Flowers in the Morning

by Irene Davidson

  Thinking she was probably hypothermic, he set her down her carefully on one of the sofas, turning it away from the fireplace so that she wasn’t in the direct heat from the flames. He wanted to warm her, but not too quickly or there might be a risk of doing more harm than good. He grabbed up blankets from the back of the sofa that he had left folded that morning, placed them over her then picked up the phone, intending to call an ambulance. He was kneeling by her side with the phone balanced on one palm about to dial 999 with his thumb, while he attempted to check her pulse with his other hand, when her eyes fluttered open.

  “What ...are ...you ...doing?” her voice sounded feeble, as if every word was a struggle.

  “I’m calling emergency services to get you to a hospital.” His reply was curter than he’d intended but he was worried that delay could cost her dearly.

  “No ...you mustn’t.” This was stronger ...but she was obviously ill so he started again to make the call. She reached over, with some effort, and covered the phone with her hand. “No hospital, please...” The whispered words were so faint that he barely heard them. He looked at her, her skin was so pale and translucent, like some Victorian lady who took great pains to stay out of the sunlight, or, more probably, someone who had been ill for a long time. Blue-green eyes the colour of a deep pacific lagoon, fringed with long dark lashes watched him warily. She might be beautiful, he thought if she gained twenty or even thirty pounds and did something about her hair. It was awful, long and lank, twisted into almost Rastafarian dreadlocks and full of leaves and even a small twig or two. ...Still, despite her dishevelled appearance, it was uncanny. He couldn’t place her ... but she reminded him of someone.

  “Alright then. No hospital.” He stood up. “I don’t know how you got like this, but you need food and I’ve got to get you warmed. Will you be O.K. if I leave you for a minute?” She nodded, closed her eyes and sank back on the cushions, exhausted.

  Hamish raced to the kitchen, poured a little of the soup he had made for his own supper into a mug and threw it onto the microwave to reheat. He grabbed it out a soon as the timer went off and returned to the sofa.

  Despite the warm room, she was shivering. Kneeling again, he managed to spoon a small amount of the lukewarm soup into her mouth. She barely swallowed and by the fifth mouthful shook her head and pursed her lips. Her eyelids had remained closed as he fed her, baby-fashion, and she was shivering even more now. He was still worried that her core temperature might be dropping dangerously low ...he’d seen exposure before and, by the looks of her, she was half-starved as well. He had agreed upon not calling an ambulance ... for now, at least. As far as he was concerned that was a promise he’d break in an instant if he thought it necessary ...but as long as she stayed conscious he wouldn’t make the call. He picked her up, blankets and all and carried her upstairs to the four poster bed, balancing her body at the edge of the mattress as he pulled back the down cover before placing her in the centre of the bed.

  Her dress was so light that it seemed hardly worth-while taking it off, but it was damp and cold, and skin-to-skin contact was best to warm her, so he removed it, dropping it in a soggy heap on the floor next to the bed. She was a little light on undergarments but he gave it little notice, more concerned at how her ribs protruded through what little flesh she had. He pulled the thick duvet back over her before removing most of his own clothes, then crawled in under the covers, ...turning her, so that her body fitted neatly into the curve of his own and wrapping his arms and legs around her, giving her as much of his own precious body-heat as could. He lay there, holding her close for what seemed like hours, listening as her breathing gradually settled into a deeper, more relaxed pattern and regularly checking her pulse. Eventually, tired from the day’s labour, and this last, unexpected emergency, he too slept.

  ***

  When Hamish woke, it was some time in the early hours of the morning and still pitch-black. The sensation of waking, his arms encircling a warm body, was so foreign that he lay for several moments before remembering what had transpired.

