The Wedding Cake Tree (7 page)

Chapter Nine

As we turned to leave the summit I remembered the wild garlic Alasdair had picked. The flowers were a little battered by now, but I laid them down on the grass and placed a stone over the stems to keep them in place. Alasdair stood waiting on the footpath that skirted along the top of the hill.

‘
Ready?’ he asked.

‘
Ready.’

W
e set off across the heather and followed a sheep track that seemed to be going in roughly the right direction and eventually found a path that followed a stream.

‘
I love playing in water,’ I said, ‘it must be something to do with all those years running through the ford at St Christopher’s.’

‘
Yes,’ he agreed, wistfully, ‘the ford is pretty special. I was at St Christopher’s during your Tulip Festival last year. Don’t you remember Rosamund introducing us?’ I shook my head.

‘
We’ve met before then
–
seriously?’

‘
Seriously.’

‘
I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.’

‘
No bother. I probably looked a bit different then anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d been away, lost a bit of weight, you know …’

I stopped in my tracks and turned to him.

‘Lost a bit of weight? Good God, Alasdair, you must have looked shockingly different at St Christopher’s for me not to remember someone as gorge—’ My brain caught up with my speech. ‘Well, you know. I’m just surprised I don’t remember you, that’s all.’

Alasdair tried to suppress a
chuckle I blushed, and we carried along on our way.

The path meandered on for half an hour or so and I filled the time rega
ling Alasdair with anecdotes from home. He seemed happy to listen and laugh and I was happy to think of anything else rather than analyse Mum’s letters. The revelation I had an aunt remained a constant presence in the back of my mind, as did the thought of what horror Alasdair must have been part of to have lost so much weight the previous year. It struck me that this was no ordinary man Mum had asked to travel with me, and I realised that the journey she had conjured up wasn’t, in fact, just for me, but for Alasdair too. An exhausted special forces soldier with a failed marriage (I tried not to see this as a good thing, but he suddenly became a whole lot sexier, on both counts), an absent mother and who knew what kind of baggage from his childhood – no wonder Mum had wanted to look after him. But then, Alasdair was the kind of man that you couldn’t help but feel affection for.

A half hour later we reached a small wooden gate with a latch, beyond which I was surpr
ised to find a narrow, tarmac lane running downhill from left to right. It seemed odd to come across something modern – even if it was only tarmac – and a little disappointing. Despite the emotion of the letter and the ashes, our time together on the hill was special somehow.

‘
Let’s wander into the village,’ he said, ‘it’s down this road by about a quarter of a mile; we’ll find somewhere to sit and have our lunch there.’ He closed the latch on the gate behind us.

A blacksmith’s forge backed onto the village green.
Alasdair stopped next to it and removed his rucksack. He stretched his arms upwards and then backwards and, as his shirt rose up, I found myself admiring his muscular frame and perfectly toned midriff. It was evident he took his soldiering duties quite seriously.

Not bad,
not bad at all …

For a terrible moment I thought he
had caught me looking, so I turned away, tried to hide my blushing cheeks, and pretended to find something in the distance particularly interesting.

I
nevitably, our conversation turned to the letter.

‘
I’d like you to read it,’ I said, opening up the tin foil covering a second round of sandwiches.

‘
Me? Are you sure?’

‘
Of course.’

I took the
letter out of my top pocket, making sure to hand him only the first one, and ate while he read.

‘
I must confess that I already know you have a relative here,’ he said, folding the letter and handing it back. ‘Grimes wrote to your aunt to say you would be visiting West Burton this afternoon. He asked your aunt to make herself available at the farm for us to visit’—he looked at his watch—‘around about now in fact. I didn’t know all the details though, a sad waste.’

‘
And what did she say?’

‘
She’ll be there.’

I put my hands to my cheeks and stared across the village green.
Mum mentioned the possibility of meeting my aunt in the letter, but I hadn’t thought she meant right now. I had done without the woman for thirty years, why bother?

‘
Is this the surprise you were talking about?’ He glanced across with an expression that said, ‘guilty as charged’.

‘
Afraid so.’

‘
Is it part of the will that I go?’

‘
Not according to Grimes. The only thing I have to confirm with him is that you went to each location, read all of the letters and scattered the ashes.’

‘
So Grimes is happy to take your word for it then
–
that I did everything written in your notebook?’

