The Posy Ring

Cal continues: “It’s too shallow out there. Or it’s shallow in parts. There are hidden rocks. All kinds of ships, big and small, were wrecked out there over the years. Divers come out in the summer to see what they can find. There are rumours of treasure, but as far as I know nobody has ever found anything valuable. In t e r e s t i n g yes, but not particularly valuable. Not even anything as recognisable as a wreck.”

“But surely something wooden like this wouldn’t survive for so long.”

“Oh it could. In salt water and buried deep in silt it would. Things come ashore in the winter storms from time to time. You should keep it. It kind of belongs here, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does. Weren’t there ships from the Spanish Armada wrecked here?” She tries to dredge up fragments of history. “Some of them were wrecked off the west coast, weren’t they?”

“Well, mostly off Shetland. And Ireland, I think. They were trying to get down to Biscay. There was a galleon wrecked in Tobermory Bay. It got blown up eventually.” “Blown up?”

“So they say. By an English spy. Elizabeth had only just chopped off Mary Queen of Scots’ head so there was a bit of tension going on. But I don’t think anything was wrecked here. Although there are stories.” “What kind of stories?”

“Of Spaniards coming ashore. Deliberately. Because they didn’t stand quite such a good chance of getting their own heads chopped off here in Scotland.”

“I see what you mean. Isn’ t there supposed to be Spanish blood here? And in the far north.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Well they say so, but Celts could be dark too. It’s a dangerous bit of coastline right enough. You wouldn’t know just how dangerous, when you see it in summer. But it can get a bit hairy in the middle of winter.

“There was a visitor here last year who kept saying how calm and sheltered the waters were. I kept wanting to tell him, wait till you see it in October or November. The locals have a lot of respect for the waters here. With good reason.”

They go back up to the house and take their find with them. They don’t hold hands again.

From this side, the impressive doorway on the seaward side of Auchenblae makes this look like the front of the house. Perhaps it was not only Viola who preferred to travel by sea.

The block is still wet and the damp wood looks dark and faintly sinister, even more like a small mask or a Celtic head. She stands it on the windowsill.

Cal stays indoors while she fetches her Polo through the wrought-iron gates, parking it by the front door. She sees that he has left his own car, an almost new SUV, squeezed into the lay-by behind hers. The windows are tinted, so she can see nothing of what is inside.

She brings in her bag of milk, teabags, the chocolate biscuits she bought in the village stores this morning. She can hear him banging about in the kitchen and heads down the passage in search of him.

He has boiled the kettle, foraged for mugs and even found teaspoons. She puts the milk into the fridge. It looks a bit lonely in there but it’s a start. She’s going to have to get in some supplies if she decides that she’s brave enough to stay here for the rest of the week.

They take their tea and biscuits into the big room and sit on either side of the dining table – more old oak with a patina of great age about it – their chairs tilted so that they can look out of the windows. Part of the charm of the house lies in the views of the sea and distant islands.

“So,” he says when he has eaten several biscuits in quick succession, “doesn’t fresh air make you hungry? Anyway, have you made your mind up? Are you going to come and stay here?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to go back to the hotel and have some lunch and think about it for a bit.”

“Good plan. But if you do decide to stay, you’ll need some shopping.”

“I can do that in the village, can’t I?” “There’s a Co-op in Keill as well. That’s the next village along. You pass my road end to get to it. Where would you sleep?”

She thinks about Viola’s room and shudders. “Probably in my mum’s old room. I don’ t think I can face my grandmother’s. But the bedrooms are clean enough and Mum’s room is next to a decent bathroom.”

“Well that’s a plus!”

“There’s surface dust, just. I can make up the bed. There’s a washing machine in the cloakroom along there. I’ll see if it works.”

He looks briefly around. “There’s no central heating. It’s warm enough in the day now, but it still gets chilly at nights. There must be a wood store somewhere. Probably out the back there. But you shouldn’t use the fireplaces until you’ve had the chimneys checked out.”

More things for her lists. “Is there a chimney sweep?”

“People tend to buy the brushes and do it themselves. Otherwise it means bringing somebody over from the mainland. Although most people don’t live in such houses.”

“There are plenty of heaters.”

They had found three or four electric oil radiators, as well as the fireplaces. When they switched on an immersion heater in the kitchen, somewhat to their surprise, they found that the water grew warm quite quickly.

“After all, Viola was living here quite comfortably till last year,” she observes.

“She was. It’s OK, isn’t it? You could easily stay here for a bit. If you won’t find it too lonely. And you really don’t need to worry about the island. Viola was safe enough here for years.”

“I’d like to have a look at the attics. Just to see what’s in there.”

“I’d like to have a look at the tower,” he says suddenly, draining his tea and pouring himself another mug. “Can you get into it from this part of the house, or only from the outside?”

She realises that she has been avoiding the tower, avoiding even thinking about it, never mind proposing to investigate it.

“There’s a door in the kitchen. I opened it and had a look in. There’s a spiral stair, going up and down. I’m sure that’s the way in.”

“It looks safe enough from the outside. Viola looked after her property.”

You could stay here for a bit. If you won’t find it too lonely. And you don’t need to worry about the island. Viola was safe enough here

More tomorrow.

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.