As Arthur had described, the woodlands terminated right on the periphery of the village. Stopping a moment before leaving the sheltering privacy of the trees, Hamish could see that once it parted from the woods the path changed into a gravelled footpath with grass verges, running between a low capped stone wall to his left and a higher brick wall to his right, adorned with the pruned and trained canes of climbing roses that would be gorgeous come summer, judging by the sheer number of them. His view was limited over the higher wall, a rooftop with tall twisted brick chimneys was just visible beyond the coping, but he could easily see the churchyard with its solid square-towered church to the opposite side, enclosed by the lower stone wall.
He decided that he might as well take a look at the church before investigating the rest of the village. As he walked along he could feel the sun’s rays on his back as the last of the weak afternoon sunshine shone down upon his shoulders. Working had kept him warm, but once he’d stopped he’d begun to cool down almost immediately in the shade under the trees, as even the tiny breeze that was playing about through the branches was fairly cold, so the warm rays were welcome. He looked over the top of the lichen-encrusted wall to admire the building ....from where he stood he could see a covered entrance porch with a typically Norman square tower rising above it. A herringbone-patterned leaded broach spire sat atop the tower and raised its pale head against the blue sky. The church appeared to have been built using the same white sandstone as White Briars, although it would, of course, be much older than his house.
‘His’ house. ...Hmmmm, which was a bit of Freudian slip straight from his subconscious, he thought. Still, it sounded good. Not that it was a possibility, what with all the legal mumbo-jumbo surrounding the title to White Briars ...but ...it was a nice day dream.
He had reached the covered lych-gate leading to the churchyard set diagonally at the end of the narrow lane between two massive spreading yew trees that must have been centuries old. This was opposite one corner of a roughly triangular-shaped village green, surrounded by a narrow asphalt roadway. To one side of the green, grew a large weeping willow, spreading its trailing branches over a circular bench seat that overlooked a small pond and over in the far corner Hamish could see a stonework Celtic-cross memorial. The space was enclosed by houses that looked so picture-postcard perfect that they could have been the set of a period drama except that there were no actors to be seen. There was no sign of any residents out and about and Hamish had the place to himself, so he thought.
Hamish, mesmerised by the scene, was still staring in the opposite direction as he put his hand out to lift the latch on the gate, when a sudden “Hey there ...I say ... hold up a minute ...don’t touch that!” pulled him up. He stopped, hand frozen in mid-air, ...he’d been so distracted that he had missed seeing a man, crouched on his knees directly on the other side of the gate, paint brush in one hand and a tin of white paint in the other.
The figure now rose and stepped back, putting the tin of paint down to open the gate for Hamish. As an ecclesiastical collar was just visible underneath a thick pullover and a pair of paint-splattered overalls, Hamish assumed that he must be faced with the vicar, a small, grey-haired man in his mid to late fifties who would have been rather nondescript if it weren’t for vivid blue eyes under thick bushy eyebrows. They lit up his face when he smiled, apologising politely, “Sorry about that...do come in, won’t you?” When Hamish looked hesitant ... “It’s fine, really ...you could have touched the latch, but I could see that your attention was elsewhere and I’ve only just painted the rest. If you’d put your hand on the gate and pushed it, we’d have both been covered in paint ....well,” he smiled ruefully, glancing at his overalls, “...not that it would have mattered much to my clothes ...but I thought I’d try and save yours.” He continued, chattily... “I wouldn’t be out here doing this in the normal scheme of things ... but I had somebody cancel an appointment at the last minute so thought I’d steal outside and do this little job while there was a smidgeon of sun about. You sort of came out of nowhere and gave me a bit of a start. Actually, now that I think of it, that’s a little odd, I didn’t hear a car pull up. Are you staying here in the village?”
“I came from the woods. That’s why you didn’t hear a car.” Hamish said, hoping that the question came from the vicar’s natural interest in people, rather than nosiness. “I was clearing the path from White Briars ...It’s a wonder you didn’t hear the chainsaw.”
