The Hill

By Julian Day

Evacuated from central London, and now safe in the countryside from the Nazi night bombers, two young boys are placed in the care of evil strangers. There is a mysterious death on The Hill. Time passes. The boys join the service, the war ends, and they both go on about their livesone a marginally successful writer and the other a very successful publisher. But one is haunted by the shadows of that night on The Hill, and almost fifty years later, convinces the other that they must return on a voyage of self discovery to find resolution. Once there, evil stalks them again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462022113

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Copyright © 2011 by Julian Day

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-2210-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2211-3 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 5/23/2011

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

Late September and the day was hot and still, just as it had been almost since the month began. An Indian Summer? How evocative the words. He fingered the black-edged card, copper plate enigmatic, looking out of the window at the walled back garden. All those years ago and he’d have given so much to have been done with it all. Maybe life itself wouldn’t have been too big a price to pay, for what happened then had spoiled the left over remainder of his existence.

He got up from his chair and went closer to the window. There was a low paved well outside. A dwarf wall held the garden in check, two stone steps led up to it and then the ground sloped away, neat grass with borders set with over-blown bedding plants, dahlias wilted in the dry heat of the long summer but still flaunting garish copper and red hues of singed yellow. The walls each side were of irregular weathered stocks angled to the higher back wall which was made even higher by a trellis threaded with some kind of climbing rose. All around there were claustrophobic high buildings, blind windows, tall houses looking downwards and inwards, haunted by the ghosts of anonymous transient occupation, dry baked and introspective and threatening.

The card slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor, face up.

This had been his home all his life and, he thought, this Indian Summer, or the next, they’ll come for me too and the call will not be unwelcome.

A sleek cat stretched speciously down the wall to the right, paused tail erect to leave the odorous message of its passing on the roots of the trellis borne rose, progressed smoothly to and then over the wall to the left.

He picked up the card and read it again. Why had Phillip asked him to his parents’ funeral? That long ago Indian Summer was never to be forgotten. He knew he had to go; the card was not so much an invitation to pay his last respects to Phillip’s nearest and dearest, as a summons to dredge up the past. And whether it was a funeral or two, or a joint affair – were there such events? – he knew he was going to have to be there.

Chapter 2

The sun was way down now and the back yard was in the shadow of the tall buildings overlooking it. The cat hadn’t returned and the card was on his desk which he pushed hard up against the window. He’d managed to clear a space on the desk to one side of the typewriter to set down a cup of coffee he’d just made. Three cheers for instant coffee granules, he thought. The flat was a bit damp, dark too – always had been – but when the ground lease expired and the block had been put up for action he’d had no hesitation in buying his part of it.

There were three stories on top of his garden flat, the basement, his parents had call it, more accurately, when they had first moved in, as tenants, decades ago. And since they had gone, leaving him the tenancy, the other flats in the building, and those surrounding it, had changed hands and status. It was now part of an enclave in an otherwise decayed urban environment which housed a potpourri of London’s aspiring and upwardly mobile population. He was to be congratulated, he was certain, that he didn’t know any of them.

The flat immediately above him had changed hands a month or so ago and he’d seen the new owner several times. A substantial figure, a large but shapely female person with dark shoulder-length hair which looked impossibly sleek and thick and well groomed. A female of indeterminate age. She always carried a brief case and he thought she must have had a car parked somewhere near.

It was years since he had driven a car. The first car he’d ever had, an old, cranky SS, had been towed to the wrecker’s yard many years ago, its successors finally replaced by an upright bicycle with a basket in front. On a bad day, he could have been mistaken for an elderly, unisex midwife, he had been told, but it didn’t bother him.

He took her, the new owner, to be some kind of a social worker, a self-important and braless woman of the people with masses of big brother data neatly filed in the brass bound brief case with its silly little combination lock. Don’t trust any of them, was his motto, and never open the door to them or their ilk.

He put down the mug of coffee and listened. Someone was knocking on his front door. He listened again. The knocking was repeated. Somehow he knew that it must be her from upstairs. Who else? Sunday afternoon, late-ish? Nobody he knew or knew him would have the cool cheek. His instinct was to ignore it, but the thumps came again. Loud noises. Perhaps I should have got the front doorbell fixed, he thought, took another mouthful of coffee, set down the mug again, and went off down the passage to investigate.

