be dead – have you been listening? It’s perfectly simple – I swear you are a halfwit. Look here. Here’s your money, half in advance.’ She flapped the stack of notes she’d pulled from the bag, shaking it impatiently at Davy as if he couldn’t see. In doing so, she shook her topknot loose, her white hair slithered down and then she really did look like a witch. ‘What’s the matter?’ she cried. ‘Go on, take it, it’s yours!’
She flung the money and Davy stood with it blizzarding all around him. The dog began barking. Davy backed towards the door, ‘I don’t want your money. I don’t want your car. I’m not driving you to die. Not to that place or anywhere else. I don’t want your job, you old . . . witch!’
With that, Davy fled with the dog. They flew out the front door of the old museum, like they’d been blasted by a hot wind from hell. Down the path they raced, through the gate, then they were running back into town.
The boys across the road took fright at the sight of them and ditched their football game, yelling, ‘Witch! It’s the witc
h!’ Leaping on their bikes, they pedalled wildly and disappeared like shots in every direction.
Shaken by his odd encounter with Miss Flint, Davy calmed himself with the noon showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at the Bellevue. For the month of December – closed on Christmas Day – it was Wonderful Life at the Bellevue, four times daily, six days a week. Some wag had stolen the marquee letters so it read ‘_ _ s a W_ _ _ _ _ ful Life. 4 x Daily’.
Davy and the dog ducked in through the alley fire door and settled on the floor in the dark corner that was Davy’s regular spot. He never sat in a seat he hadn’t paid for. The carpet smelt pleasantly of soda.
Miss Shasta Reed only played old movies at the Bellevue, always black-and-whites. The screen flickered, the sound came and went and, with the blackouts, a film might stop abruptly. But Davy could lose himself there for the duration.
The first time he’d ventured uncertainly inside, the movie was playing to an empty auditorium. Miss Shasta called down from the projection booth for him to join her. Davy found her sitting in the soft spill of light from the projector, wearing rhinestone earrings, a blue silk turban and dungaree overalls. A gold cigarette smouldered in the long holder clamped between her teeth. She was hemmed in by stacks of film cans labelled with their titles; she’d left narrow paths to squeeze along. That day’s film was Top Hat, starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Davy watched, awestruck, with Miss Shasta. Fred and Ginger were like beings from another world. They were radiant. Ginger’s white dress flew like wings as they danced and sang with a joy unknown in Brownvale.
Davy said to Miss Shasta, ‘But what about the Parson?’
With narrowed eyes, Miss Shasta blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘The Bellevue was here long before he was and I intend for it – and me – to outlast him. His kind kills the spirit. We resurrect it.’
She lived in a little room somewhere in the building. She referred to it as ‘my pied-à-terre’. Her audiences were sparse but she got along somehow. Miss Shasta claimed to be a heathen. From time to time, for her own amusement on a Sunday, she’d rig up speakers on the Bellevue’s roof, set Top Hat or some other musical rolling, and blast the soundtrack all over Main Street. The game was to make the Parson come running from his pulpit. She would time him. The Parson would dance around below, shouting, and Miss Shasta would wave gaily, pretending she couldn’t hear. ‘I have a project to drop him dead from apoplexy,’ she said.