The Kissing Garden

by Charlotte Bingham

  By the time she had finished her breakfast the rain, which had been falling heavily, was easing, so taking directions from Mrs Muir Amelia left the lodge to find her husband. She soon caught sight of him not five hundred yards away on the shore of the loch, fishing by himself while the rain swept away across the water and the skies began to clear. By the time she was at his side the sun had come out, restoring the wonderful landscape to its morning glory.

  ‘Amelia!’ George said with delight when he saw her. ‘You’ve brought the sun out – which is no surprise.’

  He leaned down and kissed her, smiling at her as if he had not one care in the world other than for her. Minutes later, once he had established Amelia’s intentions, he began his fly fishing tutorial, patiently running through the basic technique right from the beginning so that his pupil would miss nothing.

  ‘You’re a quick learner,’ he said, watching approvingly as Amelia began to flick the fly neatly and accurately through the air to land within ten feet of where he had instructed. ‘You’re also naturally sporting, so we’ll have you landing your first trout tomorrow at the latest, no two ways about it.’

  Indeed once Amelia had mastered the basic trick of the cast, the slow motion half delayed forward flick of the wrist designed to propel the featherweight fly to land all but unnoticed on the water, she was ready to start that afternoon, but no sooner had they prepared to fish than the rains returned in earnest, driving the less robust Amelia back indoors. Despite being hardier, George accompanied her, insisting that he had done more than enough fishing for one day. Mrs Muir had a fire ready to dry them out before she served them a lunch of nourishing stew and home-made apple and blackberry pie.

  The afternoon was spent in reading and playing more card games, the hours between tea and dinner by a long walk beside the loch since the rain had stopped once again, and the evening back in front of a blazing log fire after the second of Mrs Muir’s ample dinners.

  ‘This is heaven, George. Let’s stay here for ever.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’d be happy wherever we were, as long as I was with you.’

  For some time before midnight Amelia sat at George’s feet while he gently stroked her hair and they reminisced about their childhood. Then, as the clock chimed the witching hour, Amelia yawned and said she was ready for her bed.

  ‘Are you coming up now, George?’ she asked, standing up in front of the fire and slowly stretching. ‘I need someone to do my hair,’ she added, her head on one side, lightly teasing.

  George looked at her, smiled, then bit his lower lip before answering, as if considering his reply. ‘You go up first. I’m going to let the dogs out for a wander and I’ll follow you up shortly.’

  Half an hour later as Amelia sat brushing her hair at her dressing table, this time dressed ready for bed in yet another beautiful nightgown, George had still not appeared. Understanding that his absence might be deliberate, Amelia snuffed her candles out and slipped between the sheets. She intended to lie awake for as long as it took her husband to come to bed, but due to the wonderful food and the fresh Scottish air instead she was asleep within another five minutes.

  * * *

  The following day dawned clear but there was a strong north-easter blowing so Amelia dressed well and warmly against the Highland weather before setting off with her husband and Eoin to fish for salmon on the banks of the Tay. As they made their way to the beat, even though she was sorely tempted to take George to task for his nonappearance the night before, Amelia held her tongue and instead listened to what George had to say about the wiles of the Scottish salmon.

  Again, just as he had been the day before, once he was outside with his mind occupied by other things George was as apparently happy as the proverbial sandboy. Certainly with his fly rod in hand and Amelia by his side anyone enjoying his company would put him down as one of the most contented of young men and rightly so, given the beauty and sweet disposition of his new wife. And because he was so transparently happy once night had changed to day Amelia was happy too, particularly as the fresh wind had cleared the sky of all the rain clouds, leaving the mountains and waters to bask in clear bright sunlight.

  ‘Not the ideal conditions,’ George opined, as he stared up at what looked like being a permanently cloudless sky. ‘We could do with a bit of cover.’

  ‘We’ll need to fish the banks,’ Eoin said, looking upriver. ‘The fish’ll be lying there in the shadows.’

