Flowers in the Morning Read online

  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

  Conspiring with him how to load and bless

  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run.

  John Keats

  Chapter One

  Hamish

  No, no and no … to all your questions. That particular property isn’t for sale. You won’t be able to purchase it. It's never even been on the market, not for as long as I can recall and I’ve been in this business for twenty three years,” saying this, Andrew, Hamish’s estate agent somehow managed to sound alternately whiney and mortally insulted that anyone should deny him the opportunity to sell their house, not to mention the hefty commission that would come his way with the sale, “... and I absolutely doubt that it ever will be,” emphasising the ‘absolutely’ with hand gestures reminiscent of someone conducting an orchestra Andrew shuddered dramatically before drawing breath to continue, causing his double chins to wobble in a manner that had Hamish picturing one of the less pretty characters from Star Wars –the image strong enough so that he’d almost expected gobs of spittle to fly from the agent’s puffy lips, “Absolute Dragon of a lady owns it ... believe me … I've tried to convince her to sell on several occasions, but she refuses, point blank, to even consider the possibility ... couldn’t get past the answering machine the last time I phoned and the old bat slammed the door in my face when I tried to see her in person the time before that.” Now Andrew sounded astounded that someone would pass on the chance to talk to him.

  Hamish, sympathising with anyone who found it necessary to deal with Andrew at all, found himself wishing that this appointment had not been ‘absolutely’ necessary ... while Andrew's ample Armani-clad backside was spreading itself into an over-sized and well-padded chair, Hamish was perched uncomfortably on the far side of Andrew’s enormous pretentiously appointed desk, precariously balanced on a tortuous apology for a chair that had to have been designed purely for gazing upon as part of some gallery exhibition and had patently been never been intended to be sat upon.

  He was well aware that the whole scene was carefully contrived to give Andrew a sense of power over his clients ... from the expensive, if, -in Hamish’s opinion- tasteless, no, he amended, ... make that downright butt-ugly … furnishings, to the numerous framed photographs of Andrew, clustered together for greater impact on one wall, in various ‘chummy’ poses with notable clients he had either bought or sold property for. There was even one, Hamish noted, grimacing, of Andrew standing between a particularly illustrious celebrity couple with his arms draped around their shoulders, grinning widely with a mouthful of artificially whitened teeth that would have done a shark proud. Then, to top it all off, there was a garish certificate, sited prominently on the desk that proclaimed that he, Andrew Bristow, had sold the highest turnover of property in the south of England for the previous three years running -marketable value noted in pounds sterling, of course ... leaving whoever was sitting opposite in no doubt whatsoever, that as an estate agent, this man was a phenomenal success.

  All of this posturing and preening had quite the opposite effect on Hamish ... all he wanted to do was get up and leave, preferably immediately. However, he needed something from Andrew, and to obtain that, he would put up with Andrew’s annoying behaviour and a little discomfort … so instead of heading for the door he squirmed on the chair trying to find a more comfortable position … thinking, with a heavy mental sigh, if this is what it took…

  Andrew, sensing he had a captive audience, -his favourite kind,- leaned forward, schooling his face into a thoughtful expression and rubbing a hand across his smooth-shaved chin, as if to check for stubble at ten o’clock in the morning. It was a move that was so obviously well-rehearsed that Hamish smiled inwardly, wondering how many times Andrew had stood in front of his bathroom mirror practising before being satisfied that he’d got it right. Andrew began to speak in low soothing tones that put Hamish in mind of a performance hypnotist entrancing his audience before making them all believe they were dancing chickens or cavorting gorillas. “Hamish …” Hamish stared out the window behind Andrew’s round billiard-ball smooth head …. As Andrew continued droning on in a sort of monotone soliloquy that, combined with Hamish’s chronic lack of sleep, made it very hard to concentrate. He could feel his thoughts drifting under the influence of the coma-inducing quality of Andrew’s voice, his gaze following the path of the ominous-looking thunder clouds that were growing in size and drifting across the sky outside the window … minutes passed where he completely missed whatever it was that Andrew had said. Hamish shifted again on the agonisingly uncomfortable chair and only by supreme force of will made himself tune back in time to catch “…blah, blah, blah,….and you must know that if it was on the market I would have shown you through already.” It was like a daytime soap opera Hamish thought wryly, you could miss half the episodes and still easily follow the plot. Andrew prattled on … shaking a pudgy finger to emphasise his point, “Believe me, I’ve had clients interested in that property before but I’ve never been able to get anywhere with it. Some perennial problem with an old Will, I think.”

