Flowers in the Morning

by Irene Davidson

  But not for him. He returned downstairs to heat yet another frozen meal and spent the night in the same spot he had occupied since moving in.

  Kent, sir - everybody knows Kent - apples,

  cherries, hops, and women

  Charles Dickens

  Chapter Seven

  Hamish

  Linda, Steve, Alice and Jamie arrived the following afternoon. Excited voices filled the cottage as the children ran around the house exploring, immediately entranced when they found the beds under the eaves. “We wanna live here too!” they chorused to their father. “Why can’t we move to the country like Hamish?”

  “Now look what you’ve started mate.” Steve groaned to Hamish, rolling his eyes in horror. “Sorry kids, but No-Can-Do. Your Mummy and Daddy are certified city folks, born and bred. We don’t do well anywhere with a population under three million,” ...he thought for a moment, “na ...make that, five million … minimum. We’d shrivel up and die if we had to live somewhere like this. In fact, ...ugh, ...” he clutched his throat, making gurgling noises as if he was having trouble breathing, “I can feel it starting already, ...I need traffic fumes, ...need, more, buildings, ...need, ...” he sank to his knees, stretching out a hand and hamming it up completely, before falling on his face, his last words like a dying man in the desert, “....neeeed, ....a double latté. A few convulsions, then he lay still, feigning death.

  “Well, I can get you a strong coffee, if that’s all it takes,” Hamish replied dryly.

  “Dad likes to think he could’ve been another Hugh Jackman. Might’a helped if he’d gone to acting school, ya think?” Ali said, showing sophistication beyond her tender years.

  “Don’t feel bad.” Hamish said, noticing an incipient wobble in Jamie’s downturned lips. He crouched down and put an arm around the little boy, who had been less than impressed by his father’s play-acting. “You know you’re always welcome to come and visit me for weekends and holidays. And you,” he rose and nudged Steve’ prone body with his foot, causing Steve to open one eye to check out audience reaction to his performance. “Don’t give up your day-job ...‘Cos, as an actor, you suck.” The children laughed and brightened up after that, and Steve, having lost his audience, got to his feet. Jamie and Ali were soon involved in a heated argument over which one of them would get the bed closest to the window –Steve stepped in to separate the warring factions before a fight eventuated and the decision was made with a coin toss, won by an exultant Ali.

  Disappointed at the loss, Jamie’s lip started to wobble again. As a diversion, Hamish beckoned him and his sister over to the big four poster. “Come and see what I discovered yesterday.”

  The two, accompanied by Steve followed Hamish to the ornately carved timber structure. Steve was less than impressed. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the panels of rambling roses that were at the end of the bed. “Looks a lot like a bed to me …bloody big one and not going anywhere anytime soon, but, still, a bed. Why’s it got such a solid end? This must be over half a metre thick – big enough for a wardrobe – seems like a bit of a waste of space?”

  “You know nothing, Grasshopper.” Hamish replied sagely, waggling his eyebrows at the children. “But, if you like, I’ll show you what I discovered yesterday when I was cleaning.” Saying this, he scooped Jamie up and pointed to the central rose motif. Press right there, kiddo.”

  Jamie stuck out his index finger and pushed where Hamish had indicated. There was a loud ‘click’. Alice, who had been standing at the side of the bed closest the stairs, exclaimed, “There’s a door in the end of bed….and there’s tiny little steps going up. Coooo-al!”

  “Ok, just wait down here a second and I’ll sort out the next bit so it’s safe.” Hamish had to fit himself sideways to negotiate the narrow space. The wide base end of the bed, which had appeared solid from floor level was open at the top and had a narrow set of stairs giving access to where he was now standing, above their heads on the tester of the bed.

  “I am intrigued oh master.” Steve spoke sagely, looking upwards at Hamish. “So what now? Does it have a purpose? That platform is still way too low for bungee-jumping off you know ...so, what’s it for?”

  “Patience laddie ...did your mamma not tell you it was a virtue?” Hamish murmured as he picked up a long wooden rod with a brass hook on one end that had been lying on the platform. “I found this when I was cleaning up yesterday.” he brandished the rod.

