“Yes, I have cleared the path. I’m already finding it useful ...feel free to walk that way if you’re not driving.” Hamish answered, preferring to concentrate on Arthur’s statement rather than the question. He didn’t know quite what to make of Arthur’s line of inquiry, then remembered their somewhat odd conversation the day they’d met.
“No, nothing so far,’ he fibbed, finding himself reluctant to mention the presence or absence of his mystery house guest her to Arthur just yet.
Arthur looked at him as if he knew he’d just been fed a lie. “Humph, …well, there’s still time for that. We’d best be on our way and let you get on,” Arthur replied a little curtly. “We’ll say goodbye and go and get our dinner.”
“Who’s getting the dinner Dad?” Sara questioned.
“Well, I always help.” her father said, testily. Hamish bid them both a quick goodbye and left the two bickering, he hoped, good-naturedly. He would race home and dig out a bottle of wine but if he was going to make it back to the vicarage in time he might be better to use his car on the return journey.
It was as he was passing by the marble sculpture, prettily perched on her rock at the pool’s edge …he’d already done another couple of circuits around his own sculptures just to reassure himself that the flowers were for real, going so far as to pick one off and check the petals –they were, …when it suddenly struck him ...his mystery woman ...she was the spitting image of the woman on the rock ...even malnourished and ill-kempt, the proportions and planes of her face, the shape of her jawline, and especially her eyes ...he remembered lamenting that those same eyes in the marble sculpture by the pool were a little lifeless, but he never forgot the shape of someone’s eyes ...and it had to be her ...but how? That statue must be at least sixty years old ...and the woman who had turned up outside the house two nights ago would have been in her mid to late twenties at the outside. But it was her ...he was sure of it. Arthur’s recent question came back to him and he was reminded of the stories Arthur had passed on about the flower-loving sprite at the bottom of the garden. Suddenly it didn’t seem such a flight of fancy after all ...but surely not? Hamish shook his head as if to dispel the ridiculous notion of it all and left the poolside.
He took the shortest route back to the house. And there, by the doorstep to the conservatory, for the second time this week he found flowers left. This time it was a large bunch of white lilies and crimson-red roses, interspersed with green branches of holly and fir. The heady fragrance of the lilies and fir hung in the air all around the doorway. He sniffed appreciatively murmuring, “Mmmm … the scent of Christmas.” Picking up the flowers and taking them inside, he filled the kitchen sink with water and left them to soak while he got ready to go out.
It wasn’t until Hamish was hunting in the kitchen pantry for a suitable bottle of wine to take to the vicarage that he noticed the packet of cereal he had opened for breakfast had disappeared. Opening the fridge he found that a carton of milk had been taken as well. Now he knew what the bunch of flowers on the doorstep was ...payment. He smiled to himself ...he was going to need more groceries if this kept up. He wondered how she had got in again. The house had been locked when he had left that morning. Just in case, he took some cheese rolls from the freezer and left them on the bench before he went out.
***
Christmas at the vicarage was thoroughly enjoyable. Hamish took the latest flowers as an additional gift for his host, though, he knew, it was as much to show David as anything else. They had been immediately seized amid exclamations of delight by one of David’s daughters and arranged into a festive floral arrangement around a fat white pillar candle to form the centrepiece for the Christmas table, their fragrance filling the vicarage dining room. The meal was, as promised, noisy and boisterous, with David’s four grandchildren, ages ranging from a babe in arms to five years old contributing to the organised bedlam of the traditional Christmas lunch of roast and puddings. The youngest had brought her current boyfriend, filling the long dining table with eight adults and the children.
Hamish had little opportunity to speak privately with David until the evening while they shared the task of washing a small mountain of pots and pans used during the day. David, elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater listened in fascination while Hamish told him about his discoveries by the pool that morning and his theory about the missing woman.
“I know it sounds more than a little far-fetched ...I don’t really expect you to believe me. In fact, I’m not too sure that I believe myself...” he trailed off, turning to add the latest dish to a considerable pile on the kitchen table.
