Flowers in the Morning

by Irene Davidson

  The room smelt of stale air and a lack of sunshine, but, on cursory inspection at least, there was no damp. Even with the glass canopy, the light was dim, filtered through the network of vines and rubbish that had collected on the roof. As he crossed the tiled floor to a second set of double doors his feet left tracks in the thick coating of grime, as if he’d walked through newly fallen snow and the dust hung suspended in the still air where he had disturbed it. He used the keys again, before pushing the doors ajar, which according to Miss Kendal’s sketchy description given to him on the day of the interview, should lead to the living areas of the cottage. The open doors revealed two curved steps that gave way to the living room. But here, beyond the conservatory, with daylight going and the windows covered with their thick webs of vines, it was as if someone had left curtains drawn. Hamish wished he could switch a light on, but, uncertain about the condition of the wiring and wanting to get it checked by an electrician before reconnecting the power, he’d decided to leave that until after he moved in. He made a mental note to sort it out, first thing tomorrow. Moving a few steps into the room, Hamish could just make out the pale forms of dust-sheet covered shapes that were pieces of furniture left by Jonathan Kendal, but little else was obvious. Despite the lack of light, he was about to go further, to search for the stairs and find a way up to the next level when a raised voice from the open door of the conservatory stopped him in his tracks.

  “Hey there! …Anyone home?” the voice belonged to Ben, the removal firm’s driver. Hamish quickly retraced his steps back to the door. He greeted the other man, who was staring around him with a look on his face that plainly said, ‘Whew, what a mess! ...Rather you than me.’ Diplomatically, he kept his thoughts to himself, saying instead, “Int’resting house ...where do you want us to leave everything?” Then, before Hamish could reply, ...”I guess you’ll be wanting to have a bit of a clean-up before you start unpacking everything, so we’ll just stack everything close to the door here, and you can give us a ring to collect the boxes when you get yourself sorted out.” Then he continued, by way of an explanation as to why they were so late. “We got stuck in a ten mile tail-back just after we got off the M25 and I thought we’d never get out of it, ...turned out to be damned rubberneckers, slowing down to look at nothing in particular, as far as I could tell. They’re not the most manoeuvrable things, these big rigs ...can’t swip and swap across lanes like those little sports cars, so we just had to wait it out. But we’re here now ... so we’d best get on with it. There’s two of us, but if you’d like to give a hand we’ll get it done faster. We backed down the driveway as far as the carriage house, like you said, and Mike’s already getting the first load on the trolley. It’s getting dark fast, but I’ve got some storm lights we can set up along that path so we should be O.K.” Again, he didn’t wait for Hamish’s reply, already moving off at a brisk pace back down the path toward the truck, obviously keen to get the job over and done with.

  The next two and a half hours were spent ferrying heavy cartons and furniture from the truck to the cottage. By the time they had dumped the last of the boxes, night had taken hold completely, and the sky was full of stars, with only the occasional wisp of cloud. A full moon had arisen, which, along with the lamps that Mike had placed at intervals along the path, gave them enough light to find their way between the truck and the house. Rolling a sack-barrow in front of them, Ben and Hamish made their way back to the truck for the last time, retrieving all but one of the lamps. Dismayed at the state of the house in which they were leaving their client alone to spend his first night, Ben had kindly offered Hamish a loan of one of the lamps, saying that it could be returned when they came back to collect the packing cartons.

  The temperature was dropping. Mike, keen to get away home, had the engine running and was standing waiting to close the rear doors by the time they arrived back at the carriage house. They heaved the sack barrow inside and locked the doors then the two men jumped into their warm cab. Hamish waved the lamp in farewell as Ben gave a blast of the truck’s horn and rumbled off up the driveway. Hamish turned, and had already started along the path to go back to the house, the sound of his footsteps scrunching noisily in the gravel ...his body exhausted and hungry, but feeling jubilant at the day’s work done. He was ambling along, trying to remember which of the multitudes of cartons he might find some food in, when, perversely, the garden suddenly beckoned, so he pushed his way instead, through a gap in the hedge that he’d noticed on one of his many trips to and from the truck. His footfalls were instantly muffled and he shuffled along, partly due to tiredness and limited visibility, but also in order to enjoy the sensation of wuffling his way through the thick carpet of dried leaves that had fallen on the path. He made his way through a circle of trees that, stirred by a tiny breeze, waved ghostly white handkerchiefs. Curious, he held the lamp up to one for a closer look ...it was a dove tree, Davidia involucrata, the white handkerchiefs were long bracts that hung from its branches, glowing in the moonlight. He carried on down a short slope ... towards the bottom of the bank the trees changed to evergreens, their thick canopy of leaves blocking the moonlight so effectively that he needed the lamp to help him find his way under their low-hanging limbs and across the steepening slope, to steps that led down to the sculpted yews. Mindful of his previous experience with steps in this part of the garden, he descended carefully, holding on with one hand to the trunks of saplings growing alongside in lieu of a handrail. Once out in the open, the moonlight was so bright that he flicked the light off, leaving it sitting on the bottom step and stood quietly staring out into the garden, allowing his eyes to adjust to the altered light and enjoying the all-encompassing silence, ...so noticeable after years of city noises. True, there were noises, but they were hushed and only of the garden. Minutes passed as he took in the marvel that was peaceful stillness before he moved out into the open grass between the rows of yew.

