The Posy Ring

by Catherine Czerkawska

  ‘Yet they seem glad enough to come home,’ added Ishbel thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if they saw the water bull this year?’

  ‘What is the water bull?’ asked Mateo, intrigued.

  ‘The loch takes its name from the water bull, and the hill is named after the bull as well.’ Lilias shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest notion whether the creature is real or not, but they say it is a magical being that lives in the depths of the loch and comes out at night to mate with the cattle. It is a mild enough creature, though. Not like the Each Uisge. My grandfather had sight of one in his youth, or so they say.’

  ‘And what is the ... Each Uisge?’ He said the word carefully.

  She smiled. ‘Ah now, that is a more fearsome proposition altogether and you would not want to encounter one of those. A water horse. They call him a kelpie in the lowlands. He will change shape. On land he can become a handsome young man. But if he catches you, he will drag you down to the bottom of the loch and you will never be seen again. So you see, you have to be very careful of handsome young men in these parts.’

  ‘Of course. Handsome strangers. You never can tell.’

  ‘There is a tale told here that a young woman very like myself once met with a fine young man, black-haired and very beautiful, on the shore of the dark loch, near Meall Each in the middle of this island. Only he was an interlowper, a water horse in human form. They sat down beside the loch, and he laid his head in her lap, and fell fast asleep. She began to stroke his hair, his dark curls were so bonnie, much like your own, Mateo, only she found that there was sand and seaweed among the curls. Which alarmed her very much indeed for she knew what that meant.’

  ‘What did it mean?’

  ‘It meant that she knew his true nature at last.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Oh, not good. The Each Uisge can’t help himself. He is what he is. He does what he must.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She leaped up and ran for home, they say. The story doesn’t say where she lived. But the creature was immediately changing into his true shape of a fierce water horse, and went chasing after her. They are very fleet of foot, the water horses, and if once he had caught hold of her, even her foot or a single toe, into the loch she would have gone and she would have been lost for ever.’

  ‘So how was she saved?’

  ‘Her father had a captive water bull in his stable. A cailleach, a wise old woman who worked upon the farm, called to him to set the water bull free if he wished to save his daughter. So he did. The bull ran after the water horse, and the horse was distracted enough to give up the chase. Then horse and bull fought into and out of the water, something terrible to behold, but at last they sank beneath the waves and were never seen again.’

  ‘Is this a true tale?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘As true as I’m sitting here. My mother told me and she never lied. Although I’m bound to admit that she was a great storyteller!’ She smiled too and glanced over at a captivated Ishbel. ‘Let that be a warning to you, sister. Do not be persuaded by dark-haired strangers, however handsome, for they may turn out to be monsters in disguise.’

  ‘And if he was not such a monster after all? If he was truly in love?’ added Mateo. ‘If he had elected to stay on land? To abandon his evil ways and become a man.’

  ‘The stories don’t tell of such things. But I suppose it might be possible. Everyone can change. Even wicked strangers.’

  ‘And some strangers aren’t wicked at all,’ piped up Ishbel. ‘Look at Paco. And Mateo.’

  ‘Well.’ Lilias raised her head from her work, and gazed into his eyes. ‘Perhaps not like Mateo. Or Paco. Perhaps we can make an exception for them.’

  TWENTY

  On Tuesday, the sun shines more or less all the way as Daisy drives north and west to Garve and when she opens the door to Auchenblae, the big room is very warm. Already there’s a certain familiarity about it, and that surprises and pleases her. Maybe it’ll be easier to spend the night in the house now. It smells of beeswax, as though the sunlight has woken the scent of polish from the oldest pieces of furniture. It’s been a long drive and she’s glad to be here. She’s not sure how Cal can go back and forth to Glasgow so regularly, let alone trek across Scotland – so much bigger than it looks on the BBC’s weather map – in search of antiques every week. But then he has a much more comfortable car. It would be nice if there was a dog like Hector to greet her. Maybe I’ll get a dog of my own, she thinks. A dog that needs a home. After all, I’ve got plenty of space. But what if I go back to Glasgow? She has to keep reminding herself that if she sells Auchenblae, she will be able to buy a bigger flat or even a town house, like the one Cal lives in, at the back of the Botanics. They look neat and well-kept and comfortable. Not only do they have gardens of their own, but they have the whole of the city’s botanical gardens beyond. And in that case, a dog would be no problem at all.