I knew you must be in, she said when he opened the door to have all his worst fears confirmed. Although she was tall, he still looked down on her. She was wearing jeans and a nondescript loose top. He was agreeably surprised to notice that her dark hair was chestnut tinged, and that she was youngish – anything between forty-five and fifth-five – and that she had a good full figure. Forty-five, then. Young to him anyway. She smiled. In fact, she didn’t look too bad all over close up.

I thought it must be you, he said.

My name is Enid Jones, she said. I’ve recently moved into the flat above yours. Why did you think it was me knocking?

Francis Kerr, he said. What can I do for you? He wasn’t telling her why he wasn’t surprised she had called. He didn’t know why he wasn’t surprised anyway.

I’ve just popped out to post a letter, she said, and I’ve locked myself out.

And?

I was hoping that you might be able to suggest how I might be able to get back in. She sounded, he thought, as if she didn’t think that he could be of much assistance, and that he was very much the last, and unlikely, resort. A well past his sell-by-date, old idiot.

You’d better come in, he said reluctantly. Perhaps this was some devious plan to get in and then mug and rob me, he thought. If so, it was succeeding. But he knew he could handle her, but as she was, and there wasn’t much worth stealing. He motioned her inside and shut the door.

Straight ahead, he said.

She went along down the narrow passage which he’d painted white to attract and to reflect what light there was, along tiled flooring with a couple of rush mats, and he was seeing the place afresh in her vision. What a dump! His bedroom was through the first door on the right and the door was open. She had a good look as she passed it. On to where the passage opened out to the space where stairs had once led up into the house proper above. The stairs had been removed long since, and it now took his piano and square Chinese washed rug and a couple of easy chairs.

She turned and smiled.

Carry on, he said, and she went on and then they were in his combined living room, lounge, and study, the desk under the window littered with typewriter, reference books, a mass of papers, loosely bound typescripts. The walls were shelved, carrying books floor to ceiling, and the floor space itself was crammed with odds and ends of furniture, an odd collection of stuff which hadn’t been used much for decades. She took it all in quickly and then leaned across the desk, looking out the window.

The garden looks quite different from this angle, she said.

It would do, he said. Stupid cow. Did you leave any of your windows at the back open?

I can’t remember, she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and then left her to go out into the garden. The flat above his sported a balcony with wrought iron railings. It was an intrusive affair, with tall glazed doors opening on to it from what the Agent claimed was the sitting room of character. The previous owners had spent very little time in the flat and even less on the balcony, for which he had been duly grateful.

He sensed, however, that things were about to change for the worse. One of the doors was open slightly. He knew that his stepladder could reach almost to the floor of the balcony, and if she could be persuaded to climb up the ladder, with her height, she could reach the balcony easily and then clamber up and over. If she was anything like fit she could be home in minutes.

He got the stepladder from the broom cupboard and placed it in position. She came to the kitchen door and gazed at it.

Is that for my benefit? she asked. She wasn’t bad looking in the modern, casual fashion, he supposed. In the outside light he could see that the sun on her hair reflected back a rippled awareness and that her eyes were a disconcerting shade of blue. She had on very little make-up and there were distinct crow’s feet around those so blue eyes. When she smiled, she reminded him of someone – he couldn’t quite remember when or where.

Phillip.

That was it. She reminded him of Phillip.

Phillip had known her, that other one, too. Like this one, she had had blue eyes, but her hair had been short and fair, fine gold, he remembered. They had walked in the darkness in the lane between school and the High Road. On one side there was a thick hedgerow, and on the other a ditch and a paling fence guarding an orchard. It was almost pitch dark then, late autumn, the air heavy and damp, soil smelling. He couldn’t quite recall, but she must have dared him to climb over to gather and then ply her with the forbidden fruit because he was there in the long damp grass under the trees, quite unable to see a hand in front of him, let alone where there were apples for the taking. Apples she must have, but apples in the tree were impossible to locate. He groped in the wet grass. Windfalls were apples and his fingers sought what his eyes could not see, and he grunted as he touched, grabbed, and then wiped dry and clean a half dozen or so hard, cold, wet shapes. He scrambled back, triumphant.

You must have eyes like a cat. He could hear her voice still. And he didn’t tell her that he had cheated.

He remembered Phillip saying, Kate, they’ve got to be windfalls," and himself punching Phillip on the arm, hard, to make him shut up.

It’s for your benefit, he affirmed.

I’m sorry, she said, but I get vertigo stepping up the curb. Well, almost. But I just couldn’t get up there on that rickety stepladder. And in any case, it’s not long enough.

