The World Beneath by Janice Warman

Author:Janice Warman [Warman, Janice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-8057-2
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2016-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

When Joshua went upstairs, Beauty was already asleep. She had one hand curled under her cheek. She looked peaceful; almost happy. He slipped in beside her.

This room was so comfortable. It was cold in the mornings, but the asbestos heater soon warmed it up. There was a thick rug on the floor. There was even a hand basin in the corner. The blankets and sheets in here smelled cleaner too; they weren’t musty and damp. There was no peeling plaster and no smell of paraffin, no scratching of mice behind the walls.

Oh, the mice. In his mother’s room, they had woken once and found the bag of sugar nibbled at the corner. All the white sugar had run out onto the floor, and there were little mouse tracks in it. And tiny strings of mouse poo, like black beads. After that, they got a tin for the sugar.

They still had to use the maid’s bathroom, though. It was in the corner of the courtyard, behind the clotheslines. It was always freezing in there, and the hot water, piped across from the main house, was lukewarm by the time it dribbled into the rust-stained bath.

It was the same bath that they washed Betsy in.

The rain began, thrumming against the windows, rushing through the gutters, and to its comforting sound, he fell asleep.

There was something wrong. He could feel it as soon as he woke. Beauty still breathed quietly beside him, hand under her cheek, her wide mouth curved up at the corners.

The streetlight shone in. The rain had stopped, and the house was quiet.

He held his breath. The kitchen was below them; he thought he could hear a chair leg shift on the linoleum. And then a murmur, a voice. No: two voices.

He padded down the stairs. At the baize door, he hesitated: he was too short to see through its porthole. He crept into the dining room; it had a door into the back hall. This he opened a crack. Betsy woke and looked at him; he put his hand up, telling her to stay where she was. She put her head down on her paws again, looking up at him from her wrinkly, red-rimmed eyes.

He strained to hear. The voices belonged to Mrs. Malherbe and, although it seemed incredible, to Tsumalo. What could he possibly say to her? What could she say to him? Why hadn’t she called the police? Then he heard a third voice. Of course. Robert.

“I know it looks bad, Ma,” he said. “But it’s the safest place for him. Nobody is looking for him here. And it’s only till they come for him in a couple of days. Then he’ll be leaving the country, and you’ll never see him again.”

“You know very well how I feel,” came Mrs. Malherbe’s dry voice. “You have your right to your beliefs. But what about me? If he’s discovered here — despite what you say . . . And what about Gordon? If Gordon —” Mrs. Malherbe had sounded weary to the core; now she sounded fearful.

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