  She takes the portrait of Lilias out of the cupboard where she hid it away, wrapped in silk. As she props it up, she notices that the back is firmly corded for hanging. Somebody had loved it enough to want to see it all the time. She scans the wall and finds a large portrait photograph of a solemn man with a huge moustache, perhaps Viola’s father or grandfather. She’s curious about him, but he isn’t immediately engaging. She takes him down and hangs Lilias in his place, well out of direct sunlight. Cal might not approve. He thinks the portrait is a treasure, too valuable to risk. But what’s the point of a treasure if you can’t enjoy it? Why should it be hidden away, or worse, kept out of sight in a bank vault. She faces the portrait while she eats a sandwich for lunch. Lilias gazes out at her. A sunny girl. Warm and golden, she inhabits the room and brings it to life.

  She’s finishing a mug of tea when her smartphone vibrates in her pocket. It’s a message from Cal. ‘Are you back? Do you want to borrow the dog?’

  She grimaces at the phone and ignores it. Instead she hauls her suitcase up to her mother’s old bedroom (I’ll have to stop calling it that, she thinks) and starts to unpack her clothes. Then she opens the wardrobe door and finds to her consternation that it is already full. She had been too overwhelmed to investigate properly last time. The thought of a cell, without possessions or ties to the world, is beginning to seem very attractive. She’s weighed down with things. She never imagined it would be possible to feel this way, but she can understand how people walk out on their world in the desperate desire to be somewhere else, to become someone else. Perhaps that’s what her mother felt. Perhaps the snug van and the good-looking man, who had played the fiddle like the devil, had been all she wanted in her life at that moment. The house had been too much for her to bear, with an ageing and possessive mother. Rob must have seemed like an unlikely knight in shining armour, coming to her rescue, but she had surely known that Viola would never approve of him. It had come down to a straight choice and against all the odds, Rob had won.

  She drags out an armful of things and dumps them on the bed. They’re on a mixture of wood and wire hangers, tangled together, a few of them empty. Had these once contained the handful of clothes Jessica had packed in a holdall and taken with her when she fled house and island together? The old carpet bag, musty-smelling and threadbare, had lain under one of the seats in the van for years, and after that was stored in a cupboard at the top of the wardrobe in her father’s bedroom. He never used it, but could never bring himself to get rid of it either.

  The clothes smell faintly of some sweet but slightly astringent scent. She recognises ylang-ylang, which she has always liked. She puts the fabrics to her face and sniffs, making herself sneeze. They’re dusty, of course. But the scent catches her throat, so evocative is it of her mother. The van used to smell of it all the time, her mother’s scent and the joss sticks she burned as well. She sets the clothes down and crosses over to the dressing table that must have seemed old-fashioned even when Jessica was young, kidney-s
haped with a triple mirror, chintz skirts around the bottom and a matching stool. There it is, a half-bottle of White Musk perfume oil, in the familiar early 1980s Body Shop bottle: simple, no frills. She rubs a little into her wrist. Initially it seems to have gone off, but within minutes, it is surrounding her with the evocative and powerful fragrance of Jessica May. Rob and Daisy used to buy the scent for her at Christmas time, going into the shop together, trying things out, laughing. The silk scarf they had tied to the wishing tree had been faintly scented with it as well. Back when Jess was young, though, the summer when she met Rob, it must have been new and fashionable. Something girls talked about. Something they could afford, that was nevertheless exotic.