It’s plenty long enough even if it doesn’t quite reach, he said. He muttered to himself before he began climbing the stepladder, balancing no hands until about half way up and then on to the top of it, pausing briefly, no wavering, reaching for the railings and hauling himself up and over. He stood for a few seconds, trying desperately to control his breathing, and then went in through the open full length balcony door.

Bravo, he heard her call, and then he allowed himself the pleasure of panting, very loudly, for a few seconds before going through the sitting room. The room was much as he thought it would be. Chintz covered settee and armchairs, occasional tables, glass topped, in dark polished wood, lots of cushions, a shaggy pile rug in front of the white painted fireplace, theatrical curtains, cut glass jars filled with evil smelling potpourri, some weird prints, framed.

Through the door to a pint-sized space beneath the slope which was the underside of the interior stairs leading up to the other flats in the building. In the space she had placed a round table with a draped cloth which reached to the floor, chairs round it, and a grandfather clock against the wall. Trust a woman to make a dining area out of a blocked up stairwell, he thought.

He peered into her bedroom on the way out. The bed was king size, cushions scattered over it, everywhere white walls and ivory paint. There was a huge TV set fixed to the wall so that it could be seen from the bed, and there was a thick, creamy-colored carpet. He didn’t bother to look in the kitchen; he knew without seeing it that it was fully fitted and surgically clean.

Then he was in the hall. Her briefcase was on the hall table, the brass combination locks undone. He lifted the lid and peeked curiously at the contents. Must be props for amateur dramatics, he thought, weird. He poked at and turned over the objects one by one. Coiled rope, a stained glass and leaded pentagon decorated with what looked like astrological birth symbols, a metal plate and a pewter goblet, a leather-bound book, well used with a substantial brass lock to guard its secrets, an old-fashioned ebony handled knife in a sheath. There was a curious aroma as well, probably the pong of her packed lunches, he thought, hard boiled egg sandwiches, presumably, but what a load of old junk. Typical!

He shut the lid and picked up the bunch of keys which was lying next to the case, the keys which she had obviously left behind when going to post her letter, closed the door behind him, and went out into the communal hall, past the inner staircase, and then through the building’s main front door.

She was waiting for him downstairs in his study. He could see that she’d had a good look around just by looking at her.

I didn’t realize that you were Francis Kerr, she said. "The Francis Kerr, that is." She waved in the direction of the book-lined wall, the shelves crowded with volumes of all shapes and sizes and condition.

Not many people know that, he said. Here are your keys.

She took them from his outstretched hand. I’ve read all your books, she said.

He doubted that. Nobody had read all his books. Not that there were all that many. But there wasn’t even the hint of a book in her flat, apart from the leather-bound diary thing in her briefcase. And his books, he was the first to acknowledge, were not exactly in the best-selling, easy reader class.

Really? he said doubtfully.

I’m the Borough’s Assistant Chief Librarian, she said as if in explanation. You haven’t written anything in years, have you? I thought you were dead.

He laughed. Perhaps you’re right, he said. I’m drinking coffee. Would you like a mugful before you go back?

Please, she said.

When he returned from the kitchen with two mugs of fresh coffee, she was sitting in the only armchair in the room. The books and papers she’d cleared from it were stacked by its side. She took the proffered mug and held it with both hands. I hate people that do that, he thought.

There’s so much that I’d like to ask you, she said. Are you writing something now? She inclined her head towards the desk with the typewriter, complete with a sheet of paper ready loaded in it, the pile of virgin A4 to the left of it, and the typed pages to the right of it. The mug, half filled with cold coffee, beside it.

It looked as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of some urgent flush of creativity. It only needed a wisp of steam to rise out of the keyboard to confirm the illusion, he thought. But he’d been at this particular novel far too long, he knew. He knew, too, that advancing years, that was his excuse anyway, had damped down whatever creative powers he may have had. It was like a prostatic of the inspirational flow, hard to get started and without strength once it had shown itself, and a pathetic dribble in conclusion.

Here he was, then, a newly qualified senior citizen and it was less than surprising that whatever youthful impulses had inspired him in the past should now be so infrequent. The sense of loss, of time passing, was omnipresent. Use it or lose it, they said in the health books. It was ages since he had at the typewriter and each day he ignored it he knew that it would be harder to get back. But I’m not old, he would tell himself, I’m not old or withered, there’s still color in my hair and a spring in my walk. Don’t write yourself off. Show the lot of them. Writing was ninety-nine percent application, apply yourself. But this particular opus had had at least a half-dozen false starts and in the starting and the scrapping several years, had somehow slipped by. Time accelerates when you’re reaching the allotted biblical span, and he wasn’t having much fun, either.