  ‘We’ll try our favourite pools, Eoin,’ George suggested. ‘Clump Pool and The Basher.’

  ‘Clump Pool and The Basher?’ Amelia laughed.

  ‘Don’t ask me why,’ George replied. ‘That’s how they’ve always been known.’

  Amelia followed the two men upriver until they were opposite a high bank overhung with branches.

  ‘Hardly beginner’s water, George Dashwood,’ Amelia observed, seeing how far under the branches the two pools that George had pointed out to her lay. ‘You’ll have to fish those, George. I’d get my line hopelessly snagged in those trees.’

  ‘Quite so. It wasn’t my intention to get you casting there, because even I find those pools tricky. But if you take this beat here, from where we’re standing to where the bank rises upstream there . . .’

  He pointed to the mark, a place where the bank rose steeply by a bend in the fast-flowing river.

  ‘At least you’ll be able to practise casting without anything behind you to snag your line, and without any trees ahead of you to do likewise. Just choose a spot on the water and practise landing your fly on it – remembering to keep that index finger in the slack . . .’

  He stood behind Amelia as she prepared her rod, his arms round her as he reminded her of the positions for her hands.

  ‘Then reel in slowly and rhythmically. What you must avoid at all costs is to show the salmon you’re fishing for him. That fly must be all he sees. Not your line. And no movement on the water he can’t recognize.’

  Amelia turned her head to smile at him, suddenly so comforted by the feel of the two strong arms round her that all she wanted was to be kissed. She could see from the look in George’s eyes that the same thought had occurred to him, and with Eoin now safely out of sight patrolling the bank a hundred or so yards ahead, Amelia thought it perfectly safe. She therefore deliberately moved her face just that bit closer so he would find her impossible to resist, which judging from the look in his eyes was indeed the case. Amelia closed her own eyes, only to feel George suddenly move away.

  ‘No. No, not now. Not here.’

  ‘Eoin’s miles away, George. If that’s what’s worrying you.’

  ‘That isn’t what’s worrying me.’

  ‘What is it then? What is it that’s worrying you – because obviously something is.’

  As soon as her words were out, Amelia realized that she had made a mistake, even before she saw the change in George’s look.

  ‘Why don’t you follow Eoin on?’ he suggested, almost over-politely, just as he did when Amelia knew he was annoyed. ‘I’ll fish here for a while, then I’ll come and join you in about half an hour or so. To see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘I’ll only go if you kiss me, George,’ Amelia half teased, hoping to make up some lost ground.

  ‘Fine.’ George shrugged, and leaning over kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good luck.’

  As she made her way up the bank to her designated station, Amelia hoped against hope that all George was upset about was the fact that she had wrong-footed him by making it so obvious she wanted to be kissed. Even though the river banks were deserted she thought George might still perhaps consider them to be a public place, so that his dismay had been caused by her wanting so much to be kissed rather than anything else – rather than, say, his not wishing to kiss her in case it led to the same sort of reaction as the night before last. Oh, she did so hope. Surely to heaven he had not been upset on that occasion by the fact of their kissing so passionately, because if that were so they mig
ht as well declare their honeymoon null and void here and now and return home at once. For a moment Amelia almost downed her fishing tackle to hurry back to George and have the matter out with him properly, but remembering his almost curt reaction when she had teased him a moment ago she thought better of it, making her way instead to her appointed rock where Eoin was waiting for her. And all the while the awful thought would keep coming back: perhaps because they had been childhood friends they would never be able to become lovers?

  Eoin proved to be an expert teacher, instructing Amelia verbally rather than by example, a technique Amelia only truly appreciated once she had honed her new skill sufficiently well to land her fly within about six feet of the gillie’s appointed target. Not that Eoin then felt it necessary to show off his own great skill in front of his pupil. On the contrary Amelia only witnessed it accidentally when, seeking help after tangling her line, she made her quiet way back to her husband’s station and saw Eoin landing a fly repeatedly on the same spot of mirrored water under an overhanging branch.