  “Very nice too, mate.” Steve’s tone plainly indicated that he thought that Hamish had somewhat lost the plot as a result of spending too much time on his own. “And its function would be...?”

  “Watch this, you doubting Thomas.” Hamish said. He reached up above his head, and with the hooked end, snagged a ring set in the ceiling. He pulled hard. A hitherto unnoticed trapdoor opened and a set of telescoping stairs slid smoothly down to connect with the platform. “Da da...” Hamish sang, like a magician revealing his secret, then... “You should have seen me when I tried it the first time yesterday ...I didn’t realise that the steps would come down when I opened the trapdoor and this ladder just about took my head off ...I had to get out of the way fast and ended up in a heap on the floor after making a jump for it.”

  “Now, that would have been worth seeing, mate.” Steve said, laughing. “It doesn’t look all that secure though ...Is it safe to bring the kids up?”

  “Yes, as long as we’re careful. I’ve checked it out and everything seems pretty solid. There’s not much room at the top though, so watch your head when you come up.” Hamish cautioned. He clipped the rod into supports that he folded out from one side of the stairs, making a handrail, of sorts. “The rail will help you to balance, but don’t trust your weight on it” he warned.

  Steve appeared at the top of the steps with Jamie in front of him, but Alice, who was not fond of heights, took one dubious look at the ladder contraption before electing to go back downstairs and find her mother. The others followed Hamish up the ladder, Steve staying close enough to grab his small son in case he should slip. Hamish disappeared through the trapdoor then Jamie poked his head up through the hole, to find himself in a tiny room. As Hamish had said, the ceiling was barely high enough for a man to stand straight, but perfect for small boys. Hamish, the tallest, stood with his shoulders hunched and his head held low, turtle-like, to avoid the lowest beams.

  “Way cool.” Jamie pronounced, pausing in awe to gaze around, with his body still halfway through the trapdoor entrance. The tiny room had windows on three sides with a glazed door set in the fourth wall. Its windows were clear glass but the glazing in the door was worked as a picture-window with tiny panes of lead-edged coloured glass worked into the image of a beautiful lady, surrounded by flowers, birds and woodland animals. The light shining through this coloured the pale floorboards with the same image. Jamie was entranced.

  “Way keep going, will you.” said his father’s muffled voice from below. “Some of us are still stuck on this rickety ladder and would like to get onto something more solid.”

  Hamish leant down to grab Jamie under his armpits and hoisted him up into the room. Steve followed. “Wow, you’re right Jamie.” Steve said. “Way cool.” He pulled himself through the trapdoor and stood up gingerly. The roof was so low that he could feel his hair brushing the rafters.

  “But wait, there’s more.” Hamish opened the door with a flourish. The child-sized lintel forced Hamish and Steve to bend almost double to avoid banging their heads on the unforgiving stonework but Jamie thought it was great to finally have a door that was made for little people and cheerily told them so. The widow’s walk that it opened onto was not overly wide but made safer by a very solid stone balustrade that encircled all four sides. It felt like being on top of the world, with unimpeded views across the gardens and surrounding woods. Hamish could see a steeple off in the middle distance, which he thought must be the church in Thornden that Arthur had mentioned the previous day and Steve, after giving the stone balustrade an experi
mental shove, conceded that it probably was sound …but he still kept a firm grip on Jamie’s small hand.

  Hamish pointed out the extent of the garden to the others. Once the trees came back into leaf in the spring the views would be more restricted as many of the larger trees were taller than the house, but for now it was possible to see the tiny white figure of the statue beside the pool to the south and the stone footbridge to the east. The road was still hidden by the woods but Hamish could hear a car changing down as it negotiated the hill between the drive and the village. Steve heard it too and said pointedly, “Goodness, a car...so there is the odd one now and then is there? If you stay here too long you’re going to forget how to drive well enough to negotiate the Hanger Lane gyratory when you come back to London, mate. And all this fresh air’s got to be bad for a bloke ...seriously mate ...what’s Kent got that London hasn’t got more of, and better? Go on, bettcha can’t name me two things.”