  Andrew then waved his hands dismissively in the air as if to push the problem away, barely drawing breath before continuing, “ ... Frightfully sorry about that, but I have got a couple of delightfully excellent new properties lined up to show you. You will have time this afternoon to have a look through them, won’t you?” there was a heavy emphasis on the ‘will’ as he pushed two glossy pages with photographs and descriptions of prospective houses across the wide desk towards Hamish, before sitting back and rubbing his hands together as if in anticipation of his client’s approval.

  Although the apology sounded trite, Hamish knew that Andrew was, quite probably, genuinely sorry. Not for Hamish, but for himself and the loss of a potentially fat commission from a property that he wasn’t able to sell. Hamish took the proffered pages, one in each hand and flicked his eyes over them with the briefest of glances ... that was all it took to ascertain that one was nothing more than an exceedingly banal modern brick box, with enough added titivations to allow it to be described as an ‘executive’ residence, and the other an enormous ancient-looking moated manor that would undoubtedly cost a small fortune in dry-rot treatment and heating bills alone … both completely unsuitable to his needs, and not even close to the kind of house that he was looking for ... it was well past time to look for a new estate agent, he thought ... or, time to find out more about that house he’d stumbled upon, more by accident than design, and which he now couldn’t get out of his mind. He, unlike Andrew, wasn’t inclined to give up without at least talking face to face with the present owner.

  “Well then, would you know who might own the place?” Careful not to sound overly interested, and knowing full well that he wasn’t about to be given something for nothing, Hamish played a mental game of ‘eenie-meenie-minie-mo’, randomly selecting the sheet of paper in his left hand ... the executive box. ”This looks like a possibility. I’ll have a look at it. But I only have an hour or two before I have to start back to London. I’ve got ... um, ah,” ...he paused, desperately trying to think of a good reason why he couldn’t waste any more than a minimum amount of his time, then prevaricated ... “a date ... this evening, ...and you know what a bugger the weekend traffic can be. If I leave here too late it’ll take me until tomorrow morning to get all the way back into my place in Kensington.”

  Hamish wasn’t particularly adept at lying, something that Elaine had laughingly pointed out on the rare occasions that he’d tried to be economical with the truth, and he knew it -she’d said it that it wasn’t a bad thing, and that it would keep him honest. Elaine had always seen straight through him when he’d tried to keep anything from her, including the surprise thirtieth birthday party he’d organised at a friend’s restaurant, but he hoped that in this instance Andrew wouldn’t pick up on his weak excuse. … and for the life of him he didn’t know where
he’d plucked the ‘date’ idea from, but he hoped that it was the kind of thing that Andrew would identify with ... he smiled, in an effort to create some kind of bonhomie between them ... man-to-man stuff and all that … all the while thinking that the mere possibility of having to peruse yet another of Andrew’s ‘properties’ left him feeling like he wanted to gag. He knew from bitter experience that if he didn’t set some sort of time limit, he’d be looking at unsuitable ‘properties’ all afternoon. Why was it, he thought, not for the first time, that all the estate agents he’d ever met could only think in terms of ‘property’, seldom spoke of ‘houses’, and almost never mentioned the word ‘home’? Property, after all, was something to be merely possessed, to be shown off as a display of wealth and status, whereas a home was the precious dwelling place of real people, reflecting their tastes, their personalities, their lives and even, their loves. There, he reasoned, was the probable answer ... to someone of Andrew’s sensibilities a house was little more than an expensive accessory to make him look better than he really was, a collection of mere bricks and mortar that he just happened to inhabit, and no more important to him than his current car or his designer suits.

  Hamish turned his thoughts away from Andrew’s shortcomings as a human being, back to the present, and the problem of finding himself a new home that would meet his requirements rather than Andrew’s. Now, this place he’d discovered ... it had distinct possibilities.