  Her skin felt warm, her pulse was regular and she seemed deeply asleep so he removed his arms and legs carefully, not wishing to wake her, and eased himself out of the bed. The air in the room was chilly against his unclad skin, so he padded across to a tall scotch chest in the corner of the room and fished in the dark until his hand found some night clothes and a warm sweater. Dressed, he went downstairs and heated water to fill a hot water bottle for her and one for himself. He came back, tucked the warm bottle in beside her then retreated to the platform with the futon beds he had made up for the children. He crawled across to the furthest one, climbed in and lay looking out through the uncurtained window at the multitude of stars in the early morning sky, waiting for the bedclothes to warm sufficiently so that he could drop back off back to sleep. He was relieved that his unknown guest, whoever she was, seemed to out of danger...tomorrow, today, he corrected, he would ask David for the name and number of a local physician who might do house calls, but for now it was enough that she was breathing and sleeping soundly. As he should be ...he yawned, warm now himself, pulled the covers up over his ears and quietly drifted back to sleep.

  ***

  From his vantage in the Beech tree outside the window, Jack watched the sleeping mortal. He’d been following Liana through the woods as well ...not exactly stalking, but curious at her diminished state; … had seen both her collapse and the rescue but hadn’t felt any concern for her well-being. The health and welfare of others were of little interest to him.

  “Such a noble gesture on the part of the little man,” he spoke in quietly contemptuous tones, his conversation directed to a striped feral cat balanced on the branch alongside his head. He was not sure what to make of all he’d witnessed this night, or, more importantly, how he could turn it to his own gain. “This is an intriguing turn of events,” he muttered, leaning back to recline comfortably against the broad trunk of the old tree, his leaf-covered body all but disappearing into the foliage surrounding him.

  Can we love but on condition that the thing we love must die?

  Robert Browning

  Chapter Ten

  “Checkmate” David pronounced triumphantly.

  Hamish glanced around the relatively crowded chess board to trying to find some way out of his predicament, but David, sitting opposite, his smile widening, was right. Hamish’s king was in a helpless situation from which there could be no reprieve, retreat or reprisals. “I’m making this too easy for you, aren’t I?” he said ruefully, sweeping the pieces to one side. He noticed the empty whiskey tumbler beside David. “Another whiskey?” he asked.

  “Thanks” David replied, settling in his seat and draping an arm along the back of the sofa. Then as an after-thought “...as long as you don’t think you’re trying some sort of rear guard attack to dull my senses with alcohol ...I feel it’s only fair to warn you that it won’t work. I’ve been draining leftover communion wine for the better part of twenty years now, so I’m a hardened drinker.”

  “I thought you watered that stuff down so much that’s there’s hardly any alcohol left in it?” Hamish raised an eyebrow and his tone was questioning.

  David just grinned in reply.

  “And …I doubt that a couple of whiskeys are going to have too much effect on you ...though if it did I might stand half a chance of winning a game.” Hamish stood and poured a generous measure of Laphroaig single malt into David’s glass before sinking into the cushions of the sofa opposite. They had positioned a small side table in front of the living room fire, drawn the sofas closer together and had spent a pleasant evening sitting, eating, talking and playing games of chess ...all of which David had so far won.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much ...you’ll improve with a bit of practice. And it’s not life and death after all, it’s just a game.” David leant back against the comfortable cushions with his drink. “That was a grand dinner, thank you. I would have understood if you’d wanted to
cancel it though, with an unexpected houseguest and all. ...Did you manage to get through to Dr McLean after you called me this morning?”

  “Yes, I did. Thanks for the help. He was kind enough to come round and examine her. Not that she was exactly thrilled with the attention. But it appears that there is nothing wrong that some good food and rest won’t fix. She’s been asleep most of the day ...I’ve had to wake her several times to get her to eat. I sat with her until the doctor came ...whatever she’s been through; it seems to have left her exhausted and sad. Sometimes she’s resting quite peacefully, and then she starts crying in her sleep and talking about someone called John. From what she was mumbling earlier it sounds as if this John has gone and left her or perhaps died. I’ve never heard anyone talk like that in their sleep before ...she sounds so forlorn. She refuses to tell me her name, so I don’t know if there is someone I should be contacting.”