  Daisy sits down among the heap of clothes, determined not to cry. There are the usual worn jeans, shirts and T-shirts. There’s a traditional navy blue winter coat in heavy wool, and a green waterproof. But then she uncovers several pretty dresses: one is high-waisted with pink flowers on a turquoise background and there’s a madly romantic maxi dress with puff sleeves. It’s closely fitted on the bodice, with a long flared skirt, in a blue and white print like a china teacup. The dresses remind her of the Indian cotton gowns from the late 1700s she has seen in museums, which was surely the intention of the designer. Once, there had been a consignment of six antique gowns and associated trims in the saleroom and if Daisy had been able to afford them, she would have bid on them, but her wages didn’t stretch to such luxuries, and her father wasn’t in funds at the time. They might well have fitted her too, back then, although she has put on a bit of weight since. Not so much that she won’t get into these dresses, though. Jessica had been quite voluptuous until illness made her lose weight. These look as though they will fit.

  She finds the labels, and sees that they are Laura Ashley dresses. Further along, a gorgeous sky-blue smock dress with a low neck has the Finnish designer label Marimekko. So for all they were living on a fairly remote island, Viola was prepared to spoil her daughter with fashionable dresses. Did they go to Glasgow or Edinburgh to buy them? She holds the maxi dress against her and looks down at the lovely length of it. It is in perfect condition and worth quite a lot of money. True vintage but how can she ever bear to sell it? No. She’ll wear it, and the others, if only for her own satisfaction. Surely there will be island events, the odd ceilidh in one or other of the village halls, functions in the hotels at Scoull or Keill. If she stays here for the summer, perhaps some kind of social life will emerge. Perhaps she can get to know Alys, the jeweller, and her husband. Perhaps, says an insistent voice at the back of her head, perhaps you can get to know Cal better. Or perhaps not. The thought of his long body, almost vibrating with energy, comes into her head. What would be the harm? Can she trust him?

  As if on cue, her phone trembles again. Another message. ‘Are you there yet? How are things?’

  He’s nothing if not persistent, although now she’s fairly certain this has more to do with the attractions of Auchenblae and its contents than with herself.

  She sighs and texts back, ‘Yes, just got here.’

  ‘Do you want to borrow Hector?’

  ‘I think I’ll be OK, don’t you?’ she writes.

  ‘Your choice.’ He signs off abruptly. She senses that he’s miffed. Tough, she thinks, and puts the phone away.

  *

  Later that afternoon, she drives through the village, waving to Mr Cameron, who is pruning roses at the front of the hotel, and turns left towards the sea at the Ardachy Gallery signpost. The cottage is bigger than Cal’s tiny cottage at Carraig, a sturdy white building with dormer windows standing above the broad expanse of Scoull Bay that stretches from the village itself, past Port Manus below the hotel, past Ardachy and beyond. It might be possible to walk across when the tide is very low. Maybe, too, you could keep going round the small headland to the north of Scoull Bay, back to Auchenblae. She’ll try it some time.

  Beyond the house, a lane curves down towards the sea and she suspects there will be another tiny harbour there, like the ones at Auchenblae and Carraig. Near the house, there is a neat vegetable garden with a row of early potatoes in sandy soil, and a fenced-off piece of grass, with chickens clucking quietly to themselves. At the gate she can see that they are different colours, and presumably different breeds, though she knows very little about such things. They look exotic and old-fashioned, like hens in a children’s story-book. There’s another well-made wooden sign beside the gate, saying ‘Gallery Open. Please come in and browse.’

  The gallery is in a low, separate building, clad in larch, with a slate roof. It is set to one side of the house and at right angles to it, with an open door on this side, and wide windows on the seaward side. The walls are white, the roof grey slate. In the sheltered triangle between the house and gallery, somebody has already planted up a wealth of tubs and pots that will be a blaze of colour in a few weeks. There are bicycles propped against the wall, one of them with a child’s seat on the back, and a ginger cat sitting sunning itself on a Lloyd Loom chair. It gazes at her disdainfully as she comes through the gate, but doesn’t move.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ says a friendly voice as she hesitates at the door. The enticing smell of coffee filters out. ‘Come in and have a look around.’ A woman is working at a table, with a magnifier and a bright lamp, although the room is already full of light. In one corner, there’s a play house, a box of toys, a row of dolls and teddies seated on plastic chairs, with a little girl, perhaps four years old, holding court. She has soft dark curls tied back with a red ribbon, and she’s dressed in bright blue dungarees. She glances up briefly when Daisy comes in, but doesn’t leave her self-imposed task of instructing her toys.