  ‘Heavens,’ she whispered, standing just behind George’s shoulder. ‘How long does it take to get as good as that?’

  ‘About four or five centuries,’ George replied with a smile, his good mood apparently restored. ‘Round these parts they say Eoin’s family invented fly fishing.’

  ‘We’re on, sir,’ Eoin muttered, having cocked his wrist. ‘He’s taken the fly.’

  ‘You’ll see some action now, Amelia. There are a couple of good-size fish in that pool – ten pounders possibly. Now just hold on and you’ll see how to play a salmon.’

  Linking her arm firmly through George’s, Amelia watched enthralled as Eoin played the salmon, letting it run away from him downstream on an ever-shortening line, allowing the fish plenty of time to exhaust himself in the fight while patiently reeling him in a matter of inches each time he lifted the tip of his rod to shorten his line. Finally, after the best part of half an hour, he offered the rod to George who at once declined with a shake of his head.

  ‘Never, Eoin,’ he said. ‘This is your fish, man.’

  In response Eoin simply nodded once and began the process of finally landing his catch. As he lifted the end of his rod to turn the salmon towards the landing net that George now had in the water Amelia could see the silvery creature for the first time, twisting and turning in its torment as it tried desperately and possibly for the last time to save its life. But the fisherman’s skills were too great and a moment later, after one final contortion, the salmon lay in the landing net, too exhausted now to offer more than token resistance as Eoin lifted it out to lay it on the bank preparatory to administering the coup de grâce.

  ‘No – wait,’ Amelia said as she saw the gillie taking his priest from his jacket pocket. ‘Don’t you think a fish as brave and as strong as that deserves to live?’

  George stared at her, as indeed did Eoin.

  ‘It’s a fish, Amelia. You don’t catch fish to throw them back. Certainly not salmon.’

  ‘Just this once. He put up such a brave fight. And he’s such a beautiful fish.’

  George looked from her to the fish, whose only sign of life now was the occasional flick of his tail, then back at Amelia.

  ‘George?’ she asked him again. ‘Just for me?’

  ‘But you fish, Amelia,’ he said in bewilderment. ‘We’ve been fishing so often together. You understand fishing.’

  ‘I always throw them back.’

  ‘Not when we sea fished. Not when we caught mackerel over the side of the boat!’

  ‘That was different, George. Don’t ask me why now – it just was. Please put this salmon back. Please. Before it’s too late.’

  She was aware of the disbelief in Eoin’s stare, just as she was of the confusion in her husband’s eyes, but however feeble and sentimental she knew she might appear Amelia could not bear the thought of this brave fish being killed, even though she knew how good it would taste once Mrs Muir had finished with it.

  It was different now, seeing first-hand how a salmon fought for its life, apparently not just by instinct but from a very real need for survival. After all, it had made the journey upstream to propagate and now, after surviving that long and difficult journey and after putting up probably the most heroic fight of its life, its reward was to be death to satisfy a sporting whim. That was all it was: a lust to kill a beautiful creature not because they needed its meat to survive themselves but just so they could say they had beaten a great brave salmon.

  In spite of her pleas neither of the men moved, each seemingly waiting for the other to make the decision. So, sensing an impasse, and the distinct possibility that while they waited the fish might well die anyway, Amelia bent down, picked up the salmon, from whose mouth Eoin had already removed the hook, and prepared to put it back in the water.

  ‘No,’ George said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. ‘If you must, then for heaven’s sake put it back properly. Don’t drop it in.’

  ‘George! It was you who taught me ages ago how to return a fish to water when we were fishing for carp, remember?’

