Flowers in the Morning Read online

  Gazing over the gate into the woods beyond, he now noticed a leaf-strewn path of pale-coloured gravel, so overgrown with shrubs that it was practically jungle-like, but probably not completely impassable, he decided. It was hard to tell, as he could see no more than half a dozen yards of clear path leading away into the undergrowth, before the lush vegetation obscured his sight. It seemed a shame, he reasoned, having gone to the trouble of clearing the gateway, not to attempt to open it. He flipped up the simple catch and gave the gate a tentative push. If it had been rusted shut, he might have stopped there, but, perversely, the hinges swung as freely as if they had been recently oiled, and the gate opened with not much more than gentle resistance to the pressure of his hand. Needing no more encouragement than this, he pushed it far enough to pass through and closed the latch behind him, deciding that he had sufficient time to explore just a little before returning to the B & B for his breakfast.

  He reached back over the gate for his backpack, plucking it and the camera from the branch where he had left them hanging. Pulling the pack over one shoulder, he slung the camera carry-strap over his head and settled it under one arm so that he would have both hands free to fend off the shrubbery. The gloves he left in his pocket, thinking that he’d prefer to scratch up his hands rather than damage the soft leather. With the deciduous trees almost bare of leaves, there was sufficient light to see the way, though by mid-summer, when the trees would be in full-leaf, he doubted that anyone would even notice the path. As it was, the evergreen shrubs under the trees, some of which had grown over his head height, made Hamish's progress slow, and at times, painful. Pushing past outstretched laurel branches wasn’t so bad, he thought, but when he came upon a massive, wild, and excessively prickly holly bush blocking the entire path, he decided that it was probably easier to give up and go around. Struggling through the increasingly thick untidy undergrowth, he was unaware that the path had been leading him towards the stream until he was practically at the water’s edge. Here, close to the bank, where the stream formed a natural break in the woods, resulting in more light reaching the lower levels, the foliage had grown even more rampantly. It was with some effort that Hamish fought his way through a thicket of laurel and seedling birches to emerge, breathing heavily and feeling quite warm from his exertions, back on the path at the very edge of the water.

  Whatever he’d expected to find, once he'd managed to bat the last of the errant branches away from in front of his face, it wasn’t the delicate structure that had appeared out of nowhere before him. Spanning the stream was a narrow Gothic-style stone footbridge, like the gate, all the more beautiful for its unexpected appearance. The soft mist that floated ethereally around its base just above the water-line and the almost-white stone glittering in the first rays of sunshine had Hamish reaching for his camera to record the images before his eyes. The bridge was roofed with graceful arcs of vaulted stonework, its walls interrupted on either side by three slim-columned arches. As the approaches were still white with frost, Hamish trod carefully, clicking off several shots as he walked out to the centre of the span. Leaning through the middle arch, he looked upstream in the general direction of the road bridge. Although he knew that the road and his car couldn’t be far away, they were completely blocked from his sight by the trees and the bend in the stream and, without the infringement of these references to ordinary life, the sense of isolation and otherworldliness was complete. He hoisted his backside onto the parapet and sat, back bathed in the thin winter sunshine, eyes closed, enjoying the peace and tranquillity, and an absolute aura of aloneness that he knew he could never duplicate in London. The gentle burble of the stream was a soothing balm to his troubled mind and emotions. But it was chilly despite the weak sun and the parapet was freezing, even through thick corduroy, so after a short time he opened his eyes, grasped the pillars to either side of him and leaned out to study the stonework along the outer walls. From this vantage point, looking down, he was could see that beneath where he sat the stone had been fashioned into a garland of flowers that went in long loops from one end of the parapet to the other. Although made from the same solid stone material as the rest of the bridge, the strand of blossoms had an appearance of fragility and detail that must have taken a person of immense talent, skill and patience many hours to complete. Looking up, he saw that above each of the arches were carved small stone birds, each one posed differently, one caught singing, another perched on the side of a stone nest, a worm in its beak, and the third with wings outstretched about to take flight. His curiosity piqued, he got down from the parapet and crossed to the opposite arches, placing his gloved hands on the parapet and leaning forward with his body to check that aspect ...on this side, the garland was identical but here the birds were replaced by squirrels, three again, two posed as though squabbling over a nut, though, at first, Hamish didn’t see the third animal. A bare oak branch with leaves and acorns at the upper corner of the wall, sure, but no squirrel ...he looked again, wondering if the bridge had, perhaps over its long life, sustained some damage. But no, there it was ...he could see a fluffy tail, frozen in the act of scurrying around the corner of the endmost arch. The thought came, unbidden, ...Lucy would be absolutely delighted with this, she always loved to be taken for walks to see the squirrels and rabbits near their home in Holland Park, ...but then it struck him, almost instantly, like a hot knife through his gut...Lucy wasn’t with him here to see, and never would be again, ...so there was little use in standing here wishing for her presence, ...and yet, he couldn’t help himself. … It was like he was continually picking at the scab over a wound –not giving it the chance to heal properly, he thought. He knew he shouldn’t, but he kept doing it anyway. He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, knowing he would drown in his own sorrow if he continued down that particular path ... better by far to stick to this real path, and carry on with his own adventure …he’d just have fly solo on this one.

