When Cuckoos Run the Day Care Centers

Photo by Janet Ramsden

More than fifty years ago, in the village of Compton Burdock, Rose Brooke celebrated her eleventh birthday When her party ended, two children were missing. Rose's father was a Conservative member of parliament and a close associate of the prime minister. Scandal had not yet sullied him.

The final game had been a treasure hunt. Armed against the dark with small plastic flashlights, children had ricocheted from one corner of the walled garden to another, deciphering clues devised by Rose's father. The winning pair had moved more casually, attracting no attention. The game, Mr. Brooke decided, was not unlike espionage.

"Has anyone seen Rose?"

Sally said, "I saw her near the mulberry tree with Keith."

Sally was Rose's best friend. Her hair was red as flame. Keith Callaghan's father was the new landlord at the pub. The Brookes owned the big house in the village. In the eighteenth century, it had been the rectory. The Callaghans were Irish.

Mr. Brooke told his wife, "She must be somewhere. I'll have a look. You carry on."

More skilled in forging backroom deals than in delivering stirring speeches, Ralph Brooke had made a political virtue of leaving no stone unturned. Armed with a powerful flashlight, he worked methodically through the hidden corners of the garden. When he tested the old door in the far stone wall, it swung open. It should have been latched. Beyond the wall, Burdock Wood was an ancient, tangled thing.

The ground rose ahead of him, dense with trees, littered with seasons of fallen leaves. The leaves had been disturbed by two small pairs of feet climbing. Ralph Brooke scrambled after them, cursing the smooth soles of his dress shoes. At the top of the rise, he found a narrow strip of thirty yards of earth that looked as if it had been plowed with an oversized, out-of-control rotary tiller. Beside it was a small blue plastic flashlight. He noticed, too, a faint smell somewhere between boiled bones and dog's breath. Falling to his knees, he scrabbled in the plowed earth with his bare hands, afraid of what he might find. He needed a shovel. He needed a team of men with shovels. He slid downhill, walked calmly through the garden to avoid causing panic, and phoned the police.

Politely, he encouraged arriving parents to leave with their charges sooner rather than later.

Mrs. Callaghan waited for her son to reappear. Mrs. Brooke offered her a glass of sherry, pretending nothing really bad had happened.

The speed with which the police arrived was a measure of Ralph Brooke's stature. He took the two policemen and their tracker dog, a large German shepherd, to the door in the garden wall. Allowed to nuzzle an unwashed item of Rose's clothing, the dog set off uphill. At the top, he stuck his tail between his legs, backed away, and whimpered.

The three men stared at the gash in the earth. The detective inspector said, "What the hell did that?"

The sergeant said, "A giant bloody mole?"

The inspector phoned for reinforcements. Lights, powered by a generator, were hung from the trees. Constables armed with shovels dug. They found no trace of the missing children. At one end, the scar of loose earth plunged underground, as if a temporary tunnel had collapsed.

Other constables fanned out through the forest. One got lost and had to be rescued. Another said, "My gran told tales about these woods." There were no footpaths. There was no moon yet behind the clouds.

The search was abandoned after midnight. Mrs. Callaghan went home unsteadily. She had graduated to whiskey. Mrs. Brooke petted the German shepherd. Touching simple things was therapeutic when the world inside her head went dark.

Mr. Brooke told his wife, "It's your bloody fault for inviting the boy."

The search resumed in the morning. Most of the village turned out to help. Some said it was the first time they'd ventured into Burdock Wood. They took...