  Freeing herself from his hand she knelt on the bank and carefully slid the great fish nose first into the shallow, where it lay for a moment as if already dead. Amelia watched and prayed, but the salmon showed no sign of life. Just as she was about to give up hope, suddenly it flicked its great tail, stirring up a cloud of mud, and a moment later slipped into the fast-running waters of the Tay.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amelia said, standing up and trying to keep sight of the fish who the next moment disappeared finally from view. ‘I’m sure you don’t agree with me, but since honours were about even, I think that was only fair.’

  ‘Are we to throw every fish back now that we catch?’ Eoin growled at his employer. ‘For if so, I really see no point in continuing.’

  ‘For today at least, Eoin,’ George said with a wink clearly visible to Amelia. ‘Although as far as that particular salmon went I must agree with my wife. I think the fish deserved his freedom.’

  ‘Aye,’ the gillie replied, with unveiled sarcasm. ‘And I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty of grateful otters who think exactly the same.’

  With a glower at Amelia the big Highlander set about changing the fly on his employer’s rod while Amelia waited for her next set of instructions.

  ‘Sorry, George. It wasn’t my fish. I really had no right.’

  ‘No you didn’t. But – on the other hand, you did. You’re part of a couple now, and that gives you a say in what we both do.’

  ‘It never has, George. Not before. In marriage the woman has always been expected to go along with what her husband wishes.’

  ‘Times are changing, Amelia,’ George said, glancing up from the knot he was tying in his line. ‘After all, there is even a woman Member of Parliament now.’ He smiled back at her and, despite everything that had or had not happened, Amelia saw that his smile was full of love and understanding.

  In spite of Eoin’s dark mood, the rest of the day proved equally agreeable, with Amelia even managing to hook a good-sized salmon only for it to escape again almost at once. The gillie offered some grudging advice on how to play a fish once it was hooked, but the help was offered only in response to a prompt from George. It was clear that Eoin was not in a forgiving frame of mind. George, however, remained in a sunny mood all day, despite the fact that neither he nor Eoin managed to hook, let alone catch, another salmon before dusk.

  Dinner was conducted in the same benevolent mood, although Mrs Muir, having learned of the great salmon’s freedom, had not taken the news well, to judge from her constant mutterings about the waste of a good fish as she went about serving the meal. George ignored her grumbling, asking Amelia instead what she wanted to do the following day.

  ‘Have you not forgotten, sir?’ Mrs Muir interrupted before Amelia could reply. ‘Tomorrow was the day Eoin had set aside for a stalk.’

  George glanced at Amelia to read her reaction, and seeing a frown c
loud her pretty face dismissed the housekeeper and turned his attention to the sirloin.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Amelia,’ he said, after Mrs Muir had left.

  ‘Have we just come up here to kill things?’

  ‘What would you rather do?’

  ‘I’d actually rather not kill things, George. Fishing’s one thing – but I’m not sure I want to go out shooting deer. Or birds.’

  ‘Deer have to be killed. They do untold damage.’

  ‘Not to their habitat. Only to ours. If we weren’t here, if this was just the deer’s natural habitat, which in a way it is – the moors, the woods, the glens – they’d only be prey to their natural predators. All they’re doing really is eating what is rightfully theirs.’

  ‘If we don’t control their numbers, Amelia, there’ll be deer everywhere.’

  ‘Nature has her way of controlling her own numbers really rather well, without our help.’

  Seeming at a loss for words, George picked up his knife and fork, gave a deep sigh, then put them down again.

  ‘What will you do if you don’t come out with us? Eoin’s laid it on specially.’

  ‘Then of course you must go,’ Amelia finished for him. ‘You can’t go upsetting your gamekeeper.’

  ‘There’s no need to be facetious.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me, George,’ Amelia said, taking a drink of water. ‘I’ll find some way of amusing myself. We women are quite good at that. Anyway, if I came out and you caught a stag you’d only have to blood me and I don’t think I want that. I understand from my father that sometimes they cut open the stag’s belly and push your head inside it.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘Is that what happened to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ George poured himself more wine.

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Good heavens, George! It must have terrified the life out of you.’