  With effort, he dragged his thoughts back to the here and now. First the gate and now this bridge, ...he looked to where the other end of the span disappeared, once again, into dense shrubbery, ...his curiosity was already ranging ahead to whatever else he might find down the path if he was to explore further ...and where his curiosity beckoned, he felt he had an obligation to follow...

  ***

  ...Minutes later, Hamish was regretting the impulse. Making headway was no easier on this side ... if anything, the shrubberies were even more prolific and overspreading the path than before the stream and the path itself seemed to be leading him further away from the road. He had hoped that the pathway might have been a loop-track that returned to re-join the lane beyond the road-bridge, but that didn’t seem to be the case, and now, with low insistent growls, his stomach was reminding him that he was overdue an excellent B & B breakfast. Added to that, his conscience had also begun to niggle at him with gentle cautions that he was almost undoubtedly trespassing on someone else’s private property.

  Having just fought his way around another particularly prickly clump of holly, he resolved to call it a day, and return back the way he’d come to his car and the B & B, when a movement on the periphery of his vision caught his attention. The blur resolved itself into a bright red-breasted robin, which landed on a branch directly above his head, hopped along to the far end of the bough, then with no apparent fear, fluttered down onto the path, less than three yards away from his feet. It bravely stood its ground even as Hamish walked a few steps closer.

  “Well, good morning gorgeous.” Hamish said in a low tone, not wanting to frighten the tiny bird. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where this path leads?” The robin looked up at him, tilting its head to either side as if considering a reply, then flying up into a shrub a few yards further along the path, chirruping encouragingly.

  Feeling rather self-conscious, and a little like some character in a children’s fairy tale, Hamish followed, skirting a leafy laurel that had taken root in the centre of the path, …not so much because he felt
that the robin knew something he didn’t, but, he reasoned, it seemed as good a reason as any other to continue. Also, practical man that he was, the way ahead was now a lot clearer than behind. He followed the path up and over a slight rise to find that the trees suddenly gave way to an open, roughly V-shaped area of grass set between the perimeters of the trees on either side. Not exactly a manicured lawn but not a field either ...standing under the last of the trees, Hamish took stock. Well, it didn’t look as if he’d come out in someone’s garden ...not unless they were a particularly unenthusiastic gardener, he thought, judging by the rank grasses and unpruned shrubberies that bordered the woods. The formal path, such as it was, ended abruptly at the edge of the woods, so from here on, he thought, it seemed that he would have to find his own way.

  He left the shelter of the trees to wander out across the grass. The long stalks grown lanky with last season’s seed heads stood stiffly white, frozen solid, and his feet left a dark trail of broken and bent stems where he had disturbed the frosted plants. Now, directly in front of him two very large and aggressively spiky holly bushes stood close together, looking like a couple of corpulent sentries standing to attention. Together with the tall untrimmed yew hedge behind them they created an effective barrier out of the opposite side of the clearing. The little robin sat watching him from on top of one of these bushes for a few seconds before flying up to perch at the apex of the shaggily unkempt, but still impenetrable-looking hedge, its length effectively sealing any gaps between the two arms of the woods. Not being able to see any obvious exit, other than the path on which he’d arrived from the woods, Hamish hoped that, surely, there would be another way for him to continue that wouldn’t require the use of an axe or a chainsaw to gain his freedom, ...a number of large woody hydrangeas, their old brown flower heads forlornly drooping, blocked the woodland margins, so that left the hedge. He could see the section of yew to the right of the holly bushes quite clearly and there was no sign of any gap that was large enough for a small animal to squeeze through, let alone a fully-grown man. To his left, the hedge was obscured by a thicket of half-grown, spindly, birch saplings, but a closer inspection showed nothing in the way of an egress there either, ...Hamish backed his way out and dusted off the coating of cold ice that he’d acquired over his jacket sleeves and hair by pushing through the birches. He could feel icy droplets melting down his neck. Mildly frustrated, he looked up at the robin, who had been singing lustily from the vantage of his high perch all the while giving Hamish the distinct feeling that he was being laughed at by the tiny feathered bird for being so cumbersome. “It’s all very well for you, you can fly. But look at me, ...no wings,” he said, crossly, flapping his arms vigorously, partly in a demonstration of his inability to fly but justified to himself, mostly, as an attempt to warm himself, “... so, you could either be a bit more helpful with directions, or buzz off.” The robin stopped singing, looked at Hamish as if he was a bit of a village idiot ... which by now, having stooped to talking to and miming flight to a bird, he was feeling, and promptly flew back down to the largest of the hollies. It sat there for a moment before taking off once more, disappearing from sight so abruptly, that it took Hamish several seconds before he realised that the bird had flown behind what he had thought to be solid hedge to the rear of the bushes. Giving the hedge his full attention, he frowned and peered more closely, ...this time noticing that the section of hedge immediately behind the two hollies appeared to be staggered with one ‘arm’ offset from the other, ...his mind made up and tugging the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands to provide additional protection from the barbs, he pulled his collar tightly closed with one hand to minimize the amount of ice that would find its way down his neck and raised a forearm over his eyes before bodily shoving his way straight through between the middle of the two bushes. Sharp spikes from the thick thorny leaves made progress uncomfortable, but he kept shoving against the plant’s resistance until he was through. Once on the other side of the bushes, he removed the protective hand from in front of his eyes, and there, directly to his right, was a gap between the two arms of the hedge that was large enough for him to walk through.

