The Posy Ring Episode 18

Mateo looked back at Francisco, who had managed to catch up with them, and was now seated on a stone, trying to pretend that all was well with him, when he was clearly exhausted.

The priest looked thoughtfully at him, took a leather flask from inside his cloak, and motioned him to drink. The spirit brought an unaccustomed flush to his cheek and a smile to his lips. Brendan took the flask and handed it to Mateo in turn. “Drink. It will put heart into you.”

The spirit was rough and heady and indeed put heart into him. Into them both. It gave them the strength for a final push. They concealed themselves as best they could in a grove of hazels while Father Brendan rode on to see if he could arrange their passage at a price they could afford.

A Secret Garden

Cal and Daisy step out into an extravaganza of colour. The house sits on the sheltered eastern side of the island, but this part of the garden slants south-east and now, approaching mid-day, it is very warm for the time of year. The ground is already a mass of bluebells and campion, interwoven with violets and primroses. The land slopes gently down to the remnants of a stone terrace above the sea.

“Wow!” she says, inadequately. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

“I’ve only ever seen this from the sea,” Cal says. “I have a boat and I come along here fishing for mackerel sometimes. But when Viola was around, you didn’t trespass on her beach. I don’t suppose she would have seen you, but you just didn’t.”

“So there is a beach?”

“Down there. It’s not huge. If we can find the way down, I can show you. Viola used to keep a rowing boat there as well, I think. Many people here do. My father told me she used to row round to the village, to Scoull along there, for her shopping. Where your hotel is. She always preferred the sea to the road. Look. There’s a path.”

“Are there cliffs down there?”

“The cliffs are mostly in the north and south. But it’s pretty steep – or looks that way from the sea. It can be a bit treacherous. There must be one or two other paths down, but this is clearly the main one.”

He is pointing to their left where a track, just visible among the undergrowth, curves down towards the sea. Across to the right there is a block of what may once have been stables and workshops, long and low, with slate roofs.

“You’re short of nothing here.” “Nothing but cash to do anything with it,” she says, drily. “Enough to pay the taxes. I suppose that’s some consolation.”

Behind them, a crumbling wall extends beyond the tower, running parallel to the coastline for a little way.

“What’s that? Back there?” Daisy asks. “I’ve seen it on a plan but there was so much to take in all at once. There’s supposed to be a walled garden.”

“There is, although I’ve never actually been in it. That could be part of it, attached to the tower and sheltered by it. If you motor or row just a bit further along the shoreline, you can see a wee headland, and there’s some sort of stone structure on it. Circular. We’ll be able to see it if we head for the shore.”

“Is that Dun Faire on the map?” “That’s it. Nothing to do with the fairies, though. I think it’s probably a broch, a small fortress.”

“I know what a broch is.”

“Sorry. There’s another one at the other side of the island.”

“Is there? Do you know,” she says, “there are people who call themselves brochologists.”

“You’re joking!”

“They argue about whether various piles of stones really were brochs or not.” “I’ll bet they’re mostly guys.” “They could be.”

“We do like to categorise and label, don’t we?”

She remains silent. She is remembering one Christmas when her father, feeling flush after some well-paid gig, had bought her a hand-built doll’s house, complete with furniture and furnishings, tiny curtains, a dinner service, pots and pans, and even a family of bendy dolls with porcelain heads, all in Victorian dress.

She still has it and loves it, but at the time she was simply overwhelmed by it, by the responsibility of it all. Many of their Christmases had been happy but low budget. That Christmas, she didn’t do anything except sit in front of the miniature house, gazing at it for hours on end, afraid to touch it. He r father had been disappointed. “Don’t you like it?” he had asked, but she had just replied: “I love it, Dad, but I need to get used to it.”

Now, she thinks that she will have to get used to all this, but it’s a scary business. Part of her wonders if she should just follow Mr Mcdowall’s advice and sell the whole lot, lock, stock and barrel. Put it on the market and see what happens. She could travel. Buy a more manageable house on the mainland. A bigger flat in Glasgow. Rent or even buy a proper shop.

It’s a can of worms. A Pandora’s box. Once she opens it, all kinds of things will come flooding out and her world will never be the same again.

“Shall we try and get down to the sea?” Cal asks, impatiently. He clearly likes to be on the move. “Yes. Why not?”

They start to pick their way among the flowers, passing the remains of a stone terrace with half-obliterated flagstones, surrounded by a low wall.

“It’s almost like a big rock garden here.” He glances back towards the tower. “I don’t think it’s huge, the walled garden, I mean. But it would be sheltered enough to grow apples, pears, plums. Things thrive here if they get a bit of shelter from the wind and the salt. Back at your hotel, one of the old owners planted all kinds of shelter belts so that they could grow things. God knows what state your walled garden is in now, though.”

“A secre t everything.”

“It’s amazing.” He shakes his head, seems to be regarding her thoughtfully. Wanting to say more but not sure how to begin. Instead he says: “Look back at the eaves of your house. Rows of nests there.”

“Are they house martins?”

“They are. They tart them up a bit every year. It’s supposed to be lucky to have them nesting on your property.” garden.

T his place has

He shakes his head, seems to be regarding her thoughtfully. Wanting to say more but not sure how to begin

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.