“…Wait a moment,” David interjected, “You forget who you’re talking to. Any more far-fetched, you think, than, oh, I don’t know ...walking on water, raising the dead or controlling the wind? Hmm,” He continued, “Just for arguments sake though, you don’t seem to have considered the possibility that this woman might be a direct descendant of whoever modelled for that statue? It may be that the explanation is something far more prosaic than otherworldly.”
“You are quite right.” Hamish conceded. “I’m sorry, I guess it’s just that after finding random bunches of flowers and seeing my own sculptures transformed like they were this morning, then realising that my mystery guest was the spitting image of the statue by the pool, I put two and two together and got ten. Before all that I was never inclined to believe Arthur’s story. Just forget I mentioned it.”
“No, no, no ...that’s not what I said.” David waved the soapy dish brush around like a conductor’s baton, making his point, “I’m not discounting your version ...just offering another perspective. Until we see her again, neither theory should be discounted. Now, you say that food has been taken, so that supposes that she is still somewhere nearby. Hopefully it’s just a matter of time before you encounter her again, then you will be able to speak to her yourself. Although how one goes about asking someone if they are some sort of immortal flower fairy is quite beyond me.” He thought for a moment, “In the meantime, we can do a little detective work of our own. The parish records here are quite extensive, ...that is to say, they cover a lot more than baptisms, deaths and marriages and they go back a very long way...if what you say is true, we’d be looking for something prior to world war two, initially, but surely if this woman, fairy, whatever has been popping up through time we ought to be able to find some indication. Let’s see,...I’m busy with my family tomorrow, then there’s the service Sunday morning,....but I’m free pretty much straight after that so why don’t you meet me at the church, say eleven a.m. and we’ll see if we can find anything.... There, that’s the last one...” he dumped a large roasting dish on the draining board, “I’ll just wipe up this bench and then let’s go and have a restorative brandy...I do love these family get-togethers but since I’m not permitted to cook I tend to get the cleaning up jobs and it does get rather tiresome after several days.”
Hamish arrived home late to find that the cheese rolls had not been touched. It was cold in the kitchen so he left them where they were and went up to bed.
***
When he got up the next morning the rolls had gone. In their place was a tiny bunch of sweetly scented purple violets tied with grass. Hamish held them up to his nose, breathing in the soft smell before searching for something small enough to put them in,...if this kept up, he thought, he was going to need more vases.
After eating toast and a boiled egg for breakfast, since cereal was no longer an option, he thought he might go for a wander around the parts of the garden he hadn’t seen yesterday. Judging from the fernlike Jack Frost patterns on the kitchen windows, there had been an overnight freeze. He wandered through to the study, lighting the fire he’d already set, and scrubbed at patch of the front bay window until he could see outside to the terrace where the snow on the top lawn sparkling in the morning sunlight, beckoning him out. He was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs in the foyer, pulling on his boots when there was a knock at the front door. He got up to op
en it, one boot on, the other dangling from his hand, to find Sara and Matthew standing in the portico, looking expectant. Behind them, sitting on the snow-covered terrace were two animal cages of the sort that might be used to take a dog to the vet. Oh dear, he thought, the anti-social swans –he had forgotten they were due for release in his garden today. Through the mesh covered ends of the cages Hamish could see long white necks writhing backwards and forwards as the occupants attempted to free themselves. The larger of the two was clattering his beak across the metal of the cage door and pecking at the lock. Hamish wasn’t feeling sure at all that their behaviour boded well for a good start to their occupancy in the garden. Next to the cages sat a bulging burlap sack.
“Good morning. You’re bright and early, aren’t you?” Hamish said. “Those birds look heavy. If you’d have come and got me I would have helped.”
“Morning,” Sara returned cheerfully, adding a trifle smugly, “We came in the nursery van and we managed, didn’t we, Matthew?” she ruffled her son’s hair.
“Yep, told you I’m strong, didn’t I, Mr McAllister?” Matthew quipped, striking a pose that would have done a muscle-builder proud.