  He hadn’t come down the bank with any clear intention, but now that he was here he thought he might explore a little. Looking up towards the house he could see the tall trees to either side of the building, and the roof, outlined against a blue-black sky studded with bright stars. The moon was at his back and he turned to face it, looking for the outline of the man-in-the-moon, when something, half visible further down the garden, beyond an opening in tall hedges caught his eye. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had seen the pale figure of a woman, ...but just as he caught sight of her a small cloud scudded across the surface of the moon, taking with it most of the light. Hamish retreated to where he had left the lamp and picked it up, relying on the light to find his way. There were more steps, three down to a circle of stone paving, then another three leading to a small, untidy, grassed terrace. He trod warily on the greasy moss-covered surface, conscious that it would not be very clever to twist an ankle, alone as he was, at the bottom of the garden. Holding the light high, he could see that the steps divided here, splitting either side of a raised stone rill. Water would have gurgled its way down these channels once, bouncing from side to side along the gaps in the stonework, but for now it was silent ...there were tufts of grasses and ferns growing in the channel where the cascade should have flowed, and circles of grey lichens shone dully in the glow of his light. Another job, he thought, to add to his already burgeoning list.

  As he stepped off the last slab and back onto grass the cloud moved on and the moon’s light shone radiantly once more. This time though, there were two moons, one high in the sky and another clearly reflected in a small pool. Hamish stepped towards the pool for a closer look. He stopped suddenly; startled by the call of an owl that must had been roosting in the trees across from the rill. It took off and flew across the face of the moon, the path of its silent flight only marked by its snow white feathers. As he started to step out again he was warned by an infinitesimally slight movement along the surface of what he had thought to be solid ground. Experimentally, he touched the toe of his booted foot to the ‘ground’ ...even that ligh
t contact was enough to set another ripple skimming across its surface. The pool was, in fact, considerably larger than it had appeared at first glance. It had been set at the same level as the surrounding ground, but with all of its margins and most of its surface covered in weed, there remained only a small clear spot in the centre where he had seen the reflection. He laughed out loud at the mental picture of himself, sitting in the water covered from head to toes in green slime and water weed, which is precisely what would have happened, had he taken one more step forwards. Perhaps, he thought, exploring was best left to the daylight. Still, at least he had solved the mystery of the disappearing lady ...there she was right in front of him. He moved around the pool towards her, mindful of keeping a decent distance between his feet and the water’s edge.

  She was balanced on a large flat rock close to the edge of the pool ... interrupted, it seemed, in the act of stooping to place a beribboned wreath of flowers on the water’s surface. Well, he thought, at least it would have been water if the pool had not been choked with weed. He stood as close to the pool as he dared and held the lamp so that its light played over her face, ...upturned, looking back towards the rill steps and the house, as if she had been disrupted by the sound of someone approaching from that direction. She gave the impression that she was poised to flee from the pool should she be discovered, but, in truth, she wasn’t going anywhere. What Hamish had seen as a white dress was, in reality, folds of white marble, carved and polished into a loose flowing gown, bare feet peeping from beneath the fabric. Her hair bound in a thick plait and interwoven with more flowers, fell, coldly white, over one shoulder. She was beautiful, but there was more than a hint of sadness about the figure, and a sort of wistfulness that the artist had implied in her face and her manner, a talented artist at that, Hamish acknowledged, recognising the skill that would have been required to render a block of hard stone into such a figure, ...and it left Hamish wishing that he could have met the woman who had been the model for this, ...but then, he thought, this statue must have been in the garden since Jonathan Kendal’s time at least, ...so there was little point him wanting to meet whoever had modelled for it, ...she’d be an old lady by now, wizened by age like Miss Kendal, assuming she was even still living. This was nothing more than a rather lovely statue, capturing a moment long since passed. He looked at her face again ...oddly disgruntled and unjustifiably irritated that, no matter how brilliant the sculptor, there was always something disappointing, to him, about marble eyes. After all, he thought, it wasn’t as if being sightless mattered to her. Hamish wondered how he had missed seeing her that first day he had walked in the garden, but, he reasoned, once his attention had been caught by the discovery of the house, he had given little thought as to what might have been in the opposite direction.

  He yawned and rubbed at his eyes as tiredness hit him. He had hardly slept the night before and had been up early organising for the removal. It had been a very long, hard day and now, all at once, it was catching up on him. Besides which, he shivered, it was getting cold out here in the garden. The forecast for the next twenty-four hours had been awful, with an unseasonably early fall of snow predicted. Looking up at the sky, Hamish could see more clouds racing across the heavens; soon obscuring the moon and stars ...perhaps the predicted cold front was on its way. Still, he was thankful that the weather had held off for long enough that they had managed the unpacking without rain. Knowing that he still needed to manufacture some sort of meal and a bed for himself before he could call it a day, he turned away from the pool with its lonely statue and retraced his route back to the house.

