not ride back with me now. Have you a decent shirt and trousers? You cannot go out as you are.”
Hot tears rose in Henry’s eyes. “Would they kill them first? Surely they wouldn’t boil a live screaming child…”
Mr. Freylock threw up his hands. “Henry, Henry. For the love of God, don’t dwell on it. Think of them at peace with Jesus, will you? Think of your children quit of all adversity.”
“They’d shoot them first,” said Henry decisively.
Mr. Freylock sighed. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Henry put his face in his hands, depleted. “I’m going mad, sir. And it’s not doing my kids the first bit of good. There’s no reason to believe they didn’t escape. My boy’s as clever as they come.”
“Ah, Henry. They—”
“You don’t know him,” said Henry, cutting him off. “John’s sharp as a needle. The lad reads the night skies as well as you do the gazette.” He stood with the aid of the broom and hobbled toward the back room, planning his next move. There were men in town he might call upon to help, resources he’d not yet thought of. It was merely a matter of keeping a rational mind, resisting the panic. That’s all. He managed yesterday. He’d manage today.
He changed his clothes, and then wrote a note while Mr. Freylock waited.
Dearest children, you’ll find a cord of good wood round the side and a large ham in the larder. You’re to contact the distillery immediately. Your always loving and devoted father.
Outside he turned, scanning the forest, the road in both directions, looking for them.
MR. FREYLOCK DROVE, breaking the silence with small talk every mile or two. His wife’s brisket was mentioned, the new accountant with a penchant for the bottle. “Tom Flowers is coming along well,” he said, interrupting Henry’s reverie yet again. He’d been thinking about the babies, wondering what John was doing to feed them. It took a moment to recall Tom’s amputation.
“That’s very good news, sir.”
“At his desk Monday last,” said Mr. Freylock, casting a sidelong glance. “Taking it all in his stride.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Henry.
Mr. Freylock’s thin mouth tightened. “I can tell you don’t find me particularly helpful.”
Henry lied. “I do, sir.” Roots or mussels mashed with river water. John would find a way.
They arrived on the outskirts toward dusk. Nothing had been said about where he might stay. “I won’t impose on your family a second time,” Henry said, expecting an argument.
“I know of a suitable bachelor’s flat,” said Mr. Freylock.
The word bachelor brought to mind an irresponsible, glib sort, no one like himself. He began to regret leaving the cottage, though he couldn’t possibly endure a return trip. His leg throbbed from heel to groin. The day had gone on too long. And now the night was upon him. Nights were the worst with his kids out there.
THE TIDY BEDSIT was located over a haberdasher. Mr. Freylock helped him up the two pair of stairs, and then went out again, bringing back a pasty and tea for one. He remained standing, driving gloves in hand.
“Will you be all right, Henry?”
“I shall get on fine, sir. Go on home now. Your wife will be waiting.”
“I’ll say it again,” said Mr. Freylock in parting. “Work is what you need.”
“Yes, sir,” said Henry, and was rid of him at last.
The following Tuesday he returned to his desk, where he could not concentrate for the blinding headaches. On Friday he requested and was granted a leave of absence.
“You may as well go,” said Mr. Freylock, signing the permission form. “You’ve no head for numbers these days.”
That Sunday, in the social hall after services, Henry clapped his hands once and asked for volunteers. He’d hoped to find some of the Maori parishioners about, but everyone there was English, two dozen or so, prattling away.
“Who’ll come with me to look?”
They stirred, scraping their feet. Someone offered to bring him tea.
“I’m posting a reward for their safe return. One hundred pounds sterling.”
“Poor man,” said a woman by the door.
Henry turned slowly, looking them in the eye individually. “I’d go without question were it any one of your children.”
“God bless you, Mr. Oades,” the same woman chirped.
“And God blast you, madam,” said Henry, storming out. “God blast you one and all.”
Someone called after him. “You’re looking to get eaten, brother Oades.”
HENRY RODE NORTH, following the river, tying blue rags to tree limbs as he went, marking the places searched. He turned after a week, starting first south, and then west into the higher elevations. The pristine forest revealed nothing but the impossibility of survival. Sometime during the fourth week he lost what little hope remained and did not recover it. His children were gone. He stayed out looking another two weeks before finally giving up. Coming back, he saw that the blue rags had turned gray.
The return brought him past the cottage, where clothes hung on the line. Henry hitched the horse to a post and ran up the grassy rise, praying to find his children inside, feverishly calculating the chances. Miracles occurred every day. Anything was possible on this earth. A squat lady opened the door and his heart quieted. Behind her skirts a red-faced toddling child bawled, a glistening slime streaming from both nostrils. The woman did nothing to comfort or shush it. They both needed a hair combing.
“I had not expected to find the home occupied,” he said.
Her fists went to ample hips. “I’ve papers to show we paid.”
A spotted dog lapped at a pie on the table. The place was a mess, the walls and floor streaked with black God-knows-what. Even he’d been a better housekeeper. Henry gestured toward the back of the cottage. “Are you aware of the grave, madam?”
A look of horror came into her yellowish eyes.
“My wife,” he said.
“Animals must have been digging,” she said. “My husband spent a good portion of his day restoring it. He put up a wall of stones, did a fine job of it, too. Didn’t want the little ones bothering it. You know how children can be, particularly curious boys. You’re welcome to have a visit with her.”
Henry declined, sickened by the idea of scavengers and brats. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the slovenly family there. He’d abandoned the place after all, without bothering to inform the owner. He rode back to town to discover that his bedsit had been leased as well, his clothes given to the Sisters of Mercy.
“You might give notice next time,” said the landlord. “Was I supposed to hold the room indefinitely?”
On the man’s cluttered mantel, next to a dusty shepherd-boy figurine, stood Meg’s ginger jar. Henry noticed almost immediately and took it down. “It belonged to my wife.”
“I was keeping it safe,” the landlord said defensively.
Henry turned to go, not knowing where.
The landlord spoke up. “The Germans might have a room to spare. The old frau won’t allow you in as you are, though. Five pence will buy you a hot bath. I’ll toss in a trim free of charge, knowing your sorrow.”
Henry paid double for a full tub, refusing the charity. There was sufficient money in the bank. The landlord sold him a threadbare suit, the sleeves of which were too short. The castoff got him to the