  “Who knows if that would be a good idea,” David cautioned, “it may well depend upon what she’s running away from. Still ...if I can be of any help at all, please just ask. I’ve had a fair bit of experience with counselling.”

  “Hmmm, and in my experience …You have to want it for that to work,” Hamish replied. “Since there’s nothing more either of us can do this evening, shall we get back to the game? …This time I think I’ll win.”

  David smiled, raised his eyebrows and set up the board for a rematch…

  ***

  They stood saying farewells at the conservatory doors. Even before Hamish opened the outer doors they could feel the cold seeping into the unheated room. As he bid Hamish a goodnight David did up the buttons on his thick winter coat, adjusting his scarf to cover his ears.

  “The barometers really dropping ...If this keeps up I have a feeling we might be in for a White Christmas. It’s been nearly ten years since the last so I feel we must be due one.” After repeating his thanks for an enjoyable evening and reissuing an invitation to Christmas lunch at the vicarage, which Hamish politely declined, he left, carrying the torch that he had loaned Hamish the night before.

  Returning inside Hamish felt too restless to sleep and remembered the books he’d left on the chair the previous night, forgotten after the distraction of discovering the woman in his garden. Preferring to read by candlelight, he relocated the heavy candelabrum to behind the sofa, lighting the ranks of candles before switching off the room lights then picked up the books he’d chosen and returned to the comfort of the fireside. Between the lambent glow of the candles and the fire’s dancing flames there was ample light to read. He started leafing through the book on the language of flowers. Catching sight of the posy over the top of the pages, he decided, purely out of curiosity and because he had nothing better to do, to look up the species in front of him. First there was babies’ breath –that was innocence; then forget-me-not – fairly straight-forward, he thought, not forgetting; lavender denoted calmness, “hmmm”, he turned the yellowed pages to rosemary –that was one he knew …rosemary for remembrance; lastly were the snowdrops – they, interestingly, represented hope and consolation. He stared at the little bouquet with renewed interest, wondering if it was a random act of kindness that these flowers had been left on his doorstep or if someone was trying to tell him something.

  It was late by the time he went upstairs to his alcove bed. Navigating his way up the stairs by a candle he’d taken from the stand after extinguishing the others. Once in the studio he checked on the sleeping figure ...she was hardly visible under the covers of the big bed. He tucked a freshly warmed hottie at her feet …Dr Mclean had assisted her to dress in a pair of Hamish’s flannel pyjamas, which although overlarge were thick and warm so he knew she shouldn’t be cold. Her washed dress was hanging, a pale shape, on the door of the wardrobe. He continued to his own bed where he slept peacefully and dreamlessly.

  ***

  As David had predicted, snowflakes started falling shortly before lunch on Christmas Eve. Hamish had spent an energetic morning carting firewood from the woods. The dry wood, he took directly to a covered stack along the rear of the house, the green he piled neatly beside the carriage house, ready, he hoped for next winter. Rather than putting the last load of dry wood onto the covered pile he opened an ingenious little door that had been let into the rear wall of White Briars, close to the living room chimney breast. There was a small cupboard space behind the door large enough to store dry firewood to keep the fire going for two or three days. He refilled it, replacing wood already burnt the nights before. At the back of the cupboard a second door opened from the living room to allow access to the stacked wood, so saving the necessity of going outside to replenish the supply as often as would be needed if he was refilling a wood basket. Looking at the darkening sky, Hamish pushed as much wood into the corners of the space as he could ...if David was correct in his prediction of a proper snowfall, he might be glad of it.