  ***

  Three weeks ago, when he’d pulled over in that quiet lay-by the stone bridge to try and decipher Andrew’s muddled directions to another unsuitable ‘property’, he hadn’t even been aware that there had been a house nearby. Yesterday, he had lost most of the day in being shown through five houses by Andrew, who enthusiastically extolled the virtues of each and relentlessly badgered him into considering buying the last ... perhaps that was how Andrew was successful in selling, Hamish mused, –he wore clients down until they would buy or sell just to shut him up. The only virtue of the last ‘property’, as far as Hamish could see, was that it wasn’t as horrible as the previous four. Another fruitless weekend was looming … he wondered how much more of this could he stand?

  Later that day while sitting in front of the cosy fire in the shabbily comfortable sitting room of what was becoming his regular B & B, Hamish had decided to quit this ridiculous search and head north back to Scotland, to where his family had a place on the shores of Loch Ewe. He’d inherited it after his mother had died six years previously. There had been a house in Edinburgh as well, but five years ago, when Elaine was newly pregnant with Lucy and thinking that his future was now in London, he’d sold the house. Nostalgia for childhood memories of wonderful family holidays spent clambering over rocks and fossicking for treasures by the Loch had made him keep the cottage, thinking that he would, in turn, take his own children to holiday by its shores. True, the cottage was little more than a crofter’s shanty, without electricity and in need of repair, but it would do for one solitary man who sorely needed to sort his life out.

  Feeling relieved at having made some sort of decision about his future, he felt he deserved some time off … after all, he reasoned, he still had all Sunday left in which to relax before joining the throngs heading back into the city. It was then that he’d remembered the stone bridge over the brook and the woods from weeks before ... this last cold snap meant that the trees would be practically leafless by now, but the denuded trunks and branches might be perfect for photography or sketching. He’d ditch Andrew, and take the day to do things he enjoyed.

  ***

  He’d risen early to mist and a distinct chill in the air, but it was nothing a warm coat and a flask of freshly brewed hot coffee couldn’t handle. One of the reasons he kept coming back to this bed and breakfast was that his hosts had gone a step further than merely providing their guests with an electric kettle and the usual selection of tea-bags, instant coffee sachets and powdered milk replacement. They had added home comforts like freshly ground coffee in a small airtight container, as well as a cafetière to brew it in. Hamish filled and set the kettle to boil, then prised opened the tightly capped container, sniffing appreciatively as he measured out several generously heaped teaspoons of the richly scented dark ground grains into the cafetière. Once the water had boiled, he poured it over the coffee and left the mixture to brew while he showered and dressed in dark corded pants and multiple layers topped off with a warm woven wool jacket. Minutes later, he was outside, tossing a small backpack containing the filled flask, as well as gloves, scarf and his camera, onto the passenger side of the green car, before folding his long body into the driver’s seat and motoring away from the B & B as quietly as possible, hoping not to disturb his hosts and the other guests any more than necessary. He had met the American couple who were sharing the room next to him at the local pub the night before, and had chatted over drinks and dinner. He had been pleasantly surprised to find that they were genuinely nice people, not at all loud and opinionated like the stereotypical ‘Americans Abroad’ image that too many Americans did little to dispel. Both husband and wife were in their late-sixties, and enjoying their retirement enormously. In the course of the lively conversation Hamish had discovered that they were retired university professors who between them spoke five languages. They had travelled extensively and been happy to share reminiscences about places both they and Hamish had visited, most recently, the gardens of Villa D’Este, Villa Lante and Bomarzo in Italy, but they were late-risers, they’d said, and he had no wish to wake them this early in the day.

  With the top up and the heater on high the little car warmed up quickly, and this time he had no trouble at all finding the spot where he had stopped previously. He switched off the engine, pushed his door open and got out to admire autumn’s handiwork ... the sun was up just enough to cast its light over the top of the low hills behind the woods. With a trail of hazy mist hanging just above the stream and a white dusting here and there that indicated touches of frost, this place was even prettier than he had remembered it to be. A few late leaves still clung tenaciously to the trees but most were scattered about on the ground, making a satisfying scrunch under Hamish’s boots as he wandered onto the bridge. It was quiet, the stillness so complete that even the water in the stream below was flowing almost soundlessly ... the day seemed to be holding its breath for a moment before it began. Remembering scenes similar to this from winters in Scotland when he was younger, he huffed a few times out through his mouth, watching as the suspended vapour of his breath slowly disappeared in the still cold air in small puffy clouds that reminded him of childish attempts to make smoke signals from a fire.