“As a matter of fact, I did, but I just assumed it was someone from the cottages hereabouts cutting up firewood ...as they do from time to time.” Now he was looking at Hamish with undisguised curiosity... “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a tourist. We don’t get a lot of them at this time of year but there’s always the odd one that likes to go places when all the others have flown south for the winter ... but I’ve just now twigged as to who you must be. ...So, shall we start from the beginning again and I’ll introduce myself, as I should have done if I’d had any manners.” He extended his hand, “I’m David Cowley, Vicar of Saint Michaels ...and you, I’d guess, must be the new owner of White Briars?” This last was couched as a query, rather than an absolute statement.
“Yes, I am ...although technically I’m the tenant, not the owner ...well, sort of ...it’s complicated ...anyway, I’m Hamish McAllister. Glad to meet you.” Hamish took the outstretched hand and shook it. His own hand came away from the contact with daubs of white paint all over his palm.
“Oh no!” the Vicar exclaimed, “Now, that’s precisely what I was trying to avoid when this started ...do come inside and we can both wash this paint off before I inflict any more damage. There’s a sink in the church that the flower ladies use ...I’m sure they won’t mind if we borrow it to clean up.” As he was talking he divested himself of the overalls, leaving them lying on the paved path, before leading Hamish under a porch with a glass-fronted notice board advertising the times of Christmas services, village playgroups and upcoming local events. They went through the open door into the church then down the length of the aisle, to a tiny side room that was furnished with little else other than a porcelain butler’s sink set in a stained stone counter. “Sorry,” the vicar said apologetically, pointing to the sink, “there’s only cold water, and its near freezing at this time of year ...it’s just as well I’m using acrylic paint. It’s supposed to be quick-drying ...fortunately; it washes up easily in cold water as well.” Once they had both washed and dried their hands they went back out into the church. There was less space inside than Hamish might have expected from the exterior -the walls must be quite thick, he thought. A single central aisle, with solid wooden pews, beautifully carved on their ends, ran either side from the chancel to the tower. Shallow recesses, somewhere between a ‘niche’ and a ‘room’ in the side walls housed, on one side, a small altar and on the other, Hamish surmised, some sort of tomb or memorial. From above, the building would have resembled a cross with very stubby arms. Noticing Hamish’s interest, the vicar said, “I take it you were hoping to have a look around inside the church?”
“Yes, Vicar, I was ...but I can see you’re busy, so if it’s not convenient I can leave it for another day...” Hamish, not wishing to be a nuisance, turned to leave.
“Oh no, not at all ...I was just finishing anyway, even with this bit of sun its getting too late in the day to carry on painting and I wouldn’t dream of letting you go without giving you the ten p. tour.” He took Hamish’s silence for acquiescence. “We’ll start with the tower, shall we? Come this way Hamish ...And please, call me David. I prefer first names, if that’s alright with you?” He directed Hamish back to the square tower, set between the entrance portico and the nave.
