“That would be absolutely brilliant, Hamish. Thank you.” Sara looked noticeably relieved and sat back in the armchair, smiling and looking more relaxed than Hamish had so far seen her. She was wearing what appeared to be her uniform, when not in running gear, of jeans and a leather jacket and when she pulled her stockinged feet up under her, cradling the hot drink between her hands she looked like little more than a teenager. Hamish couldn’t help but notice how vulnerable a picture she made, her small form engulfed by the wings of the chair. It would make a great photograph and without the worried frown that he’d seen on her face most of time since he’d met her she really was quite pretty...
“Whoa there, Steady on,” he thought. He was already hunting high and low for one damsel in distress and one was more than enough. He steered the conversation to safer ground, discussing with Sara the plans he had to resurrect the herb garden. They talked for a while before Sara said it was time she got Matthew home to bed. As they were leaving, Matthew reminded Hamish again about the pigeons. Hamish relented, saying that he would start with half a dozen and Matthew let out a whoop of pleasure ...no doubt, Hamish thought, already counting the proceeds towards his new BMX.
Hamish rinsed the cups and went up to his bed under the eaves ...the big bed still reminded him too much of something made for two and he wasn’t ready to sleep there yet. Before getting ready for bed he left a selection of foodstuffs in a cardboard carton on the kitchen table. For a moment, he thought of waiting up and keeping watch to try and catch out his night time visitor but thought better of it. After all, he reasoned, he didn’t want to frighten her away completely and at least this way he knew she was getting some food.
Green beads and red beads
Threaded on a vine:
Is there any handiwork
Prettier than mine?
Cicely Mary Barker
Chapter Thirteen
Overnight, the food had gone. On Monday morning, Hamish opened the laundry door to discover a loose collection of plants lying on the doorstep, bound together with ivy and Virginia creeper. He took them inside to the kitchen table ...the creeper was as richly coloured as he had first seen it in the autumn, all of the plants were in full bloom and some bore small berries. He didn’t wonder at this anymore as by now he was becoming accustomed to her out-of-season ‘Thank You’s’. Though there was something about this selection of flowers that was unlike any of her previous efforts ... Although some of the individual flowers were pretty enough, the bunch lacked both a sense of harmony and the meticulous presentation of her previous efforts. The odd combination of flowers set his senses tingling but it wasn’t until he was downing his second cup of coffee that he started to grasp the significance of her choice of plants. He had immediately recognised a white rose similar to that she had left for him when she first disappeared and then the fragrant starry white flowers of jasmine, but some of the others eluded him. He took the bunch into his study and pulled out a couple of his own plant books, ...it had dawned on him that he had a fair idea of what at least one of the other plants was and it took little time before he verified his theory. The deep glossy green heart-shaped leaves with their slender racemes of greenish yellow flowers were those of Tamus communis, Black Bryony. He turned straight to the page reference for White Bryony, Brionia dioica, and there was a coloured drawing of the other ...dull green palmate leaves and tendrils with pale green flowers in small clusters. She couldn’t have told him more clearly if she had shouted at him ...here in front of him were her names ...the Ivy and the Virginia creeper, wrapped around a Briar rose, Jasmine and Bryony. But there was still one last leaf and a flower that had hadn’t yet identified and he couldn’t connect it with any name he had read in the church register. He reached again for the book, ...if they were from the same plant it would be easy enough to find, ...a fairly distinctive leaf with blue-grey serrated leaflets and a brownish red tubular flower, ...the process took a little longer because he had no idea what this plant was and had to start from first principles. Picking up the leaf, he found that it had a strongly unpleasant smell “Pffew,” ...he hurriedly put it down again. Ah, but the distinctive scent gave him somewhere to start ...soon he’d found a name that matched the plant ...Melianthus major. When he read the common name he realised that here again she was sending him a message, ...the flower seemed innocuous enough as it went under the title ‘honey flower’ but he didn’t suppose that it was coincidental that Melianthus major’s other common name was ‘Touch-Me-Not’. “Ouch,” he murmured. Well …message received, loud and clear. And so much for her previous expressions of appreciation for his help.