  ‘Are you Alys?’

  The woman smiles, gets up, extends a hand. ‘I am.’

  ‘Mrs Cameron at the hotel said I should come and speak to you.’

  ‘Ah – you must be Daisy. From Auchenblae. Flowerfield.’

  ‘That’s right. What a lovely set-up you’ve got here!’ She looks around, taking in the display cabinets, the shelves, the work that seems to be a mixture of old and new, found things, fragments of sea glass and pottery, crystal and amber beads, silverwork and enamelling. There’s a leaping hare on a chain, a cluster of island flowers in silver and beadwork, earrings with delicate flying birds. ‘And what lovely work!’

  ‘Thank you. It’s taken us a while to get to this stage, but it’s doing OK now.’

  ‘But you’re not from here originally?’

  ‘No. I’m from Edinburgh. But my husband is an islander born and bred, which helps. I moved here – let me see – five years ago now. It was a big step to take, for me and my son both. But the right one, as it turns out.’

  As if on cue, the gate swings open and somebody calls, ‘Hi, Mum!’

  Daisy sees a gangly teenager coming through the gate. He’s in school uniform: a blazer and grey trousers, tie askew, a ridiculously heavy bag slung on his shoulder. He comes over to the gallery, pokes his head through the door, waves at the little girl, who waves back.

  ‘Is Donal about?’

  ‘No. He’s taken a fishing party out.’

  ‘Wish he’d waited for me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they could do that, could they?’

  ‘Where’s Malky?’

  ‘On the boat. Go and get yourself something to eat and do your homework. They’ll be back soon. He might take you out for a bit before tea.’

  ‘Cool.’ He turns to go.

  ‘There are scones in the tin. Don’t drink all the milk.’

  He wanders off. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’

  ‘Don’t forget the homework.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He heads towards the cottage. ‘I’ll go too,’ says the little girl, suddenly abandoning her dolls.

  ‘No you won’t, Grace,’ says Alys firmly. ‘Ben’s doing his homework. And he doesn’t want y
ou interrupting him. I’ll get you some juice in a minute.’

  The child pouts but goes back to her toys obediently enough.

  ‘My husband takes fishing parties out from the hotel,’ Alys offers by way of explanation. ‘Malky’s the dog. I can’t keep Ben away from the sea.’

  ‘I suppose living on an island...’

  ‘Oh I know. But you’d never believe he was born in Edinburgh, would you? And spent the first eight years of his life there. He’s taken to island life like the proverbial duck to water.’

  ‘But your husband’s from the island?’

  Alys nods, gets up and goes over to a side table where there’s a push-button coffee machine, biscuits, a selection of pretty teacups and mugs. She pours orange juice into a plastic cup and hands it to the little girl, makes two mugs of coffee and hands one to Daisy.

  ‘I moved here to be with Donal. I was divorced. My ex is in Canada. It’s all worked out fine. Donal and Ben are thick as thieves. They have this mutual admiration society. And they both love the sea.’

  ‘So island life is OK, is it?’

  ‘It depends what you want. What you expect, I suppose. It doesn’t suit everyone. It didn’t suit Donal’s first wife. There isn’t a lot of nightlife here. The young can get very bored. It worries me a bit. But we’re OK so far.’ She gestures to Daisy to sit down in another Lloyd Loom chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Don’t suppose I’ll have any more visitors today.’

  ‘What about your own work. I don’t want to interrupt.’

  ‘I don’t do that much once Ben’s home from school. The secondary school kids travel to the mainland every day. There’s a primary school on the island at Keill. Grace goes to nursery but she’ll be off to proper school this year, which will give us a bit more time to ourselves. I often come back through to work once Grace is asleep, though. Are you thinking of staying on the island for a while?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Everyone seems to think I’d be mad not to sell Auchenblae, and maintaining it might be a problem if I want to keep it.’