David started to tell Hamish about the church … the timbre of his voice showing that he’d given this ‘tour’ many times before, not uninterested, but with a certain rote quality. “Architecturally,” he began, “this church is a bit of a mixed-breed mongrel ...but, in my opinion, the mixture tends to make it
more endearing.” First, he pointed to a section of stonework low on the tower wall, “that’s Saxon,...” then turned to point out the arch above their heads, “and this is Norman, ...the main part of the tower is Norman-built as well ...also, which we’ll leave for another day, there’s a crypt under the church, built with stone that seems to have been pillaged from a roman villa that was discovered a couple of miles away,” ...then, as they made their way through a gap in the pews that allowed access to the eastern transept, “this iron tomb is fourteenth century ...supposedly one of the oldest of its kind in the country, but the western transept is pure Victorian ...and, let’s see ...the pulpit’s Jacobean, dated 1626 ...and the font is Saxon as well ...it was found in a garden in the village in the 1930’s, ...don’t ask me how it got there, but it finally found its way back to the church. The altar table is local marble ...do come and see...” he bent to remove a hinged section of the communion rail to allow Hamish through, “...if you look closely you can see snail fossils in the stone.” His voice took on a more personal tone, “The local children love searching for them.” He pointed out several outlines of fossilised creatures in the thick slab. “Like I said, it’s a bit of a hodgepodge of styles. You don’t have to look too hard to find that nearly every period of church architecture has left its mark somewhere in this building, but I rather like that, ...the continuity of generations of worshippers leaving their mark ...and there’s a sense of unity here, even given all the differing styles, that transcends mere architecture ...and not just because they all used the same stone for all of the additions. I think it’s more connected with the desire to create something pleasing to God, you know?” The Vicar was one of those people who used his hands expressively as he spoke. David had continued walking as he was talking and gesturing, and they had moved back out to the porch.
Ushering Hamish out before himself, David pulled the heavy outer door closed. They stood in the porch looking out at the churchyard, centuries of gravestones scattered about among the grass.
Hamish mulled over what David had just said. “Yes, I do understand what you mean,’ he responded. “You’re saying that the best buildings sometimes evolve over years, or millennia ...rather than happening all at once. But that thinking doesn’t go down well in this age does it? ...There’s a trend to want everything, right now, no waiting involved.”
“Ah yes ...I meet that that in my line of work as well … I guess it’s a pretty common phenomenon. Patience might be a ‘virtue’ but it’s not one that many people want to wait any amount of time for.” David smiled ruefully, glancing at his watch. “I know it’s rather late for afternoon tea but, if you don’t have to get back for anything important ...would you like to continue this conversation over a hot drink at the vicarage? It’s just over there,” he directed Hamish’s gaze towards the two-storied house he had seen earlier beyond the rose-covered high brick wall.
“I was finishing up work myself. A hot drink would be welcome about now, thanks.” Hamish said.
David picked up his overalls then retrieved the tin of paint and brush. He put a hand, experimentally, on the paintwork of the gate. It was still just slightly tacky. “Won’t be long ’til its dry,” he said, “it’s hardly worth me putting up a ‘wet paint’ sign.” They went through, shutting the lych-gate behind them, and strolled up the short driveway into the vicarage. It was a large square-shaped Georgian edifice, three stories high if you counted the dormers in the roof and it reminded Hamish of a child’s picture of a house. Six over six double hung windows were set symmetrically around a central doorway and tall chimney stacks adorned both ends.
They entered by a side-door, David leaving his paint brush to soak before making the promised hot chocolates. They spent the next two hours in companionable conversation sitting in front of the fire in David’s study, finding they had much in common, despite a twenty year age gap, the talk ranging from such diverse subjects as art, architecture, politics, philosophy, religion to chess. Two of David’s three cats wound their bodies around Hamish’s legs before one jumped up to drape itself over his lap while the other slept, dog-like, on its back in front of the flames. In the course of the conversation, David mentioned that he too was a widower, ...his wife, Catherine, had died five years previously after, David had said, a long battle with breast cancer. Their three daughters were all grown and had left home, two married with their own children and the youngest working in London. Before leaving, Hamish had invited David to White Briars for dinner and a chess match the following evening.