“You did too,” Hamish said, laughing at his antics. “And as the sea turtle said to the fish, ‘Mr McAllister is my father,’ name’s Hamish.” He turned back to Sara, “Well now that you’re here, shall we take these two down to the pool and set them free? They don’t sound too happy to be pent up in those cages.” He pulled on his other boot and closed the door, reaching down to grab the carry handle of one of the cages. The larger of the two, presumably the male, Hamish assumed, let out a loud hiss as Hamish bent to pick up its cage. He put out a hand to take the sack as well but Matthew had already hefted it into his arms, grinning despite visibly sagging under the weight. Almost imperceptibly, Sara shook her head at Hamish as she picked up the second cage with its vociferously complaining occupant and they headed down the garden in the direction of the pool. He let the boy handle the bag himself, keeping a watch out of the corner of one eye in case the weight should get too much for him.
“I’m not too knowledgeable about swans,” Hamish admitted. “What’s to stop them taking off once we set them free?” He pointed to the cage in Sara’s hand, flapping his free hand in a parody of flying.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Sara replied airily. “That’s what the sack’s for ...grain. As long as you feed them, they should stay around ...if they know what’s good for them, and they usually do. And they’ve been such a nuisance in the village that if they do turn up there again I’m sure someone will bring them back to you. It was Dad’s next door neighbour that bought them and they’ve been getting out of their garden and terrorizing the local children on their way to school as well as ruining more than one flower garden and several vegetable patches last summer, so nobody will be too keen to see them back again. If you see what I mean.”
“I think I do.” Hamish countered dryly, pondering if it was too late to back out. “I’m starting to wonder what I’ve got myself into.”
“You shouldn’t have a problem,” she said. “They just need a bit more space. Your pool will be perfect ...it’s quiet, and well away from any other houses and gardens.”
“And what happens when I want to go down there myself?” Hamish enquired.
“Just let them know you’re the boss.” Sara said, smiling across at him. “That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, should it?”
They were nearing the bottom of the flight of steps to the yew lawn and Hamish was saved from making a reply by Matthew stumbling under his too heavy load. He quickly put a hand to grab the boy’s arm to stop him from tumbling, suggesting, “How about we both carry that. We could take a corner each?” Matthew, by now red in the face from exertion, agreed. Hamish was rewarded by a small smile of gratitude and a nod of approval for his face-saving suggestion from Sara.
When they arrived by the pool, Sara directed Matthew to spread several handfuls of grain on the snowy ground beside the water. “We’ll let them both go together,” she said to Hamish. “Matthew, you stand out of the way over there.” she pointed to the left, “You have the male, Hamish. He’s a little riled up with all this so you might want to be prepared in case he takes exception to you.”
“Yeah,” Matthew added from the safety of the side-lines. “His name’s Attila.”
“Great,” Hamish said in dry tones. “With a name like that ...Now I’m feeling really confidant of liking him.” He bent and opened the cage door. Attila came out in a rush of ruffled feathers and beak but, fortunately for Hamish, headed straight for his mate, as Sara released the female at the same time. She and Hamish left the cages and stepped back to give the birds room to feel comfortable in their new surroundings. After a few minutes of grumbling and checking that each other was still alive the two settled to feeding. Sara, Hamish and Matthew stood back and watched as Attila left the grain and launched himself into the pond, happily cleaving a path through the weed to paddle afloat in the middle of the water, neck weaving to and fro as he gobbled up the green pond weed.
“See. I told you they’d be happy.” Sara said, gleefully.
“You did at that.” Hamish admitted. “So if he’s Attila, who’s she?” he pointed at the female, who hesitated a minute or so before joining her mate on the water. Soon, she too was feeding.
“Oh, that’s Nefertiti.” Matthew said.
“On account of her elegant neck,” Sara added helpfully. Seeing Hamish’s raised eyebrows she added defensively, “Don’t blame us, the neighbours named them.” she looked around the glade. “Things look different here. I always loved how beautiful the marble lady was and how peaceful and serene it is around this pool. I remember the lady,” she indicated the marble figure, “but I don’t recall those two statues on the other side of the water. They look like a mother and her little child ...how lovely.”