‘
Er
–
no. We’re to send postcards as proof.’ He turned his torso to look around the green. ‘I should look for one here actually. I bet they sell them in the little shop over there.’

‘If you were a truly good friend, Alasdair, you would be taking me to the pub for the rest of the afternoon rather than trooping me off to see, what’s her name … Cruella De Vil. I can just imagine the farmhouse. I bet it’s like something out of Amityville Horror.’

His face took on a serious expression when I had hoped for laughter.
Guessing he was about to say something profound, I began to pull up blades of grass.

‘
It must feel quite strange,’ he said, ‘meeting a random woman who sounds to be a bit of a nutter. But we’re here, in this place, right now. You may never come here again and you only need to stay there for ten minutes, even if you just tell her to sod off. I think it was probably important to your mum that you meet her.’

I scoffed at his suggestion.

‘Yeah, because she rushed to take me to see her while she was alive … I don’t think so.’

We fell silent.
Alasdair lay back on the grass. I stared into space and mulled over his words. I supposed I could pop in quickly – if only to see what she looked like – and then, just as quickly, leave. She was expecting us after all, and we had come all this way …

I jumped to my feet, finished the last of the piccolo tomatoes, scrunched up the tin foil from the sandwiches and lobbed it at his chest.

‘
Okay, fine, I’ll go. But if I’m going to walk straight into the clutches of a mad woman, then you’re coming with me. God only knows what kind of a reception we’re going to get.’

He had begun to unpack his rucksack while I
spoke (I was
that
interesting) and I became fascinated by the contents: waterproof clothing, first aid kit, a bit of rope, carabiners, an orange thing that looked like a very small wrapped up tent, bungees, a hip flask – the list went on. Once practically empty (although I suspected there were still some items tucked away at the very bottom) he began to pack up again – this was clearly some kind of ritual.

‘Y
our rucksack is the real life equivalent of the Mary Poppins carpet bag. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you pulled a twenty foot ladder out of there in a minute.’

‘
This is just my day sack,’ he teased, ‘the ladder is in my big rucksack.’

He
looked up at me with such warmth I felt able to take on the old dragon at the farm. I felt able to do just about anything. I held out my hands and helped him to his feet.

Chapter Ten

‘
Didn’t they have any postcards?’ I asked as he stepped out of the shop. He held a scrunched-up paper bag in his hand.

‘
Yes, they did, but it’s the post office as well. She took the card from me as soon as I’d written the address. She also gave me directions to your aunt’s farm. It’s only about five minutes away. And I got you these.’ He passed me the bag. ‘
Ta da
! I told you there would be little glass jars full of sweets.’

‘
Oh, Alasdair, thanks. My favourites!’

We left th
e village green behind and, as the road narrowed, rushing water came into earshot. Down a lane and beyond a converted mill, the most delightful waterfall came into view. I reached for my camera again.

‘
Of course, you’re a photographer aren’t you? Funnily enough I knew that too … paparazzo aren’t you?’ Alasdair had obviously been listening to Mum.

‘No, I’m not a pap.
Not any more. I do staged stuff now.’

After snapping some quick shots I skipped to the far side of the falls to look at the tourist information board
. Alasdair was standing on a picturesque wooden bridge that crossed the river.

‘
They’re called Cauldron Falls,’ I shouted, ‘and you can see why. Just look at the shape and the depth. And they were once painted by Turner, no less.’ I beamed across at Alasdair, triumphant with my discovery.

He had placed his elbows on the hand rail and was resting hi
s face on his hands. The term ‘wry smile’ was most definitely designed for the way Alasdair was looking at me.

‘
Don’t think I’m fooled by your sudden interest in the geology of the landscape, Grace. You’re time-wasting. Come on, Annie will be waiting.’

After snapping a
cheeky photo of him on the bridge, we crossed a stile and turned left onto a wide cart track. Not for the first time, I felt we had stepped back in time at least a century. A mass of pink campions, also enjoying the clement weather, sunbathed on the verge. A grass path ran down the middle of the track and that was the part of the lane I chose to walk on, popping sweets into my mouth as we sauntered along.

Before
long the natural smell of spring was overwhelmed by the natural smell of sweet manure. My heart fell to my boots when I noticed a piece of slate attached to a low stone wall almost hidden from view by bolting grass. Alasdair brushed the grass away from the stone. It was engraved with the words
Bridge Farm
.