He thought about it for a moment before choosing to take this as a positive sign. At least these symbols meant that she knew he had found out about her past. Though how she had discovered that was more than he could work out ... it wasn’t as if she had been there when he and David had been searching the church records ...or had she? Yes, she could have been outside the vicarage study door while they had been talking, but the walls of David’s house were thick stone and they would have undoubtedly noticed had she been peeking through the windows.
Looking at the flowers strewn across his table he came to the conclusion that there was little point in him searching for her. She was obviously aware that he’d been looking and he’d most likely be wasting his time continuing to hunt blindly for her ...she would have to come to him ...one way or another. So he decided instead to spend the day outside clearing the paths around the old herb garden.
After gathering together the tools he thought he’d need he wheeled them round to the narrow gap in the overgrown hedges that surrounded what was left of the one-time garden. Arthur had given him some idea of what to look for, but after years of neglect the paving had all but vanished beneath a layer of intertwined grass and weeds. Using the garden fork as a prod Hamish fossicked around until he struck the solid path ...from there he worked systematically with a spade and an adze, uncovering an intricate layout of narrow brick paths with the pavers set on their edges in a herringbone pattern. He found himself humming snatches of a song throughout the morning as he worked. He didn’t think much about it at first ...except to acknowledge that he hadn’t felt like singing for a long time. The melody kept coming back to him at odd moments throughout the morning until he stopped and tried to work out what it was. “Ta ta tum, da daaa dum, doodle dum dum. It was there on the tip of his tongue ...he knew it. What was the silly song?! “Ah-ha,” he thought …That was it ...he still couldn’t get all the words but some of the music was coming back to him. He could hear oboes thrumming …He began…
…“I love to pick you flowers in the morning ...pum, pum, puuum.” He filled in the orchestral accompaniment…in his mind there was a small ensemble of wind instruments and strings, maybe cellos…
…“White roses when the stars begin to shine ...pum, pum, puum,” he sang. No, that couldn’t be right ...unless it was very early in the morning, the stars wouldn’t be shining ...he dug around some more in his brain for the lyrics.
“White something,” No ...there it was, “white briars as the sun begins its climb ...” No wonder he’d been thinking of it with the White Briars reference. Now he sang with growing confidence…before it occurred to him that he might have an audience.
He heard a tiny chirp from the section of path behind that was already cleared. He turned to look; it was the robin, pulling at a fat worm Hamish had uncovered in clearing the paving. He stopping singing, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and looked around. “I don’t care if you hear me but I hope she’s not listening,” he muttered under his breath. Singing, as Elaine had pointed out to him on several occasions, was not one of his better talents. He normally reserved it for the shower, or drunken evenings with Steve. But here, on such a fine day, well ...who gave a rat’s arse!! He continued, searching his memory for the words.
They came to him in snatches...
“I would take you where there’s fairy music,” …well, that certainly w
asn’t here, not with him singing. “Don’t care,” he spoke nonchalantly. “If you don’t like it, Bugger off and don’t listen. He directed his comments to the bushes nearest him.” He’d had enough of the drama for the moment and didn’t need an ethereal music critic. For now he was enjoying the uncomplicated solitude of the garden. “Hmmpf,” he thought, she was probably the harps and flowers type …from what he’d seen so far. She was certainly into flowers when it came to sending messages.
…“Read you tales that no one can believe.” Yeah, well, this was starting to read like some tale out of the Bother’s Grimm. Five hundred years old and not looking a day over twenty-five. He’d need to see a shrink if this kept up. He swept the thought aside and sang on lustily as he dug,
“I wanna plant you roses that smell sweetest,” Yeah, maybe he’d plant some really nice fragrant roses in the garden among the herbs when it was done …but for now he needed to keep digging. “..And vines that twine your heart around with mine,” sounded painful, who wrote these lyrics? “Making jars of perfume from the petals, sweet scent of jasmine and of columbine.” Yeah, well jasmine was scented, but was columbine? That reference put him in mind of the unfortunate town of the same name in America. Possibly not what the songwriter had intended when they’d written the line. He bet they were just running out flowers that rhymed with mine.