  He kept working outside, enjoying the exercise, until the snow began to fall so heavily that it was getting difficult to see. Time, anyway, he thought, to check on his house guest. Earlier that morning she had managed to eat some pieces of fruit that he had cut up into bite-sized chunks before turning away and pulling the covers back over her head, making it clear that she had no wish to talk. He had left her sleeping when he had gone outdoors. It had given him a chance to think and decide what he might do about her. That she needed feeding to gain weight was a given, ...he felt bad that someone might be worried about her disappearance but he decided to leave well enough alone for now. He would continue to care for and house her until she was strong enough to ...to what? To leave, he supposed ...but go where? Well … for now, it was Christmas and he had no plans to go anywhere for the holiday season so she was welcome to stay. He pulled his boots off and went inside, determined to wake her for long enough to make that known to her.

  Padding up the stairs in his stocking feet, his noble intentions came to nothing. …She was gone. So were the pyjamas, the extra blanket that he’d put over her that first night when she was so cold and an old woollen sweater he’d left lying on the chair beside the bed. Hoping he was mistaken, Hamish checked the upstairs bathroom and then, systematically, the rest of the house. There was no sign of her. She must have crept out the front door while he was going backwards and forwards between the woods and the house. He was crossing through the living room for the second time, wondering if he should call the police, ...not for the petty thefts, they weren’t important, but it was snowing ...what an appalling time to leave, ...when he saw the flowers lying beside the little posy on the chess table. He stopped in his tracks. Spread out across the table was an odd collection of flowers and greenery. A single spike of agrimony which he knew from Elaine’s interest in Bach flower remedies, a sprig of yew and a third flower he didn’t recognise. He picked up the agrimony...it had been left atop the little book he’d been reading the night before, which he had a feeling was significant. He put the stem down with the others and opened the book, searching. Sure enough … agrimony signified thankfulness or appreciation ...a polite ‘thank you’ for his efforts on her behalf …well, that was nice he thought sourly. He turned to the pages near the back of the book for the explanation for the yew. It indicated ‘sorrow’ ...he’d got that from her ramblings while asleep so it came as no real surprise. He crossed to the book shelves to find out what the third flower was …it didn’t take long before he recognised the orange-golden umbel shaped head of butterfly weed. Referring back to the first book he discovered that it meant ‘Let me go,’ …so, he put it all together, muttering to himself, “Thanks a bunch, but I’m really unhappy so let me leave and, presumably, I don’t want to be followed.” Yeah, right.

  He stuck the flowers in the vase with the posy, realising as he did who had most likely given him the previous bunch and went to put his outdoor clothes on, to go back outside and spend the rest of the day searching the garden and the woods for any sign of her. The only place that he couldn’t bring himself to check was the glade down b
y the poo l ...where the small summer house was. She might have sought shelter there but he had no desire to see the ruined figures of the two sculptures he had made so took a chance that she would not hide somewhere so obvious.

  He didn’t find her -hadn’t really expected to. By the time he returned to the cottage the snow was beginning to settle. He hoped that wherever she had gone, it was out of this weather. He phoned David, who promised to keep an eye out around the village in case she should turn up there, then went to prepare himself something for dinner. It was when he checked the fridge for the left-over chicken from the previous night’s roast that he found that she must have taken food supplies as well ...including the remains of the chicken and roast vegetables, most of the fruit from a bowl on the bench top and a loaf of bread. He checked the pantry shelves to see what else she might have purloined, feeling more pleased than irritated ...at least with food she would stand a chance, as long as she had found shelter, but it looked as if he would have to find something else for his own dinner ...resigned, he reached into the back of the pantry cupboard for a packet of Rice Risotto.

  The Rose has but a summer-reign

  The daisy never dies.

  James Montgomery

  Chapter Eleven

  Hamish

  Christmas morning, the garden was like a fresh, white canvas from one end to the other. Hamish, from his vantage point high up on the widow’s walk, had to admit to himself that he had not climbed up just to admire the view. He’d been hoping, like some Good King Wenceslas in his tower, to spy a lone figure down there in the snow ...but nothing larger than the fox he’d spied running casually across the open space of the yew garden had moved in the space below.