Where Bluebells Chime. Elizabeth Elgin

       13

      ‘There now, Gracie Fielding, you’ve just witnessed a little bit of tradition.’ Jack Catchpole pressed the flat of his boot against the soil around the little tree.

      ‘I have? Well, I know we’ve planted four rowan trees and the house is called Rowangarth – so tell me.’ Anything at all about the family who owned the lovely place she worked at fascinated her.

      ‘You’ll know the house was built more’n three hundred years ago, when folk believed in witches, and you’ll know that rowan trees keep witches away?’

      ‘I didn’t, though I suppose people believed anything once.’

      ‘Happen. But the Sutton that built Rowangarth must’ve believed in ’em, ’cause he planted rowan trees all round the estate at all points of the compass, so to speak. They’m bonny little trees; white flowers in summer and berries for the birds in winter, so it became the custom to plant the odd rowan from time to time, just to keep it going. My dad planted half a dozen before Sir John died – that cluster in the wild garden – and now it’s my turn to do a bit of planting, an’ all. Can’t have a house called Rowangarth, and no rowan trees about, now can us? And you never know about witches – best be sure.

      ‘Just a tip about when to plant trees, lass. Plant a tree around Michaelmas, the saying goes, and you can command it to thrive, but plant a tree at Candlemas and all you do for it won’t ever come to much. It’ll be a weakly thing alus.’

      ‘When is Candlemas, then?’

      ‘February, and the ground cold and unwelcoming. But those little rowans will do all right, ’cause it’ll be Michaelmas in a couple of days.’ He laid spade and fork in the wheelbarrow then shrugged on his jacket. ‘Now didn’t you say you had something for me at Keeper’s?’

      ‘I did, and you’re welcome to it. Remember you gave me a sack? Well, it’s half full of hen droppings now and starting to smell a bit. I don’t want Daisy’s mother to complain, so don’t you think we should move it?’

      ‘We’ll collect it now, while we have the barrow with us,’ he said eagerly. If it was starting to smell, then Tom Dwerryhouse might get wind of it, try to get hold of it for his own garden. ‘Then I’ll show you how to make the best liquid fertilizer known to man!

      ‘Have you heard about the party? All Rowangarth staff’ll be there, so that’ll include you. Supposed to be a bit of a do for the Reverend and Miss Julia’s wedding anniversary, but really it’s for her ladyship’s eightieth. They’re aiming for it to be a surprise for her. Reckon all the village’ll go and there’s to be dancing, an’ all. But not a word, mind, about it being for Lady Helen or if she gets to hear about it she might say she doesn’t want the fuss of it, and Miss Julia’s set her heart on a party.’

      It was a sad fact that the mistress was growing old, though considering the tribulations she’d had she had aged gracefully, Catchpole was bound to admit. And when her time came she would be sadly missed, because real ladies were few and far between these days.

      ‘I thought she looked tired, t’other day, when she came to look at the plants.’

      ‘Tired, Mr C.? If I look as good as she does when I’m her age, I won’t complain.’

      That day, Gracie recalled, Lady Helen had asked for her seat to be put in the orchid house. They kept a special green-painted folding chair in the small potting shed and Gracie had brought it for her and stayed to talk about the orchids and especially about the white one which seemed to be about to flower, when really it shouldn’t be flowering.

      ‘My dear John gave the original white plant to me – oh, more years ago than I care to remember, Gracie,’ Lady Helen had said, her eyes all at once gentle with remembering. ‘There are eight plants now, all taken from that first one. No one was to wear the white orchids but me, he said. They were to be mine alone, though Julia carried them at her wedding – her first wedding, that was.’ She had touched that fat orchid bud as if it were the most precious thing she owned.

      ‘Lady Helen seems very sentimental about the white orchids,’ Gracie said now.

      ‘Aye. Remind her of Sir John, young Drew’s grandfather. Killed hisself speeding on the Brighton road in his new-fangled motor. Afore the Great War, that was, when I was a lad serving my time at Pendenys. Took it terrible bad. Wore black for three years for him. They don’t wear black these days like they once did. For those three years her ladyship didn’t receive callers nor socialize ’cause her was in mourning. Folk don’t have the respect nowadays that they used to have.’

      He sucked hard on his pipe, remembering the way it had been in Sir John’s time.

      ‘What are you thinking about, Mr Catchpole?’

      ‘Oh, only about the way it used to be.’

      ‘I wish you’d think out loud.’

      ‘I will. Tomorrow, happen. What I’m more concerned about now is that sack you’ve got for me at the bottom of Alice’s garden. Away over the stile and get it, there’s a good lass. And go careful. Don’t want to set the dogs barking.’

      He smiled just to think of it. That hen muck was worth its weight in gold. Wouldn’t do if it fell into the wrong hands!

      Edward Sutton lounged in a comfortable basket chair in the conservatory at Denniston House, gazing out over the garden to the fields beyond and the trees, yellowing now to autumnal colours. Strange, he thought, that not since he married Clemmy so many years ago, and gone to live in Clemmy’s house, had he been so contented.

      It had always, come to think of it, been Clemmy’s house, built for his only child by an indulgent father; always been Clemmy’s money he lived on and their firstborn, Elliot, had been Clemmy’s alone.

      Now Clemmy was dead, and Elliot, too, and now Edward himself lived at Denniston House with Elliot’s widow, Anna, and Tatiana, whom Clemmy had never forgiven for being a girl. Anna was charming and kind and Tatiana a delight of a child and he felt nothing but gratitude to the Army for commandeering Pendenys Place. They were welcome to it for as long as the fancy took them. He glanced up sharply as the door opened.

      ‘Uncle Edward! Did I wake you up?’

      ‘No, Julia. I wasn’t asleep. I was just indulging an old man’s privilege of remembering and do you know, my dear, when you get to my age you can dip into the past without any qualms of conscience or regret?’

      Dear Julia. She still called him uncle, though for these two years past she had been his daughter-in-law. He offered his cheek for her kiss, smiling affectionately into her eyes.

      ‘I know. I do it always when I come here to Denniston. And it doesn’t trouble my conscience either, because now I am the parson’s wife and middle-aged, and the girl who was once a nurse here is long gone.’

      ‘Of course! You and Mrs Dwerryhouse did your training at Denniston in the last war.’

      ‘And now Drew is in the thick of another one, and Daisy soon to join him.’

      ‘Drew is a fine young man, Julia. How is he?’

      ‘The last time we heard he was in port – tied up alongside, he called it – having something done to his ship. He didn’t say what, though. All I know is that the Penrose is part of a flotilla that keeps the Western Approaches free from mines. But we’ll find out more when he gets leave. You know,’ Julia reached out to touch the wooden