  “Hops, for one ...and ...apple trees, for another.” Hamish replied light-heartedly, treating the question with humour. “You know I’m very fond of apples ...and beer ....and besides, I’ll have you there to drive me around the place if I forget how to when I come up for my once-yearly city visit.” He knew that Steve thought he was mad to leave London and all that it had to offer. He had argued everything about the move with Hamish, from the folly of him selling the studio and effectively burning all his bridges to the possibility that it would be bad for his career. In the end, neither backing down, they had agreed to differ. “We’d better get back down to the girls or they’ll think we’ve fallen off the roof.” Hamish said, not wanting to rekindle the discussion.

  ***

  As promised, Steve and Linda pitched in to help Hamish finish cleaning the downstairs rooms and unpack the remaining cartons. By Saturday evening they had an impressive pile of empty flattened cardboard cartons sitting on the sparkling clean black and white checkerboard tiles of the entrance hall and everything from the London studio had been found a place in the cottage. Steve had insisted on preparing dinner and had shooed Linda and Hamish from the kitchen after giving them a goblet each, filled with mulled wine. Jamie and Alice were lounging on the rug and sofas in front of the wide fireplace in the living room, basking in the heat of the flames, a large bowl of crisps within easy reach between them and glued to a new movie. They had both expressed profound relief at seeing the television and blue-ray player unpacked from their cartons, tired after a day of discovery.

  Linda and Hamish retreated from the noise of the television, drinks in hand, to a pair of comfortable old armchairs that had been placed in the cosy alcove formed by the walls of the entry hall and the conservatory. Hamish flicked the CD player on, the sound low, so it wouldn’t disturb the children, sinking into one of the chairs, one hand covering his mouth as he tried to supress a tired yawn. Linda, standing at the window, looked out at the dark garden for a moment before drawing the curtains across the wide bay. “I ran the vacuum cleaner over these but they’ll need to be cleaned sometime.” she said, indicating the heavy draperies. “I don’t know if they can be washed or should be dry-cleaned but if you can wash them it’d be better to leave it until the weather is warmer and you can hang them outside to dry. They’re so heavy it’d take an age if you put them out now.” She turned around and returned to sit on the arm of the other chair. “You know, it’s pretty amazing that they’ve survived so well. They’re hardly faded at all.”

  “I suppose it’s the vine that’s done that.” Hamish said. “It’s cut out so much light that the sun has barely touched anything inside the house. I was surprised myself at what good shape everything was in. The cottage hardly needs any repairs at all, it’s mostly the garden that requires work, but I’m on my way to getting that sorted.”

  Linda sipped her wine and studied Hamish’s face before speaking. “You know, you look at home here already, Hamish. Not in a Lord-of-the-Manor kind of way but more content than you’ve looked in a long time ...it suits you ...I stand by what I said in London when you first brought it up. I think this move will be a good thing.” She stopped for a moment, considering her next words before continuing, “You know, Steve doesn’t mean all that negative stuff he’s been spouting about you leaving the city and coming down here. He wouldn’t come out and say it, but I think he just misses his best friend ...he’s been griping ever since you left that he’ll never find another decent tennis partner or drinking buddy again. If you can give him a bit of time, I’m sure he’ll come round.”

  “It’s O.K.” Hamish reassured. “I can take a bit of flak from Steve and you two have put up with a lot from me. So don’t worry. I don’t know what I would have done these past eighteen months without him to talk to.”

  “I’m glad he could be there for you.” Linda said. “I remember how hard it was for us that first year or so after Patrick died ...and we still had Ali and each other.” Steve and Linda had suffered their own heartbreak. They’d had a son, who would have been between around five years old, had he survived, but having been born with multiple heart problems, he had lived for only six months. Steve had once said to Hamish that the one good thing that had come out of it was that he was able to empathise with some of what Hamish was going through.

