To Bonnie, almost anything beyond the coastline of the island that she had grown up on was the source of mystery, excitement, and intense curiosity. She would bombard her aunt with question after question on the smallest of details, from the types of plants and flowers that surrounded her church, to the shops that people frequented, to the fashions and foibles particular to those who lived on the south coast. Annabelle indulged her niece’s inquisitions, finding her to be an easy and rapt audience for all the things she took for granted in her own life.
Though Annabelle did her best to temper the wide-eyed wonder that accompanied her answers to the questions Bonnie asked her, it often seemed that Bonnie envisioned Upton St Mary as a bustling metropolis of action and momentum; a place in which the people were determined and always in a hurry; where there was drama and excitement on a regular basis. Whenever Annabelle attempted to dissuade Bonnie of these notions and convince her that Upton St. Mary was only slightly larger and busier than Blodraigh, she saw her tales through the young girl’s eyes and quickly realized that her own life as the Vicar of the village was indeed rather hectic and often full of surprises.
Bonnie loved nothing more than adventure and thought constantly of escape from her narrow existence. It was for that reason (as well as a rather obvious hint in one of her letters) that Annabelle had brought with her a special limited-edition copy of the latest and hottest children’s fantasy series, Celestius Prophesy and the Circle of Doom. It had only been released a few days prior, and Annabelle had reserved it long in advance, already cherishing the moment she would hand it to her niece.
Annabelle set about wrapping the presents in the paper she had bought during her stopover in London. As she did so, she glanced at the passing lochs and mountains, a sense of satisfaction warming her insides like a glowing hearth. Upton St. Mary may not be a hive of activity, but the persistent requests and foibles of her congregation still kept her busy. It was appealing, exciting, essential even, to squirrel oneself away every so often. As she always did, she had agreed to give a sermon at the church during her stay on the island, but it would be her only duty. For the rest of her week-long visit, she was determined to enjoy the rest and tranquility her trip would afford. What could possibly be more pleasing than spending time with her much-loved brother and his daughter amid the serene and beautiful landscape of a Scottish island?
Seven hours later, much of Annabelle’s cheerful spirit had ebbed away. She had virtually skipped off the sleeper when it arrived in Inverness, but another three-hour train journey, in a far less comfortable carriage, tested her patience. By the time she trudged off the ferry she had taken to the island of Fenbarra, not even the splendor of the North Sea stretching out away from her could raise her spirits as she stood, somewhat forlornly, in the small hut that served as the ferry station. Her legs were sore from the combination of sitting in one place or walking briskly to the next. Her shoulder was aching from the increasingly heavy sports bag hanging off it. The oatcakes were long scoffed. Even though the wind couldn’t be felt in the rudimentary hut, there was no heating either, and Annabelle shifted from foot to foot as she tried to circulate her blood to guard against the cold. Even this felt like a huge exertion, fatigue cloaking her muscles. It was not even six o’clock in the evening, yet she already felt that climbing into a warm bed was the only thing she could manage.
The ferry ride from the main island of Fenbarra to the smaller one of Blodraigh where her brother lived was to be the final leg of her journey. Unlike the previous ferry, which had been as big and as busy as a cruise liner, the seafaring vessel that she could see chugging its way toward her was the size of a fishing boat. It was just about big enough for a car and a dozen or so people. It slowly brought itself in front of the jetty, and Annabelle gratefully boarded with seven others, her destination one step closer. She made her way to the front of the ferry to allow herself first sight of land where she knew her brother and niece would be waiting. She settled herself down on a small bench situated against a railing that ran around the perimeter of the boat and that, most importantly, stopped her from falling into the sea. Only then did she allow herself the opportunity to look over her fellow passengers.
Across from her, on the other side of the boat, a young couple cooed and clapped their hands to occupy a pair of tots in baby carriers, behavior Annabelle was quite sure they wouldn’t have anticipated or contemplated before they became parents, which by the look of it, was about six months ago. A little way behind her, the ferryman stood at the wheel, steady and comfortable on his sea legs, exchanging the occasional grunted word with an elderly passenger who seemed just as much at home. A middle-aged woman sat toward the back of the boat, adjusting her large, tortoiseshell glasses every few moments, while nearby a sullen youth draped himself nonchalantly over the railing, his eyes fixed upon the sea spray. All the passengers were thickly-clad in heavy raincoats, tightly-wrapped scarves, and various types of headgear, the colors of which seemed to camouflage them as they reflected the greens, browns, greys, and purples of the landscape around them.
The passengers had all claimed their spots for the duration of the journey. All, that is, except an excitable couple who were pacing about the boat, looking around as if it were a small museum. As they drew closer to Annabelle, she managed to make out their distinct, American accents.
“Isn’t this amazing?” the woman said.
“’Och aye’,” her husband replied, mimicking a terrible Scottish accent. “Grander than the pictures. Look at that.” With his hiking pole, he pointed to a crate of glass bottles full of milk, his face full of wonder.
“Let’s sit down. I’m feeling all woozy with excitement.” The woman flutter patted her chest.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind if we sat here?” the man asked politely.