  And then there crept

  A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

  Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

  John Keats

  Liana

  The garden felt a quickening, and, though spring was still a long was off, its denuded trees set up a whispering message. ...”Someone has come to love and look after us. Now, you’ll see, it will be alright. ...wake up ...wake up ...please...wake uuup.....” This entreaty was repeated endlessly, hoping somehow to pierce the veil of lassitude that surrounded her sleeping form. Over the next days, drifts of nodding snowdrops flowered all around her bower, their pale little petals all the more beautiful for their unexpected appearance, leaving the imprint of her body clearly outlined under its cold blanket of snow.

  She made a small noise as if objecting to the interference, then turned away, like a somnolent child feigning sleep on a cold winter’s morning ... pulling the covers back over its head after a parent has given the first call to wake.

  The Garden, however, like any good parent was not about to give up that easily...

  ***

  And, in the dimmed light of the cave a heart, long silent, began to beat.

  With gentle hand

  Touch - for there is a spirit in the woods.

  William Wordsworth

  Chapter Six

  Hamish

  A thin wisp of wood smoke spiralled lazily above the trees, to hang floating in the clear, cold morning air. Hamish, tending the bonfire that had taken him some time to get started, took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of burning boxwood. He’d known, before lighting the pyre, that it would have been more environmentally friendly to have started a compost heap, but there was something so deeply satisfying about putting a match to the large pile of clippings and garden rubbish that he’d been adding to for the past two weeks that he’d decided, just this once, to go with his instincts,. There would be plenty of time for composting once he’d finished this first clean up.

  Despite the crisp temperatures, Hamish, working hard and feeling increasingly warmer as the morning wore on, had been gradually removing layers of clothing. He tugged his heavy ribbed fishermen’s pullover over his head and added it to an untidily growing pile of cast-offs that included a padded jacket, scarf and a hat. Having woken in the pre-dawn chill in the unheated house, he had put on as many clothes as he could find in an attempt to combat the sub-zero temperatures, but after venturing outside, following a quickly snatched breakfast, he had discovered that it was actually warmer in the garden than in the house. Now, down to shirt-sleeves, which he rolled up, a tatty pair of old jeans that had seen countless better days, and thick woollen socks inside a new pair of stout work boots, he was feeling more comfortable. Still, the sun was lying so low in the sky that combined with the cold, clear, weather the ground between the tall yew hedge and the woods was in a state of permafrost, which resulted in his feet remaining a little chilly, even after his exertions. There was still one tiny patch of snow remaining from the fall, two weeks ago, in a shady corner that the sun couldn’t reach. He was glad, not for the first time since he’d been working outdoors, that he had replaced his old uninsulated Wellingtons with the pair of sensible safety-capped boots. The Wellies, which Elaine had purchased for working in their pint-sized London garden, although smart and an attractive shade of green had done little to keep out the cold, despite their gentrified appearance.

  He had only just completed trimming the garden’s box and yew hedges that morning. It had taken the better part of two weeks of hard work, and he hadn’t even touched the yew figures of the central lawn. He’d enough to do for now, and had decided that they were a challenge that could wait. Still, he’d jumped right in at the deep end, choosing to trim the difficult serpentine hedge first. This had been problematic, resisting his first tentative attempts with small hand-held secateurs to tame its shaggy outline, until Hamish decided to treat it more like a living freeform sculpture than an ordinary hedge. He’d had to spend time, standing back and studying the bumps and hollows of the hedge, before he felt confident enough to start again. Once he had the feel of the shapes hidden under all the regrowth, he had found it a lot easier to tackle, and he’d gone off to search for the right tools to do the job.

  As he had brought very few garden tools with him from London, he’d hoped that there might be suitable shears or clippers in the gardener’
s shed, which he had already located, next to the carriage house and attached to one end of a rundown, empty glasshouse. In the day or so after he’d moved in, he’d done nothing more than open the door a few inches and check that there were, in fact, tools in the shed, but he hadn’t made time for a closer inspection. This, he discovered, was a mistake. The ‘closer inspection’ revealed a collection of garden implements that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the British Museum, among them an old push-mower with a broken handle and a pair of ancient, rusty hedge clippers that had obviously not been used in years, so Hamish had postponed work for long enough to make a list of those things he’d seen in the shed which were beyond repair, then had driven to Ashford to find a garden and DIY shop.

  Surprisingly, he had spent an enjoyable hour chatting with the shop’s owner, who turned out to be an avid gardener himself and was happy to give Hamish useful tips on pruning and topiary. He’d discussed the merits of various spades, shears and pruning paraphernalia while helping Hamish make his purchases. When Hamish arrived back at the house the new electric hedge trimmer had made the initial work of removing the bulk of the regrowth go much faster, but he resorted to hand tools to achieve the finished form. Putting the clippers down for the final time and standing back to admire his completed work, he had been aware of the same feeling of satisfaction that he felt after completing a painting. Only difference was, he’d thought wryly, as he moved his shoulders carefully, massaging gently with one hand behind his neck to try to ease the aching muscles, he’d get to do this particular work of art again in a few months’ time. He hoped that it would get easier with practice.