Then there was, “something, something …If you’d only try to open up your mind.” She needed to open her bloody mind if she wanted his help.
…“I wanna see you smile with my gift of happiness …it’s all wrapped up and topped with a yellow bow.” They could both do with some happiness –he didn’t mind if it came tied in a yellow bow or not. It was starting to sound like that song with the yellow ribbons round the old oak tree. Bit country for his taste, he thought. Still, what was digging in the dirt, if not ‘country’?
…“Watered with the rain the seasons send us, and ... Oh ...I dunno,” he sang, extemporising and making up in volume what he lacked in lyrical accuracy, “...CO-OM-POST...to make your veges grow, PUM. PUM, PUUM!” Now he was really getting into it, enjoying himself,
“…And in the winter’s snow, ...Pum, Pum, …my fire will keep you from the co- ow, OOW, OOOO, -OLD, I STILL DO-ON’T KNOW!,...” he sang at the top of his voice, sounding more like a dog in pain than anything else. Well, he’d already kept her from the cold once –for all the thanks he’d got for saving her pathetically underfed skinny arse from the winter snow. A few flowers and a warning to ‘Touch-Me-Not,” …He’d give her a right ‘Touch-me-Not’ piece of his mind the next time he saw her. He started up again, but he’d lost his train of thought and the rest of the song just wouldn’t come...and he knew that the next time he saw her all he would be was relieved that she was still alive. His momentary annoyance melted away like the winter snow in the song. He concentrated for a moment more, wanting to finish the refrain.
Hmmm …There was something about...
“…What use are flowers if I’m dying?”Oh dear, it sounded as if things in the song hadn’t worked out too well. It ended on a bit of a low note ... like those dismal-ending Nicholas Sparks’ novels that Elaine had been fond of. No matter ... the ‘flowers in the morning’ certainly reminded him of Briar, or whatever name she was currently calling herself.
Now that he’d unleashed it, the song wouldn’t go away, and teased him with its half-remembered lyrics for the rest of the day. Hamish hummed the tune and sang the lyrics as he worked. The robin stayed, feasting on the bugs and worms that he uncovered as the paths were slowly revealed and only flew off towards the end of the day.
***
Hamish finished clearing the paths by the late afternoon and had made a good start on digging over the beds. Driving the fork tines into the ground and leaning his backside on the handle; physically tired but satisfied, he took time to stand back, arms clasped across his chest as he admired his day’s work. The exposed paths now made a shape of four interlinked overlapping hearts that reminded him of Celtic patterns – similar to the five-fold symbol that represented the four elements in perfect balance. He had even discovered an old undamaged sundial lying under leaf letter deep under the hedge. Thinking it an odd place for it to end up, he’d replaced the plate back on its stone plinth in the centre of the garden. The bronze sundial plate was in the form of a leafy green-man’s face with a floral-inspired gnomon, the style of which reminded Hamish of the work he had seen all those months ago in the pedestrian gate which had led him to the discovery of the garden and the cottage. Unlike the gate, he resisted the urge to clean the sundial up as the bronze had weathered to a lovely shade of green. He thought it went well with the mask’s identity although the face did have a rather severe, unflinchingly sombre quality about it that made Hamish not want to meet whoever it might have been modelling upon.
He looked around at his day’s work. True, the hedges were every bit as unruly as they’d been and there was still a lot of hard graft to be done to get the herb garden back to its former glory but he would leave those tasks for another day –maybe tomorrow if the weather held. The work outdoors had contributed much to his sense of wellbeing since arriving at White Briars, and for that he was thankful.
He stowed the tools and went inside to clean up and eat before climbing the stairs to bed, falling asleep quickly to sleep soundly …more the norm these days than the exception.