‘We’re here
.’

The
house was not in the least how I had imagined. It looked like a welcoming cottage rather than austere. It was clearly a working farm though, and as we made our way into the yard, a pack of muddy-legged black and white Border Collies rushed to greet us, announcing our arrival with a yappy chorus.

The
door opened with a creak before we had a chance to knock, and I took a nervous breath as Alasdair stepped in front of me. An elderly gentleman stepped out. He smiled warmly, but then narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side to analyse my face.

‘
I’m not staying love,’ he said gently, then shouted back down the passageway: ‘Annie, they’re here.’

H
e touched my arm and said, ‘It was good of you to come. It means more to that old battle-axe than she will ever let on.’ He winked and carried on his way.

We turned back
towards the house to find a woman with a purposeful gait striding down a long, dark hallway towards us. Highly polished slabs of slate, worn with years of use, lined the hall floor. Her bold demeanour withered somewhat as she approached the door.

‘
You’ll be our Frances’ child then.’

I
nodded and remained frozen to the spot, overpowered by her presence, like a nervous child on an errand.

‘
You’d better come in.’

The dogs,
eager to try it on, followed us into the house but were ordered out immediately.

‘
Aren’t they allowed in?’ I asked, but instantly regretted the question.

‘
They’re working dogs, not pets,’ she barked without turning. We followed her through to the kitchen.

‘
Sit yourselves down. I’ll put the kettle on.’

The kitchen was at the back of the house and was large enough to accommodate both a substantial pine table and, resting against the wall at the far end of
the room, a sofa covered in a patchwork throw and scattered with old but pretty cushions. Annie put the kettle on the AGA.

I took
a seat at the table. The chair scraped with an annoying screech along the floor. Annie flashed me a frown as I sat down. I tried to take no notice, but felt like a naughty schoolgirl who had been summoned to see the headmistress. I glanced around nervously. There was an eclectic mix of very old, old and moderately old paraphernalia scattered about the room. The kitchen had no fitted units, but an arrangement of freestanding sideboards and a large dresser covered most of one wall. There was an inglenook fireplace (large enough for Alasdair to stand inside without bending) halfway down the inside wall, housing the chipped but pristine four oven range. The back door – heavy oak like the front – was propped open by a dog made of cast iron, allowing a welcoming breeze into the room to counter the warmth from the AGA.

Alasda
ir walked over to a wiry-looking sheepdog. She wagged her tail but refused to move from the comfort of the sofa.

‘
You’ll not get much of a welcome from that one,’ Annie scoffed, turning her back to the AGA while waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘
This dog
is
allowed in the house then?’ Alasdair asked, clearly taken with the sloppy Collie who rolled onto her back to allow access for a full belly scratch.

‘
They all come out of the barn and into the kitchen when they retire,’ she explained. ‘Although Meg here started edging her way in well before that
–
little tyke.’ An affectionate smile crossed Annie’s face and, for a moment, she almost looked … human?

She joined me at the t
able and poured tea from a glazed teapot.

‘
You don’t look much like your mother,’ she stated, looking up while pouring.

I
didn’t care for the sarcasm in her voice, so I replied, pointedly.

‘
No. You don’t look much like her either.’

Alasdair looked up from
stroking the dog with an almost imperceptible smile. Even into her sixties, Mum was a pretty lady with a regal bone structure. Annie was tall and thick set, although, to be fair to my aunt, she was a woman of a good age, yet had the agility of a much younger woman. She also had the ruddy complexion of someone who had worked outside all her life. Overall, she looked incredibly healthy.

Annie looked down at her teacup and ran her fingers around
the rim. Her shoulders twitched a little.

‘
Yes, well, Frances was always the pretty one.’ She looked up at me, her expression a sad one. ‘She was no age to speak of though, poor sod.’ She rallied a little before continuing. ‘The letter said you’re an only child.’

‘
Yes.’

‘
No family left then.’

‘
Just you.’

Her heavy eyes betrayed
her sadness. But then she looked up (with the naughtiest sparkle in her eyes and one raised eyebrow) and said, ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’

We laughed
together – the ice broken.

‘I suppose you know you’re the spitting image of your grandmother
–
my mother,’ she said, taking a sip of tea.

So that’s why they had peered at me at the door.

‘No,
Mum never said … but then she never told me anything.’