  “Hmmm,” Hamish turned his head to look towards the glass-fronted bookshelves which lined the alcove. He could feel the familiar aching sensation of sorrow tightening its grip across his brow and balling up in his stomach and fought for control...some days, he thought, it felt as if most inoffensive comment could start him grieving all over again. He listened to the music playing softly in the background –it was Sarah McLachlan singing ‘Mary’...he could barely catch the words over the sounds from the television, but he knew them well enough that it didn’t matter if he heard or not. Dear God, he thought, I’ve got to start listening to music with happier lyrics. He got out of his chair, intending to change the disc.

  “I’m sorry.” Linda apologised, seeing him turn away. “I didn’t mean to remind you.”

  “No, it’s not your fault.” Hamish said, looking back at her as he chose another disc. “You must know what it feels like. It comes and goes ...and sometimes the least little thing will set it off. I do find it a huge help that I don’t have to pretend or put on a ‘happy’ face with people like you and Steve. At times I find it comforts me to know that others have been through something like this ...and made it out the other side ...but, then, other times, to be honest, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference.” He swirled the cooling wine in his glass before taking a deep whiff of the rich scents of cinnamon, orange and cloves that wafted from the surface of the wine, then drained the glass. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” He set the glass down, occupying his hands with lighting the candles of a tall, many-branched iron candelabrum that sat behind the chairs. “What do you think of my new house?”

  Linda followed his lead. “I think it’s wonderful, and every bit as beautiful as you said it was. I like the delightful quirkiness …like the open spaces upstairs and the big window in the bathroom the overlooks the kitchen. Good thing it’s got louvered shutters … but it’s not really a house made for privacy for a …lot of occupants,” she hesitated at using the word ‘family’ … “is it?”

  “No, I don’t think it was ever intended for more than one or two,” Hamish replied, thinking back to his conversation of the previous day with Arthur Blaine, “which suits me perfectly. And it certainly is a lovely house. Far beyond my expectations, but still not mine …yet.” He had plans to look further into the possibility of buying the house outright, thinking there must be some way of getting around the stipulations of the will.

  Linda continued, “I’m no architecture buff but I love all these beautiful details and twirly bits ...they look like they should be made out of spun sugar.” She waved her free hand to indicate the ornate stonework roses above the window and the intricate tracery of carved wood around the bookcases ...and I hear I missed an adventure while I was slavin
g over the lunch prep today. A secret tower room no less ...Jamie is completely hooked and insists we move in with you. He thinks it’s a medieval castle or something straight out of one of his fairy tales. And then, when the children discovered that there’s a door from the stairwell to the little study off the kitchen that you have been using as a bedroom, disguised as a bookshelf on one side and hidden behind a tapestry on the other. Well, between that, the tower and the garden, Jamie is completely smitten with the place. It’s going to be hard to get him to go back home.”

  “Hmmm.” Hamish nodded in agreement. “I hadn’t even noticed that door –it’s a good thing the children have sharp eyes. I guess I’ve been spending so much time outside that I’ve neglected to explore the house properly. But the cottage is not as old as you might think. I found the date over the front door when I was removing the Virginia creeper ...1841. That puts it in the Gothic Revival era ...you know, along with the Houses of Parliament and Strawberry Hill.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about Hamish.” Linda said ruefully. ”Well, I mean I do know of the Houses of Parliament ...I’ve done the Intro-to-London-101 thing ...you know, double-decker bus tour, Tower of London, Madame Tussauds’ and all, but that’s about as far as my knowledge goes. I’m not exactly a native, remember? And I did come here originally to go to a cordon bleu cooking school ...not a lot of teaching about architecture there ...it was mostly ‘chop zat onion more finely Leenda’, and, ‘Whad do you zeenk you are doing Leenda? I zaid clarify zee budder not burn eet!’...” she waved her arms doing a sendup of her volatile French cooking teacher, stopping when her wine slopped dangerously near the edge of her glass. “Oops, I’d better calm down, but I’ve got to say, if I’d heard of Strawberry Hill, I’d have assumed it was some kind of fancy dessert. Still, I am interested, so tell me more, please.”