The Posy Ring

She is woken by a single distant thud from downstairs. She sits bolt upright, listening

Sister Brigid had waxed lyrical about Celtic Christianity, and Daisy had found that her father was right. The natural world had been very important, as had meditation and setting sail in small boats, and making it remarkably easy for pagan communities to transfer their loyalties to Christ.

The impossible, mystical things these holy people believed in seemed somehow more credible to Daisy, even as a girl, than the impossible things she was sometimes asked to believe in by the nuns and by Father Mcgawn in church.

All this comes back to her now, when Mrs Cameron mentions Be Thou My Vision.

“I know that hymn. Dad used to play it on the fiddle. Still does. He loves the melody, although it makes him sad. It’s beautiful. I quite like the idea of God as a hero or as a high tower, even though it’s a bit...”

“Pagan. Yes. Be thou my high tower. Gorgeous though. How are you getting on there? At Auchenblae. At Flowerfield.”

“I’m fine. I’ve been doing a bit of exploring. Cooked myself something to eat. Drunk some wine.”

“Well have another glass before bed. That way, you’ll get a good night’s sleep. And if you get nervous, just give us a ring.”

“I can’t possibly do that. I can’t wake you up in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, I’m a light sleeper. I’m awake reading more often than not.”

“Even so. It’s very kind of you, but I’ll be fine, honestly.”

Full moon

When it grows dark, she goes round the ground floor, checking doors and windows, making sure everything is locked, including the door into the tower. She can hear the slight echo on the other side as she turns the key, and she scurries out of the kitchen. She slides the bolt on the door at the sea side of the house, switches off the downstairs lights and is reassured to see that the moon is almost full, a friendly face gazing in at the windows.

She takes her phone into the bedroom with her, and the radio from the kitchen, switching it on to hear the strains of Sailing By and the shipping forecast, wondering if her grandmother did the same.

She reminds herself that this is a very old house, and that there will be noises as the building cools and settles down for the night. She and her father have always laughed at those haunted house television programmes where people shriek and run away at the slightest sound. Now, it doesn’t seem quite so funny.

When she switches the radio off, it’s the silence that’s alarming. In Glasgow, there is continuous external noise, the constant white noise of traffic, fading in the early hours, but still present, the occasional ambulance or fire engine, planes flying overhead, voices in the street outside. Silence

Here, the silence seems absolute at first, pressing in on her ears. After a while, she thinks she hears a faint rhythmic drumming sound and then realises that it is her own heartbeat. A breeze blows in from the west and rattles the window panes. She gets up and opens the window. Outside, she hears the high call of some seabird flying past, a lonely sound.

She leaves the window open, aware of the distant and soothing sound of waves on the shore, gets back into bed and dozes.

She is woken by a single distant thud from downstairs. She sits bolt upright, listening. Her rational mind tells her that something has fallen down in one of the rooms. There is something faintly familiar about the noise, but she can’t place it. There is no way she can bring herself to go down to investigate, though. Not right now.

She pulls the sheet up to her chin and props herself against the pillows, but every nerve is tingling. The house is quiet. She is just closing her eyes when she hears a shuffling and scurrying overhead, as though somebody is partying up in the servants’ quarters. She sits upright again and switches on the bedside light.

The shuffling noise stops, starts again. Her phone buzzes beside the bed, making her jump all over again. She lifts it and sees that it is almost two o’clock, and that there is a text message from Cal.

“If you get this, you’re still awake. Are you OK?” it reads.

“Yes, I’m still awake,” she replies. “No I’m not really OK.”

“What’s wrong?” he writes, with a sad face.

“Noises.”

A minute later, the phone rings and she answers it. She’s ridiculously relieved to hear his voice, even though he’s miles away. “Daisy,” he says. “You’ve got me worried. If I wasn’t in Glasgow, I’d come round.” “Nice to hear a friendly voice.” “What can you hear? I mean, in the house?”

“There was a big thump, somewhere downstairs. Sounded like something falling down. And I can hear things up above me. In the servants’ quarters. Shuffling and scuffling noises. It sounds like somebody’s partying up there.”

He laughs. “Oh, sweetheart, I know what that will be. I get that in my cottage sometimes. It’ll be mice.”

Ghostly servants

She’s briefly astonished by the term of endearment. She has female friends who wouldn’t think twice about pulling him up about it. Maybe even punching him on the nose. She can’t help smirking. But she realises that it’s casual and habitual with him rather than condescending. She’s alarmed by the fact that she likes it. “Can mice make all that noise?” “You’d be surprised. Sometimes they sound as if they’re wearing tackety boots.”

“Well, I’m not keen on mice, but I’m relieved it’s nothing worse.”

“Did you think ghostly Mcneill servants were having a ceilidh up there?” “Kind of,” she says, lamely. “Listen, I’m coming back to the island tomorrow. I’ll fetch some traps. And these plug-in things that do stuff to the wiring. I’ll try and find some of those.”

“What about the thump from downstairs?”

“You know the fridge makes a noise, don’t you?”

“The fridge?”

“I noticed it when I was there. The motor runs and then when it stops for a bit it makes quite a loud juddering noise. I don’t think you notice it in the daytime because of all the birds and the sea and the wind.” She thinks about it. “Yes – it could be that, I suppose.”

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.