‘H
mm,’ she uttered, frowning. ‘I’ll show you a picture sometime …’

Alasdair joined us at the table. He surprised me by asking knowledgeable questions about sheep farming, and my aunt warmed to him immediately. There was no talk of Mum or the past. While they chatted, she pulled a bowl of apples towards her and had peeled, cored and chopped four of them with big, capable hands in the amount of time it would have taken me to peel just one. She took a roll of fresh pastry out of the fridge and made a pie – just like that – without reference to a cookbook.

I
left my seat and wandered to the open door. The garden was enclosed by stone walls on two sides with a privet hedge on another; the house completed the fourth side of the square. A picket gate separated the garden from the more agricultural-looking farmyard, and a number of pretty benches were positioned at strategic intervals around and about. It was less blousy than Mum’s garden and had more shrubs and topiary, but was every bit as lovely in its own way.

Noticing my interest, Annie offered to show us around the farm, but not before puttin
g the pie in the top oven using the edge of her apron as a mitt.

Meg was cajoled off the settee and
came with us for the exercise. She seemed happy to keep only a striding pace from Alasdair’s legs.

Pointing out as much of the land belonging to the farm as we could see
– which took up a great swathe of Penhill above and below us – Annie explained she had taken the decision a few years before to rent out most of the fields and had reduced her sheep stock significantly.

‘
I have just enough sheep to keep the dogs active and my bones from seizing up. In the winter I have to get some help in, but it keeps me going.’

After abou
t twenty minutes we turned back towards the house, but it was too beautiful a day to rush back inside, and I hadn’t explored enough of the farm to satisfy my curiosity. I asked Annie if she would mind if we stayed outside a while longer.

‘
If you like,’ she answered, and I thought, just for a second, that she was pleased with my request. ‘You could take Meg down to the river,’ she added. ‘She enjoys a good belly soak on a day like today, and it looks like she’s really smitten with your man there.’ We both glanced with affection towards Alasdair who was larking about with Meg a little way down the hill. Annie bustled back to the house, anxious to take the pie from the oven.

‘
If you are going to have a smug look on your face then save it,’ I said to Alasdair as we sauntered down to the river.

‘
Not quite Amityville Horror then.’ He glanced at me with a kind smile.

‘
Er, no. I must admit it, I was wrong about that. I got a bit carried away after Mum’s letter. Actually, it’s a wonderful place. Don’t you think so?’

‘
I do indeed.’

He sat down on the
river embankment and threw stones into the water for Meg who barked with delight. I busied myself tiptoeing over rocks and boulders – an opportunity not to be missed. The sun was directly in Alasdair’s eyes so he lay back and closed them. It struck me as he lay there in silence on the deep grass that he looked quite weary – handsome – but definitely weary. Meg stepped out of the stream, shook her coat and lay in the sun by his feet. It was at that moment I had the repeated sensation that perhaps I did recognise him, in some vague way.

‘
Don’t you just love the intermittent sound of bleating sheep?’ he asked, his eyes still closed. ‘Sheep in the Dales sound … different. I swear they have a more relaxing
baaa
.’ He stretched out his limbs in the afternoon sunshine. ‘
Baaing
sheep and lush green fields … my idea of absolute heaven.’

I stepped out of the stream
and plonked myself on the grass beside him.

‘
Well, relaxing or not, I suppose we ought to make tracks.’

‘
Do we have to?’ he moaned. ‘Just leave me here for the next forty years and I’ll be perfectly,
perfectly
, content. All I ask is that you pop down to the river now and again with some apple pie, and maybe a cuppa, and I’ll be absolutely fine.’ He lay back on the grass and closed his eyes.

‘
Okay then,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ll tell Annie you don’t want any of her apple pie. And cream. And tea.’

He opened one eye
. ‘Would that be pouring cream, Ms Buchanan?’

‘
Maybe …’ I started up the hill at a run. Alasdair shot past me with Meg barking wildly at his feet.

‘
You’d better get a wiggle on then or there won’t be any left.’

‘
Hey,’ I shouted. ‘Wait for me!’

Alasdair slowed and turned with a grin as we approached the house; the enticing aroma of hot apple pie shepherded us on towards the kitchen. The man from the doorway had returned and was sitting in a large wooden carver by the AGA. I wondered if it was my grandfather’s chair.