  “Brrr …it’s even colder here than I thought,” he noted that his fingertips were already numb and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Way too cold to be drawing.” Talking to himself was a habit he’d picked up in this past year … a by-product, he supposed, of too many long hours spent alone working and having no one at home after work to talk to. He returned to the car. First priority, he decided, was to keep his hands from freezing, so he dug into the backpack until he found a pair of soft brown leather gloves lined with downy rabbit fur. They’d been an early Christmas gift from Elaine, only weeks before the accident. He had been complaining, one cold day in December, after he’d been out taking photos in Holland Park, that his old gloves were too bulky to allow him to operate the camera, forcing him to keep taking them off every time he wanted to shoot a photograph. He’d gone back to the studio to warm up and, in a moment of exasperated spontaneity, typical of Elaine, she’d immediately dragged him off to Harrods to try on, what had seemed to him at the time endless, pairs of gloves until they had found just the right pair. They reminded him so strongly of her that he’d hardly worn them since. Now, determined to make the effort not to sink back into melancholy, he fought hard to shrug off the memories which constantly threatened to engulf him, as he bent again to retrieve the camera and a soft mohair scarf, also bought by Elaine as a gift from L
ucy that same Christmas. He knew that unless he cleared out everything he possessed, it was almost impossible not to be reminded of them every time he turned around but that was an unthinkable solution…so for now he just did his best to put his thoughts aside and get on with his life.

  Wrapping the camera strap around one hand, he locked the car with the other and pocketed the keys. It was as he straightened that he noticed the entranceway, immediately behind the car. His memory flashed back to the day of his last, unhappy, visit to this lane, and he remembered seeing it, fleetingly, in the rear-vision mirror as he’d turned out of the lay-by to go and search for Andrew. Now, he strolled over for a closer look. There was a gateway, wider than a standard pedestrian entry but not enough to allow for vehicles, with solid wooden posts either side of a metalwork gate. It was difficult to see much because the shrubs either side of the gate had grown so rampantly that they now overlapped each other across the entranceway, twisted themselves around and around the metal until they had obscured most of it. Curious by nature, Hamish removed his gloves, stuffing them in his jacket pocket and began by twisting and snapping small twigs, then, with more determination hauled some of the more intrusive branches out of his way to enable himself to get close enough for a better look ... and let more light on the gateway. Now it was becoming obvious, even with the little that he could see that the ironwork was beautifully wrought. No ordinary gate, this ... all the more whimsical for its unexpected and seemingly isolated location. From what he had so far uncovered, he could easily recognise the curves of metallic oak leaves and acorns, and flowers that looked like clematis. He paused long enough to snap off a few photos. The effect of the real vines intertwined with the metalwork leaves and flowers was magical, but with so much living foliage still covering everything he couldn’t see what the gate really looked like. So, satisfied that he had taken enough ‘before’ photos, Hamish hung the camera and his backpack over a nearby branch and started working in earnest pulling the living vines away from their metal counterparts. The real foliage was so intimately twined around the metal that it took some time before he had the entire gate clear of growth, resulting in a surprisingly large mound of broken twigs and vines amassed in an untidy heap to one side. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pristine, knife-edge folded and ironed white handkerchief, -the work of his weekly housekeeper, not himself- and unceremoniously spat on it before rubbing one of the metal leaves ... it was copper, coated verdigris-green with age and exposure to the elements. Further efforts showed that whoever had fashioned the gate had forged it using several metals to give the effects of different foliage and flower petals, some showing a few signs of tarnish but most free from corrosion and in relatively good condition,. Another ten minutes of spit and polish, literally, and he had the entire gate cleaned up sufficiently to be able to properly appreciate it. The handkerchief by now was good for little else other than a rubbish bin. Hamish unconcernedly stuffed it in one of the backpack’s outer pockets and stood back to appraise his handiwork ... the gate was nothing short of a fine work of art, but it struck him as odd that such a lovely example of metalwork should be here, stranded on its own in what was, it seemed, the middle of nowhere.