  He bent his head forward to shake off the icy coating he’d acquired from the shrubs which had turned his hair temporarily white then straightened to look around. From this side, he could see that he had initially missed the opening because whoever had planted the hedge had devised a sort of maze-like switchback effect with the yew folding back on itself to hide the passage. Like an illusionist’s trick, purposely designed to deceive the eye, this had disguised the exit. Despite the cold trickles of melting ice dribbling down his neck for the second time, Hamish was delighted with the small joke ... heartened by his discovery, he continued on round the corner. Here, the yew had been fashioned into a wide archway and the grass under his feet gave way to hard flagstones, almost invisible under a thick blanket of old yew needles. Ducking his head to avoid several season’s growth of yew, he emerged from beneath the arch. Now he had a slightly expanded view of what he thought, must surely be a derelict garden. True, his line of sight was still limited by a group of densely-growing trees and shrubs to his right, including a tall red beech tree of massive proportions, its trunk and lower branches covered in thick green ivy, ...and a long brick wall running away to his left effectively obscured whatever was beyond its bulk, but it still looked as if there had once been a garden here, albeit, one long gone wild.

  As much as Hamish could see captivated him more than enough to put off all thoughts of breakfast and continue exploring. He pulled out the gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them over chilled fingers while considering his next move. To his immediate left, the woods swept back a little -providing shelter to a grove of what appeared to be old fruit trees. He could hear a bird singing from that direction and presumed it might be the clever robin that he now thought of as his special garden tour guide. After the enclosed spaces of the woods, the relatively more open ground to his left seemed more enticing than the continuation of more dense shrubs to his right so he decided to head in the direction of the old orchard. He walked down the length of the wall, weaving between trees that, given some care, should have been heavy with fruit come summer. As it was, the orchard was in a sorry condition, the trees struggling for survival among untrimmed grasses, weighed down by heavy clumps of old climbing roses and rampantly growing ivy that would eventually smother anything living that it spread over. Instead of being tidily pruned, branches lay where they had broken off under their own weight, and several trees appeared to have given up the fight, their withered, lichen-covered limbs silhouetted stark and lifeless in the cold morning air.

  “I hope that if there is anyone here, they don’t keep Rottweilers,” Hamish mumbled to himself as he moved forward, wading with some difficultly through spiky frigid knee-high grasses. As he moved, parallel with the wall, he could see that it too was badly in need of repair. There was little mortar left to hold the old bricks in place, and many had worked loose as a result of successive winter’s frosts and rain. The robin kept him company, soaring down playfully close over Hamish’s head from where he been perched among the fruit trees to flit his way along the broken brickwork at the top of the wall. He chirped cheerfully in quite a conversational manner as he hopped over thick gnarled shoots of wisteria growing draped over the wall, the smaller tendrils of which, insinuated into nooks and crannies of the old moss coated brickwork, were contributing their share to the demise of the structure. The little bird reached the furthermost end before Hamish who was moving at a slower pace, hampered as he was by the long grass and debris. It stayed watching him then gave one last trill before disappearing again beyond the wall, just as Hamish approached.

  The end section of brickwork, which had once formed an archway over a wooden gate, had partially collapsed. The old gate, fallen from rusted hinges, lay to one side, its rotting timbers gradually subsiding back into the ground, and bricks were strewn haphazardly where they had tumbled among
the long grass, ...Hamish picked his way carefully between them. As he walked under the still-intact portion of the arch, bricks precariously perched above his route; he tilted his head to eye it warily, hoping that the remaining blockwork wouldn’t choose that moment to fall. But while gazing up at the remains of the arch and the lovely clear blue sky beyond, his attention was then caught by the flurried movement of a small flock of white doves circling overhead. Momentarily distracted, he failed to notice that the ground beneath his boots had been transformed from tufts of grass edging stone pavers into an almost solid sheet of ice where water from a burst pipe had been seeping. Ordinarily it would have been no worse than a small soggy bog of mud, moss and grasses underfoot, with the overflow running down the flight of fern-edged stone steps that led down a short steep bank on the other side of the wall but the overnight frost had transformed the already slippery algae-coated steps into a treacherous mini waterfall of slick ice that the morning’s sun had yet to reach.