“They’re new.” Hamish said curtly, making it clear that he didn’t wish to discuss the two sculptures. “We should go and leave these birds to settle in. I’ll come down later this evening to feed them again and check on them.” Stony-faced, he strode across to the summerhouse, leaving the grain sack against the summerhouse wall with a rock sitting on top of it to stop the birds getting into the feed and returned to pick up both of the empty cages. Sara and Matthew had little choice but to follow him back up the steps to the yew walk.
Half way back along the yews, Hamish stopped abruptly and faced Sara, his face losing some of its grimness. “I’m sorry, I was rude back there. The sculptures are of my wife and dau..., I mean, my late-wife and daughter. They died nearly two years ago in a car accident. But it’s not your fault, and clearly, I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“I’m really sorry,” Sara was aghast. “I didn’t know. ... I really didn’t mean to be so insensitive. And there I was blathering on ...I always talk too much when I get nervous. I mean,” she trailed off ... “Oh, heck, we don’t get a lot of single, good-looking men round here and I, I’m...I’m not used to ...” she stopped, “I think I’ll just shut up now.” she pantomimed zipping her mouth shut. The gesture reminded Hamish of the first day they’d met when she had done something similar in almost this same spot, insisting that she couldn’t tell him about who had clipped the yews. He remembered too that he would have quite possibly left the garden unaware of the cottage’s presence if it hadn’t been for Sara telling him to look harder.
“Please don’t stop on my account.” he said. “I enjoy blathering ... it’s a little known fact that I come from a long line of Scottish blatherers –only we call it blethering in Scotland. It’s something of a time-honoured family tradition.” He smiled conspiratorially, attempting to lessen her discomfort. “Would you and Matthew like to come in for coffee or hot chocolate? I may even have mini marshmallows and chocolate biscuits ... with a bit of luck.” Hamish, a little reticent to mention his house guest-cum food thief, thought that perhaps he should be careful of offering food that might no longer b
e in the pantry.
“YES ...please!” Matthew yelled from behind a large yew shaped like a peacock. He had wandered a little way from the adults and had been weaving his way in and out of the towering rows of yews but was obviously still keeping half an ear on the conversation. “I’m starving!”
“You should know better than offer food to a growing twelve year old.” Sara warned. “He’s always ‘starving’ and already eating me out of house and home.” She looked fondly towards her son.
Back at the doorstep, as they were removing boots, Hamish asked, “I forgot to ask; do the swans need a shelter or anything else? It’s pretty cold out here at the moment.”
“No,” said Sara, “They should be fine; after all, they have the woods to shelter in if the weather gets worse. I’d just leave them to settle in and find their own way.”
They went inside and through to the kitchen. As Sara passed through the living room she exclaimed over the house, craning her neck to peer at the intricate patterns of the living room ceiling. “Wow, Its really beautiful, isn’t it? All this lovely plasterwork …I’ve never been inside before, this place has been shut up for as long as I can remember, ...I used to come here with my dad sometimes when he worked in the garden but he’d tell me off if I tried to look in the windows and I always imagined it as dark and a bit scary. I never knew it was like this, it’s like something straight out of a fairy tale, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Hamish retorted cryptically. Sara looked a little surprised at his odd comment but when he didn’t elaborate she elected not to ask what he meant by it.
The kitchen was warm; thanks to the fire that Hamish had left burning in the study hearth. Hamish heated milk and was relieved to find that the chocolate biscuits he had half-promised and a nearly full packet of marshmallows were still to be found in the pantry. He put the hot drinks onto the small kitchen table and invited Matthew to slide into the bench seat while he and Sara took the chairs. The winter sun was still too low, but Hamish hoped that by spring, with some careful pruning of the trees closest to the house, this would become a sunny breakfast spot. The first thing Sara noticed as she sat down was the vase full of tiny violets which Hamish had placed in the centre of the table. She leant over and picked them up, holding them to her nose and breathing deeply.
Flowers in the Morning Page 20