Realizing that they were talking to her, Annabelle turned her head and took in the strikingly colorful figures of the American couple. They looked to be in their early sixties. The man was tall and broad-shouldered. He would have been intimidating were it not for his sparkling blue eyes. Beside him stood a small, blond, endearingly freckled woman who clutched a map in one hand and a large camera in the other. In their brightly colored clothes and with loud exclamations of pleasure, they seemed larger than life, very different from their subdued and hard-to-spot fellow travelers. Both beamed at Annabelle with teeth so immaculate they seemed to emit their own light.
“Of course,” remarked Annabelle, smiling as she shifted along the bench.
”Thank you kindly, ma’am,” bellowed the man in his booming voice.
The Americans flashed wide grins as they sat beside Annabelle, and she smiled back at them, despite her deep fatigue.
“Hell of a view, ain’t it?” the big American said.
“It most certainly is,” Annabelle replied.
“Where are you from? I haven’t heard a Scottish accent like yours before,” his wife asked.
“Oh, I’m not Scottish,” Annabelle chuckled. “I’m from the South of England. I’m visiting my brother and his daughter.”
“My, that sounds wunnerful!” the woman exclaimed. “So you’ve been here before?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said, wanting to match her companion’s enthusiasm but finding herself far too exhausted.
“Have you ever seen Clannan Castle?” asked the woman in a hushed whisper.
“Of course. You can see it from almost anywhere on the island.”
This reply was met with excited nudges from the couple, who looked at each other gleefully.
“Tell her, Mitch!” the woman said in a loud whisper as she elbowed her husband.
He turned to Annabelle and began. “We’re—“
“—Laird and Lady of the Castle!” the woman blurted out, too thrilled with her news to wait even a second.
“Oh my!” Annabelle found herself justifiably animated. “It’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Annabelle,” she added, omitting the ‘Reverend’ part. This was to be a holiday a
way from her responsibilities and she wasn’t going to threaten it. Not this early, anyway.
“My name’s Mitch Gilbert,” said the American, holding out his hand warmly, “and this is my wife, Patti.”
“Laird and Lady Gilbert, I presume,” Annabelle said, smiling.
They laughed warmly.
“Mitch and Patti is just fine,” giggled the woman. “We’re not going to let it go to our heads!”
“So your ancestors must have immigrated to America from the island.”
“Oh, no,” Mitch said, fishing in his coat pockets. “Nothing like that.”
“We bought our lairdship online,” Patti said, as her husband handed a carefully-folded sheet of paper to Annabelle.
Annabelle opened it up and saw that it was a photocopy of an ornately decorated document of some sort.
“The original is hanging in our great room, pride of place!” Mitch said, pointing a broad finger at the paper, “This certificate entitles us to three square feet of pasture in the castle grounds. It also means we have the title of Laird and Lady, fishing rights, and lifetime access to the castle.”
“It also lets us wear the Clannan tartan!” Patti squealed, unzipping her orange raincoat to reveal the patterned sash that she wore.
Annabelle gazed at the document for a few moments. She had never heard of titles being transferred in this way before and couldn’t help thinking that the delight of the Americans seemed more than a few feet of land merited. Nonetheless, she handed the document back with a bright smile.
“It all sounds terribly thrilling!” she said, as the boat turned off its engine and coasted to the ferry landing. The three of them realized they had finally reached their destination. “I sincerely hope you enjoy your time here. I feel rather privileged to meet such nobility!”
The Americans looked at each other and embarked on a fit of giggles and loud guffaws, clearly thrilled with their newly purchased status.
“Maybe we’ll get to show you around our grounds!”
“I’d like that,” Annabelle said, as they rose from the bench and bid each other goodbye before making their way off the boat.
As she walked along the small pier that served as a disembarkation point as well as mooring for the ferryboat, Annabelle scanned her surroundings for signs of her brother. Perhaps it was exhaustion, her eyes feeling heavy and lidded with lack of sleep, but she caught no sight of him.
“Bumble!” came a high-pitched scream from behind, and a moment later a small body forcefully ran into Annabelle, almost knocking her flat on her front. Two slight arms wrapped themselves around her waist.
“Bonnie!” she cried, when she looked down and around to find her excited niece.
Annabelle set down her bag and knelt in order to take Bonnie in a tight hug, before pushing her away to see how much the young girl had changed since the last time she had visited the island. It was remarkable. Bonnie’s wide brown eyes seemed even more searchingly intelligent, and her body had stretched itself out, adding almost six inches to her height.
“How you’ve grown!” Annabelle exclaimed, knowing full well it sounded cliché but that her words were no less true for it.
“Hi sis,” came the unmistakably warm voice of her brother.
“Roger!” she said, as she stood up and was immediately enveloped in a big bear hug.
“Was it a tiring trip?” he asked, as he always did. He picked up her sports bag and led the way back to the car.
“No journey’s too tiring when there’s two people you love waiting at the other end,” Annabelle smiled, ruffling Bonnie’s hair before taking her by the hand.