It was dark by the time Hamish said goodnight and headed home. David had loaned him a flashlight to find his way, after Hamish had refused his offer of a ride home. The evening sky was clear but there was little moon. As he entered the darkness of the woods he found that was totally reliant on the bright ray of light emanating from the torch to illuminate his way. He eased through the kissing gate then retrieved the chainsaw, deciding to leave collecting the axe and handsaws until morning. Still, the path wasn’t difficult to follow, with the neat piles of cut firewood acting like cairns marking the way. Hamish hadn’t gone far, the beam of torchlight bouncing from tree to tree in front of him, when he caught sight of a pale figure on the path just out of range of the light. He was more surprised than concerned and hurried to catch up with the mystery figure, thinking it must be someone out for a walk who had happened upon the cleared path and thought to explore a little,...he lost sight of the figure momentarily, but as he rounded the next bend in the path he saw her again...the outline was definitely that of a woman. The pale shape he had seen had been her dress, reflected in the farthest beams of the torch. “Hello. Who’s there?” he called, feeling somewhat silly. Well, he thought, what else could he say ...’Stop ...you’re on private property,’ or, ‘I won’t hurt you ...I just want to know what you’re doing here in my woods,’? It didn’t really matter ...there was no answer ...What on earth was a lone woman doing out here in the woods on a chilly winter’s evening without a warm coat? He sped up to try and spot her again, but she had disappeared,...he was at the end of the path now and the carriage house loomed ahead,...she’d probably taken fright and run back up the driveway to the road, ...there was little point looking for her, he decided, he’d just frighten her more if he tried to follow her. He gave up the chase and stowed the saw in the gardener’s shed before making for the serpentine path back to the house.
***
Shivering almost uncontrollably in her perch high up in the tree above him, Liana watched him go by.
***
Reaching to open the conservatory door, Hamish almost trampled on a bunch of flowers before he noticed them lying at his feet on the stoop. Stretching over, he unlocked the doors then bent to pick up the flowers, taking them with him into the kitchen. As he passed through the living room he noted how cold it was inside. He’d cleaned and set the fire after Steve and Linda had left but the house hadn’t been heated since they’d gone back to London. He found a small vase, filled it with water and popped the flowers into it before taking it back to the living room with him. Leaving them on a low side table he lit the fire and ventured back to the kitchen to find something for supper.
Later, after hot soup followed by macaroni and cheese eaten while sitting in front of the blazing fire, he picked up the vase and studied the small bunch ...wondering who had left them. The posy wasn’t a typical florist’s production ... delicate snowdrops and lavender, surrounded with forget-me-nots, rosemary and white babies-breath, hand-tied with stalks of lavender intricately knotted around the stems. He was touched that someone had been thoughtful enough to leave them, but had no idea how he was supposed to thank the donor’s kindness since they had been left anonymously. It was odd too; most of the flowers were summer varieties that no one would have in their garden at this time of year unless they had a hot-house and not the sort of stock that a florist would sell...
He sat the vase back on the table and went to the bookshelves, thinking he’d find something to read. Look
ing along the shelves of gardening books until he found a row of books that piqued his interest, he pulled out two on roses, one on the art of shaping topiary and another prettily illustrated Victorian tome about the meaning of flowers. With the books under one arm he turned to the curtains, intending to pull them across to keep the heat from escaping. Idly looking out to the garden as he pulled the heavy drape across, he saw the outline of his sleeping bag he had left outside to air that morning.
“Bugger,” he muttered. It had slipped his mind that it was still out there and it would be getting damp in the evening air. He hurriedly put the books down and went out through the portico door to retrieve it.
He had switched on the outside light and was already pulling the bag off the airing frame when he saw the figure lying at the top of the steps that led up to the house from the lower yew garden. The bag forgotten ...he hurried over. Even in the dim light he was sure it was the woman he had seen in the woods earlier. She was lying face-down; as if she had tripped on the last step, was clothed only in a flimsy pale-coloured sleeveless dress and was barefoot ...she must be freezing. She appeared unconscious, or worse ...he reached down to take hold of her arm and turn her so that he could check for vital signs. When he touched her she flinched slightly so at least she was alive, but her skin was ice-cold. Hamish put his arms under the limp body and picked her up, swiftly carrying her inside. She weighed practically nothing and it was like picking up a child rather than a fully grown woman ... he was aware of too many bones under his hands. When the light from the front door fell on her he could see that she was thin to the point of emaciation.
Flowers in the Morning Page 17
