The Posy Ring Episode 81

In the scullery Cal seizes a bottle of washing-up liquid from behind one of the sinks, and douses her finger in it. To her relief, the ring slides off and into his hand. “Well, that was weird,” she says, massaging her finger. The swelling is already diminishing, although the pain remains.

“But it was loose, yesterday, wasn’t it?” “It definitely was.”

“What made you put it on again?” “I don’t know. I was just interested in it. Wanted to see if it really did fit me.” “Which it doesn’t seem to, now.”

“It’s getting better, though. Look.” Her finger is almost back to normal. “Did you phone your sister?”

“I did.”

“And what did she say?”

“It was unrepeatable, what she actually said. But we both think there’s not much we can do. I’m going to finish this restoration job as soon as I can. Mum’s customer will be ready for it. And I’ll see my father then as well. See if I can talk some sense – or generosity – into him. But I’m not holding my breath. And my mum always does as she’s told. Do you fancy taking Hector for a walk?”

Tree

“Why not? Why don’t we go up the hill there? I don’t even know if the tree is still there. Do you know it?”

“The Clootie Tree. Aye, it’s still there. Although nobody publicises it and folk don’t go there so much now. Load of nonsense if you ask me.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Have you been up there?”

“Once, years ago. The only other time I visited the island. When my mother was very ill.”

“I’m sorry.” He understands immediately. “It didn’t work, I take it?”

“Well, it worked after a fashion. According to my dad. There was our wish, but he had another one. And since that was much less specific, much more down to him to accomplish, that one came true.” “Which is typical, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Fairies, otherworldly creatures, weavers of magic spells. There’s always a get-out clause, always the gold turning into dried leaves in the light of day, always the trick

The Clootie

question, the instruction they neglect give you!”

“Humour me. I want to see it again and I’d rather you were with me.”

He gives her a small sidelong glance. “OK. Do you want to make a wish?” “No, but you do.”

“It’s a piece of nonsense, hen. It really is.” Whenever he becomes exasperated like this, his accent turns into pure Glasgow. She finds it very attractive.

“Nevertheless. Do you have anything that belongs in the cottage? Something we could tie to the tree.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Daisy!” “Humour me,” she repeats.

He sighs, spreads his hands wide in capitulation. “As it happens, there’s an old tea towel in my car. I use it to wipe the windows. Will that do?”

“Go and fetch it.”

Washed out

to

The tea towel is faded almost beyond recognition and threadbare too, but it once had a pictorial map of Garve on it with yachts and fishing boats, oystercatchers and dolphins, and the outline of churches and houses including Auchenblae. All washed out and ghostly now.

“We got it for my mum, years ago. They had them in the ironmongers shop in Keill for a while.”

“Perfect,” she says. She doesn’t tell him that they should write the wish on it. It would be a step too far for him. It will just have to do. He folds it up and tucks it into his pocket. They head out of the gate and turn left up the hill. The narrow lane is warm and damp and sweet-smelling. It is so sheltered that the fuchsias in the hedge are beginning to flower remarkably early here. A blackbird is singing in the thicket, and here and there they hear rustles and squawks as small birds squabble.

The lane narrows even more, until the grass growing down the centre begins to take over, and it becomes little more than a muddy track, winding up to the top of the hill. The lane ascends slowly through a mixture of willow scrub, taller hawthorn and beautiful birches.

The track takes a final twist and they find themselves in a shallow saucer of land at the top of the hill. It isn’t a very high hill, only a few hundred feet, but the rise from sea level makes it seem higher.

“There’s your Clootie Tree!” says Cal. Oddly, Hector, who has been lolloping ahead of them, lies down suddenly on the very rim of the saucer, panting and whining. No matter how much they coax him, he will go no further.

Almost at the centre of the saucer of land stands an ancient hawthorn. It is massive, grey and hoary as a venerable old man, and the prevailing winds have twisted its shape and canted it over to one side.

The tree seems to have fought a constant battle with the wind for much of its life. The many branches are covered in beards of lichen and moss, but the topmost branches have, against all the odds, blossomed, and there is a crown of sweetscented white flowers up there.

A great many of the leafless lower branches are festooned with fabric – scraps of cloth, scarves that remind Daisy of herself and her father, tying her mother’s pale silk scarf on a branch, all those years ago: old-fashioned handkerchiefs, cuttings of this or that textile, rags of all kinds, from ancient linen sheets to pieces of pillowslip and more garish bits and pieces from garments associated in some way with the wish.

Illusion of movement

There are even the sad and tattered remnants of a baby dress, hanging high up, just below the crown of flowers. She had forgotten almost all of this over the years. But perhaps she and her father had been too intent on what they were doing to notice their surroundings, and her father had been desperate to get back down the hill and away from the island without encountering his mother-in-law or without Viola seeing her, Daisy, at all. “Wow,” she says. “It looks like a person.” The fluttering rags do have the effect of making the branches look like arms, as though the movement in the fabric is giving the illusion of the tree itself moving. “Where’s your tea towel?”

“Here.” He fishes it out of his pocket. “But where will we put it?”

Almost at the centre of the saucer of land stands an ancient hawthorn... massive, grey and hoary as a venerable old man

More on Monday.

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.