Moments later, the three of them sat in Roger’s battered and muddy Land Rover as he weaved the car between dry stone walls and along the sloping roads of the island. It was already dark, and the swirling wind was making bushes and trees perform an ominous rain dance. Inside, however, the car was filled with Bonnie’s sparkling voice as she regaled her aunt with all the news and tales of important events that had happened since she last saw her.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at a large, low farmhouse that sat stoically between a pair of hills, a quarter of a mile away from the main village, with a long, muddy road leading up to it. As soon as Roger brought the car to a halt, Bonnie grabbed her aunt’s hand and led her inside while Roger followed with Annabelle’s bag.
Unlike her niece, the house itself was much as Annabelle had remembered it. It was large enough for a sizable family, and every room was filled with furniture, pictures, and ornaments. With only Bonnie and her father living in the house, many of the rooms were rarely used, so they heated only the few that they did. But Annabelle’s visit was a welcome exception. After they had devoured a meal of thick vegetable soup and roast lamb, the three of them settled into the living room where Roger stoked a strong fire in the hearth.
As the heat of the fire chased away all the chills from her body and the satisfying meal settled gently inside her, Annabelle smiled contently and watched as Roger and Bonnie unwrapped their gifts. Bonnie was delighted with her book. She squeezed her aunt once again before stroking the cover tenderly, savoring the moment before she opened the book up. Roger showed his appreciation by holding his scarf aloft and performing the chant known to Arsenal fans the world over.
“Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!” he shouted, much to Bonnie’s and Annabelle’s amusement, his voice dropping a note on the last syllable as is the custom. “Thank you very much indeed, Bumble. It’s a wonderful gift.”
Bonnie looked up from her place on the floor, still stroking her book, and asked, “Daddy, why do we call Auntie Annabelle, ‘Bumble?’”
“Have I never told you?” Roger asked, with a frown.
“Your father has called me that since we were as young as you are now, perhaps younger.” Annabelle said. “It’s because I work very hard, just like a bee. I was fascinated by bees when I was a child. And I’m also very sweet. Like honey.”
Bonnie beamed a smile at Annabelle, then at her father, who wore a look of confusion on his rugged features.
“That’s not quite true,” he said, slowly.
Annabelle turned to look at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“That’s not the reason I called you ‘Bumble,’ Annabelle. Did you really think that was why all these years?”
“Well if not that, then what was it?” Annabelle asked, growing a little anxious over what she was about to hear.
After a slight hesitation, Roger pressed his lips together to squelch a wry grin. “It doesn’t matter now. I like your reason.”
“Roger!”
“Yes?”
“I demand you tell me this instant!”
Bonnie’s wide-eyed gaze switched back and forth from her aunt to her father like someone watching a tennis match.
“Well… “Roger began, reluctantly, “I called you Bumble because… Well, you were rather clumsy.”
Annabelle opened her mouth wide in a gasp of horror.
“I was not!”
“You were,” Roger continued, nodding regretfully. “Don’t you remember when you climbed the fence because we were so late for school?”
“Everyone’s late at one time or another.”
“Indeed, but most people would have remembered to take their skirt out of their knickers before they ran into the assembly hall in front of the entire school.”
Annabelle huffed a little as she sought an excuse. “Still, Roger, one incident is no reason to call me—”
“And then there was the time you rode your bike straight up a ramp into an open delivery truck.”
“There was an incredibly cute puppy tied to the lamp post, Roger. I told you.”
“And then there were the numerous occasions you got your coat caught in the car door, tripped up when stepping off escalators, dropped your sunglasses looking over the balcony, sat on things, walked into things, got your hands caught in things—“
“Yes, yes! Alright!” Annabelle said, haughty b
ut laughing at the memories. “I get it. Clumsy. But I like my explanation better. Busy. Bees. Honey. Sweet.” She laughed again.
“So anyway, how are things down there in sunny Cornwall?” Roger asked, in between sips from his large mug of tea.
“Rather well,” Annabelle replied. “We’ve finally renovated the cemetery, we have some interesting projects lined up for the young people in the village over the coming year, and the congregation is as large as ever.”
“And the Inspector?” asked Roger, disguising his smirk behind his hefty mug.
“I’m sorry?”
“The Inspector,” repeated Roger. “You mentioned him in your last email. Several times. You seemed rather taken with him.”
Annabelle was flustered for a few moments, and had she not been rosy-cheeked from the warmth of the fire, would have found herself blushing profusely. “Well, he’s a good man – a good detective. He’s been very helpful whenever we’ve needed him. That’s all.”
“Okay,” Roger conceded with a sly smile. “If you say so.”
Annabelle turned to look into the fire.
“How have you two been?” Annabelle asked, keen to change the subject.
“Good, good,” Roger sighed. “Bonnie’s doing very well in school—“
“I’ve decided I’m going to be a pilot when I grow up!” Bonnie, who had been listening carefully to the adult’s conversation, announced.
“Oh yes?” Annabelle smiled.
“Yes. I’ll fly to every country in the world!”
Annabelle and Roger chuckled, but the Vicar detected a slight sadness in her brother.
“That’s all any of the young people on the island seem to care about,” he said, sadly. “Leaving it.”
“It’s much the same in Upton St. Mary. Most of them can’t wait to see the bright lights. It’s just the nature of youth.”
Grave in the Garage (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 15