Page 68 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

Other than in the mornings when he’d creep to the window to watch Jesse run, he’d been hiding away in remote parts of the house, stewing in his frustration. Oliver didn’t know when all of the work had been done, but he knew who had done it.

Oliver reached inside his chest for that anger, and found nothing. It had slipped away, seemingly vanished in the seconds between entering the room, and now. All that was left was uncertainty and fear. Uncertainty and fear about the future of his home, and his future with Jesse.

He lingered in front of the window for another minute until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He needed some space. To get off the estate.

Oliver grabbed an umbrella from the holder outside the front door, determined to not get caught again in the rain as he walked to the village. He didn’t have a plan in mind. He just wanted to walk. Maybe he’d pick up some fresh flowers or grab a loaf of bread. Something to make him feel more tethered to the Earth.

The gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to the edge of the estate. He didn’t know what made him stop, but he turned back to look at the house. From this distance, he couldn’t see its imperfections. He couldn’t see the tears in the wallpaper, or feel the ruined carpet under his feet. He didn’t see the cracks running alongside the columns on the porch or the water spots on the ceiling.

He saw what any stranger might see when they gazed upon Chapman House. He saw beauty from another time. He experienced the awe and the amazement that something like it could even exist. He could admire the craftsmanship, the years of labor that went into its creation, that human hands and minds had conjured up its image and then were able to execute it in reality.

He could almost imagine the ghosts of his ancestors walking the grounds, their attire and mannerisms foreign to the ones of the day. He wondered if he was disappointing them. He wondered what they would do in his shoes.

***

Oliver had just purchased a small bouquet of pink dahlias for Rose at the florist’s shop on the high street when he saw Cillian entering the pub. He recalled their conversation last week, and at the risk of intruding, followed him inside.

The pub was quieter than Oliver had ever seen it, the space empty other than the four older men who were seated at a table in the center of the room. Alongside Cillian was the vicar, Eugene, a man he vaguely recognized as being the husband of his old primary school headmistress, and the owner of the local antique shop, Harry. He noted that Mr. Stillwell was not present, and let out a sigh of relief.

Cillian was the first to spot him, enthusiastically waving him to their table.

Cillian hugged him, careful not to crush the flowers in Oliver’s hands. “If those are for my wife, you’re going to make me look bad.”

Oliver returned his embrace. “She deserves them for putting up with me. I’ve not been good company the last couple of days.”

If Cillian knew about his argument with Jesse, he had least had the decency not to mention it. He simply pulled up a chair to the round wooden table while Harry grabbed a tray with five cups of coffee from the bartender. Oliver took a cup when offered, and couldn’t help his surprised chuckle when he went to take a drink and noticed the distinct smell of Bailey’s Irish Cream. From above the brim of the cup, he looked to Cillian who winked.

“What brings you here this morning?” Eugene asked with a kind smile.

He and his grandfather hadn’t been regular churchgoers, and Oliver had been nervous to work with the vicar on the funeral arrangements. He had been lucky in his life that most had accepted his sexuality without much malice, but the church was a different animal. He’d been grateful towards the man for his kindness in the wake of his grandfather’s passing.

Feeling emboldened by the whiskey he answered honestly. “Escaping reality.”

The headmistress’s husband, who he learned was called Milton, began dealing the cards. He gestured to Oliver, but he shook his head, signaling that he didn’t want to play. He was fine to sit and watch. Milton spoke as he dealt. “Terry Wright told me that you’ve hired him to replace the roof. That’ll be great for his company. Work has been slow lately.”

Oliver's breathing was shaky as another reality crashed down on him. He’d only managed to pay the deposit for the roof. There was still so much more left to pay for, and now he had the added pressure of knowing that there was someone depending on him to make sure it happened.

Oliver changed the subject. “Cillian told me that my grandfather used to play, too?”

There were fond smiles all around the table, but it was Harry who spoke first. “He was a troublemaker, your grandfather.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Oliver scoffed.

Harry continued. “No, really. Once, maybe five years ago, he showed up early and loosened the legs of Cillian’s chair. Poor fool fell straight to the floor.”

Cillian pointed a handful of cards in Oliver’s direction like he had been the one to do it. “He was lucky that it was me and not any of these auld lads.”

Something loosened in Oliver’s chest listening to the way that they spoke about his grandfather. It was light and jovial. It wasn’t weighed down by any of Oliver’s baggage.

“We miss having him around, is what Harry is trying to say,” Milton supplied.

Oliver stayed silent and let the men continue their play, their conversation flowing about nothing and everything. Eventually, the vicar looped him back into the fold. “Something troubling you, Oliver?”

“Don’t get all priestly with him, Eugene. Give it a rest and save it for the service,” Cillian said with a groan.

The other men laughed, but something was troubling him. He straightened in his seat, working up the courage to speak some of his troubles out loud. “I’ve been doing some thinking, and well, do any of you happen to know why my grandfather never opened up the estate?”

“Because he was a stubborn old bastard, that’s why.” Harry was looking straight at him, almost challenging.