Yes, he said. It’s well on the way now. Like me, he could have added.

May I ask what it’s about?

It’s about life, of course. You know, the bits in between being born and dying.

She nodded wisely. The tedious bits, she said. I do admire your prose style, she said. Have you written any verse?

Not for publication. And not for your prying eyeballs, either. What was poetry, anyway? Words. A distillation? An evocation, perhaps. Magic, certainly.

I didn’t mean to be inquisitive, she said eventually in the deepening silence between them. I’m sorry. She stood up. I’ll be on my way, then. She put down her mug. By the way, she went on, I picked up that card from under your desk. She pointed.

Nosey female, he thought. Poking and prying and tidying. Hasn’t even the nous to look embarrassed.

Thank you, he said. I might have overlooked it.

I couldn’t help glancing at it as I picked it up. Is the Phillip Rambout on it the publisher?

He is. Not my publisher, but we were at school together. I knew his parents. Very sad, their passing. Even if they were seriously old together.

Even she hadn’t the cheek to ask any more. She jangled the keys and he led the way out.

Thank you so very much for helping me, she said. I just don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been at home.

Think nothing of it. Try the Fire Brigade next time. Most obliging lot.

Perhaps you’d like to come in this evening? she said. Perhaps I could offer you a drink.

Some other time, he said. Thanks for the invitation. And, yes, I will be going to the funeral tomorrow.

He watched her go up the stairs to street level and then disappear from view up the steps leading to the front door, then he went into the garden and brought in the stepladder. Back at his desk, looking at the typewriter, he wondered what tomorrow would bring and why; instead of the last typed sentence, he kept seeing her face, sensing her presence in the room.

There’s no fool like an old fool, he said out loud and then laughed.

There had been a brief news item in the morning paper about a man in Australia aged ninety-two who had just become a father for the sixth time. He had a new young wife and his eldest son by his first wife was seventy years of age. There was no doubt about it, most of us were pretty good at believing what we wanted to believe.

Chapter 3

The journey from the Chapel of Rest to the jewel of the Crown of the Council’s amenities, the Cemetery, (leaving aside, of course, the unisex sauna and the new Natatorium complex), had been the stuff of high farce. The undertaker, solemn faced in his role as chief of the professional mourners, top hat securely cradled in the crook of one arm and carrying a silver mounted ebony walking stick, goose stepped in slow motion in front of the first coffin as it was carried to the flower bedecked hearse. The coffin bearers loaded the hearse and then returned for the second coffin. Meanwhile, the chief mourner stood in the middle of the road, ebony stick in outstretched hand, creating an instant traffic jam until the solemn bearer party emerged and loaded the second coffin into the second, equally flower bedecked hearse.

Shiny black limousines rolled into position behind the hearses and then the full procession moved forward, gathering speed so quickly that the undertaker had barely sufficient time to scramble aboard the first hearse before it and the second hearse with its tailback of following cars took off. Once through the immediate area, the route was via a short stretch of elevated motorway. The cavalcade halted at the traffic lights before the slip road, and as the lights changed from red to green, the two hearses and the limousine immediately behind them were away, the lights changing again so rapidly that the remaining vehicles were left behind, discharging appropriately mournful black exhaust fumes. The hearses picked up speed on the exposed motorway and a cross wind increased in velocity so that they rocked and rolled, prying loose blooms from the floral tributes which had been placed securely on their roofs and scattering them gracefully and generously in the general direction of Kew Gardens.

Ah well, he thought, cushioned in the first limousine next to Phillip, immediately behind the hearses, it’s the thought that counts.

He still wasn’t absolutely certain of Phillip’s motives in inviting him to take part in this ritual.

Phillip’s place in Holland Park was enormous. When finally they had returned to it from the unexpected chill of the graveside, Phillip had lost no time to start fussing about in his inimitable fashion. As he came into focus again, it was clear that the years had not been too kind to him. In fact, thought Francis, he was now a remarkably accurate imitation of a cadaver in a Savile Row suit; his Adam’s apple was working overtime under the almost transparent white bristled skin of his neck; he was deathly pale, and his skull shone pinkly beneath what was left of his hair.

Are we really the same age? Francis asked himself gloomily. Was I really born in the same year as this person who, hung upside down from a butcher’s rail with a couple of strategically placed feathers, might well have been mistaken for an elongated, plucked, drawn, and about to be stuffed turkey? And what was more disturbing, this well-past-his-sell-by-date person was clearly possessed by