***
It took another day of back-breaking digging and soil preparation; appreciated vociferously by ‘His’ robin, before the beds were ready for planting. A phone call to Sara resulted in the delivery of several hundred small box plants for hedging and four larger pre-trimmed topiary balls that, by the finish of day two of the knot-garden restoration, were gracing the corners of the paved area. The herbs, Hamish thought, could wait until the springtime. Sara had warned against the use of Buxus, citing the spread of box blight, but Hamish had prevailed. He hadn’t wanted to explain to Sara but had more than a slight feeling that blight would not be an issue in this garden.
The weather closed in again during the night and by the next morning another snow storm was threatening the garden. Glad of a forced rest day from digging, Hamish knew that he had been putting off a certain phone call for too long already, so, first thing upon waking before he allowed himself to get side-tracked on anything else, he rang Rosetta. It was a call that necessitated holding the phone well away from his ear for several minutes before she calmed down sufficiently to speak reasonably to him. After apologies from Hamish and a promise, that she said she would like a copy of, preferably written in his own blood, that he would NEVER again go off the reservation and leave her in the lurch without a contact phone number ... “Did he have ANY idea how many people had been calling her looking for him?!!!” she screeched, before setting off on another lengthy tirade. Hamish waited patiently until eventually, her anger vented; she consented to answer his questions about Karl Van Eeden.
“Yes,” she said, with a note of undisguised curiosity in her tone, “he had been a printmaker. He’d done most of his work in the latter part of the nineteenth century and he’d lived somewhere down there in that Godforsaken wilderness where Hamish was currently residing, ...that was,” she couldn’t resist adding, ire in every syllable, “now that she knew where he was currently residing.” Hamish, bit his tongue, resisting any retort, including the temptation to tell Rosetta that Kent was hardly at the ends of earth. “Anyway,” she continued, “Van Eeden died in his early thirties in a horse-riding accident. A shame to lose such a talented artist when he was just coming into his prime, art-wise, that was.” Hamish thanked her for the information and promised he would get back to his ‘real’ work forthwith, painting that was and not wasting his time in a garden that he could employ someone to manage; Rosetta’s sentiments, not his; then cut the call. That was Rosetta, a veritable mine of information when it pertained to anything concerning art and artists, but not overly sympathetic when it came to their personal lives. He knew Van Eeden’s su
rname from the parish marriage register but had wanted verification that he was artist who had done the etching of the carriage house and dovecote. So, he’d died young, …and Kendal had died long before his time too in the beginnings of the post WW2 cold war, ...he knew now that the ‘John’ that he had supposed she had been crying out for when she had been rambling in her sleep must have not been a ‘John’ at all, but ‘Jon’, short for Jonathan Kendal. What had happened, he wondered, to make her feel the pain of grief so intensely in spite of it being more than sixty years after his death?
Well, he thought, the answer wasn’t going to come out of thin air while he stood around waiting, so he might as well be doing something useful. He showered and dressed warmly, pulling two pairs of thick woollen socks on his feet, ate breakfast, then went upstairs, intending to strip the tester bed and wash the sheets that had been left on it since the disappearance of its last occupant. The bed was wide, and he was leaning awkwardly, reaching across to pull up the soiled linen from the far side when he lost his footing on the polished wooden floor. His feet suddenly slid out from under him and he fell, in a not entirely controlled way. His left arm flailed out in a reflex action to try and grab something to halt his fall ...striking one of fretwork panels of the headboard with a hard painful thud that reverberated up his arm all the way to his shoulder. His head narrowly missed hitting the very solid end post and he ended sprawled like a beached whale on this stomach. Taking in a deep breath he rolled over and lay on his back inspecting his throbbing hand for damage …it appeared to have sustained nothing worse than a few grazed knuckles. Then he looked overhead to see that the bed had been built with more than one hidden catch of the sort that operated the portal to the stairs at the end. He must have unwittingly hit a release mechanism and it had caused one of the panels to burst ajar. Aches forgotten, he felt like a small boy, excited at finding a secret compartment, as he clambered to his knees to peer into the space revealed by the door’s opening. What he found might have disappointed a small boy searching for treasure, but the contents were exactly what Hamish had been seeking.
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