The Silver Bough (21 page)

When they got home, she declined Shona’s dinner invitation, thinking she ought to assert her independence before they took her completely for granted as a member of the family. She was already committed to a “special tour” of the library building with Graeme on Monday; he’d arranged it with the librarian without asking her if she was interested.

“But I’ve already
seen
the museum and library,” she’d objected when he told her. “And I’m sure the librarian can’t tell me anything more than
you
could—didn’t you say she’d only been here a few months?”

“She can take us behind closed doors, to the parts the public aren’t usually allowed to see. She’s got the keys to upstairs.”

This piqued her interest. “Can we go up into the dome?”

He laid a finger alongside his nose and winked.

She decided to have dinner in the Harbour View Café, where she’d had lunch the day before. Maybe history would repeat itself, and her stranger would be there, too.

But at ten past six the café was locked up tight, and a notice in the window gave daily opening hours of nine to five. She set off for the Chat ’n’ Chew, which kept the same weirdly officelike hours. She paused, annoyed, and chewed her lip as she tried to recall what else this small town had to offer, and remembered only a fairly filthy-looking burger joint. A young man walked past, hands in his pockets, his head down.

She called out to him. “Excuse me!”

He looked up, surprised, and she noticed he had beautiful eyes, which seemed familiar.

“Did you speak to me?” he asked, sounding wary, and foreign.

“Yes. I’m a stranger here…” She smiled and cocked her head, recalling the faint trace of an accent she’d heard. “And maybe you are, too? The thing is, I was looking for somewhere to have dinner.”

“Hotel?”

“No, I’m not staying…” She stopped. “You mean…?”

“Sunday night.” He shrugged. “The fish bar’s closed. But the hotels, they all have restaurants. You don’t have to stay, to eat there. They do bar meals, not too expensive. You know the hotels?”

“There’s one on the harbor, isn’t there?”

He made a fluttering “so-so” gesture with one hand. “The Orchard is better, for food. You know The Orchard?” When she shook her head, he made a little beckoning gesture. “Come. I’ll show you.”

It was not far, and when she saw the big old whitewashed building, which sported a three-dimensional, brightly painted apple tree on the ledge above the entrance, she remembered noticing it before.

“You can order food from the bar,” he told her.

“Thank you. Can I buy you a drink?”

He backed away hastily, like he was afraid of catching cooties. “No. No, thanks.”

Annoyance flared up. What was wrong with the men in this town? Or had something gone wrong with
her
? She didn’t think she smelled bad, but some man-repelling vibe seemed to kick in when they got too close.

“Fine,” she said, coolly. “Thanks for your help.”

She didn’t see any familiar faces in the hotel bar, and everybody there looked a lot older than she. She ate up quickly—the food was very good—then went on to check out the other local bars. She found one she preferred—it played better music, had friendly bar staff and a younger clientele—but still no sign of her mysterious stranger.

 

From
Recollections of Alexander (McNeill) Wall
(unpublished; no date)

 

I
N
1896, several momentous events occurred, with profound consequences for my subsequent life. Not long after the new year had been rung in, my uncle Lachlan died. He’d reached a goodly age, having been born in 1799, and so, although he had spoken jokingly of his expectations of living into his third century, his death could be considered in no way premature. He had left his affairs in order, and upon the reading of his last Will and Testament I learned I had inherited such a fortune as to make it possible for me to retire from the hustle and grime of Glasgow and reside solely in Appleton, which had been, since my marriage, my dearest wish.

I was not the sole beneficiary of Lachlan Wall’s Will, for, as he had long discussed with me, he deeded a parcel of land and a generous sum of money to build a Free Library and Museum “for the continuing education and enrichment of the people of Appleton.” He also donated his personal library, art collection, and cabinet of curiosities to the same, and expressed his desire that the designer of the building should be the selfsame architect with whom he had often discussed his plans, to wit, myself.

These were the important, public events of 1896, but there was another which touched me more profoundly, and that was the birth of my only child, my dearly beloved daughter, Emmeline Mary Florence Wall, in August, on a day when the sun shone hotly down from an enamel-blue sky, the sea lay languid and still, and ripening apples hung heavy on the branches in the drowsing orchards.

Fatherhood was a transformation. From the moment that my dear wife intimated there was to be a happy event, I knew nothing else in life could be as important to me as this unknown child. Everything I did from then on was touched by this knowledge. All that I have done, all I ever wanted, was to keep her safe and happy. If I did wrong, it was for the best reasons.

She is gone now. I can only hope that, wherever she is, she understands and forgives me, understanding that I was driven, as she was herself, by love alone.

D
INNER AT
N
ELL
’
S
on Sunday evening was a disaster, although it had started promisingly.

