He reached the iron railings that bounded the potter’s field, and slipped between them.
“Hullo?” he called. There was no answer. Not even an extra shadow in the hawthorn bush. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble too,” he said.
Nothing.
He had replaced the jeans in the gardener’s hut—he was more comfortable in just his gray winding sheet—but he had kept the jacket. He liked having the pockets.
When he had gone to the shed to return the jeans, he had taken a small hand scythe from the wall where it hung, and with it he had attacked the nettle patch in the potter’s field, sending the nettles flying, slashing and gutting them till there was nothing but stinging stubble on the ground.
From his pocket he took the large glass paperweight, its insides a multitude of bright colors, along with the paintpot, and the paintbrush.
He dipped the brush into the paint and carefully painted, in brown paint, on the surface of the paperweight, the letters
E H
and beneath them he wrote
We don’t forget
It was almost daylight. Bedtime, soon, and it would not be wise for him to be late to bed for some time to come.
He put the paperweight down on the ground that had once been a nettle patch, placed it in the place that he estimated her head would have been, and, pausing only to look at his handiwork for a moment, he went through the railings and made his way, rather less gingerly, back up the hill.
“Not bad,” said a pert voice from the potter’s field behind him. “Not bad at all.”
But when he turned to look, there was nobody there.