For a woman with her looks and money, she was oddly awkward, socially, but she’d done a great job on her house, which obviously meant a lot to her, and when she opened the door to her apple room, Kathleen had the feeling that she’d been offered something very rare and valuable, an entrée to this lonely woman’s heart.

And then, inside the walled orchard, something weird had happened. Kathleen didn’t understand it. She wasn’t a timid or nervous person, and she’d certainly never thought of herself as having psychic tendencies, but as she’d stepped out of the late-evening sunshine into the darker confines of the enclosed garden, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and she’d felt immediately that she was in the presence of the numinous.
Numinous!
Now, there was a word from her freshman year in college, a word she rarely had occasion to use, but it seemed appropriate, and more accurate than the other word she’d thought of in connection with the orchard, which was
haunted
. Graeme Walker had suggested the library was haunted, but she’d never felt it. The orchard was different. There was some nonhuman, out-of-the-ordinary power there. She would have turned around and run away except that for a couple of seconds she was
so
frightened she couldn’t move. She didn’t know if Nell shared her feeling or only sensed her fear, but, like a real friend, she’d offered her hand, and once Kathleen felt that warm, human touch the terror was gone.

And then they’d seen the branch, so thick with pale blossom that it seemed to gleam like silver in the dim light. Thinking about it later, she recalled a book in the library on the subject of Scottish folklore called
The Silver Bough
. She hadn’t read it; she assumed the title implied a Celtic counterpart to Sir James Frazer’s great study of myth and religion worldwide—but she didn’t know if that was significant. The sight had struck her instantly as magical, impossible—but Nell had said strange weather, like the sudden burst of warmth they were experiencing after such a wet and chilly summer, could cause a second blossoming.

But if that were so, she could think of no reason at all why Nell’s mood had changed so abruptly after their visit to the orchard. She’d withdrawn almost to the point of catatonia, and nothing Kathleen said could get through to her. The food had been very nice, but there was little conversation between them, no connection at all, and so she was home again before nine o’clock, feeling a desperate need for a sympathetic ear. But there was still no answer from Dara’s phone, and two other friends she tried in London were equally unavailable, so she went to bed early with the handwritten
Recollections of Alexander (McNeill) Wall
her only companion.

My great-great-grandfather, John James Wall, was the first of our name to settle in these parts. He came to Appleton as a young man in the 1660s, bringing with him several small trees from his family’s farm in the Borders; by crossing one of these
with one of the local wild crab-apple trees (so I was told) he created the Scarlet King, which produced a peculiarly delicious cider and which continues to be much grown locally for this purpose.

After John Wall’s death his son, James Alexander Wall, took over the running of the family farm and turned it into a thriving, multifaceted business. By his direction, more land was turned over to orchards, and the cider-manufactory was likewise both modernized and increased. Wall of Appleton became well-known for cider, even quite far afield, and the finest eating apples were exported to Glasgow and other Scottish markets. My great-grandfather may be remembered for his Pomona, a work of much beauty and scholarship, into which he decanted many years of study, and all his passion for apples. But to those who have tasted it, his greatest boon and his lasting legacy must be one of the finest dessert apples ever grown—I mean, of course, Appleton’s Fairest.

After a long and apparently contented bachelor existence James Wall took a wife when he was past seventy years of age. The woman’s name is not known; it does not appear to be recorded anywhere that I can find—and there must have been some question raised as to the legitimacy of their union, for there does exist a sworn testimonial to the effect that the twin boys, by name Lachlan John and Robertson James, were the legitimate issue of his lawful marriage, recognized by James Alexander Wall as the fruit of his loins and his lawful heirs. When the boys were about eleven years of age, Robertson (he was named after his paternal grandmother’s family) was sent to a school in Edinburgh, but the other lad was kept at home to learn more of the farming business; it was said that he had a great affinity for the apple trees. A year or two later, my great-grandfather suffered his final illness. Not even waiting on the funeral service, his widow, “the stranger woman” departed for parts unknown with her son Lachlan, and they were never seen again.

The farm and orchards were supervised by a factor until Robertson came of age. When he finished his schooling, he returned to Appleton, and married a local girl (Mary Brown) with whom he had two children: my uncle Lachlan and my father James.

Kathleen remembered two things when she woke on Monday morning: It was her day off, but she’d agreed to give Graeme Walker and his wife’s young American cousin a behind-the-scenes tour of the library building at eleven o’clock. She couldn’t remember if she
had
remembered, when he’d wheedled her into it, that this was her Monday off, and it didn’t really matter, because she could always take next Monday off instead. Still, while looking at the golden sunlight spilling in around the edges of her bedroom curtains, she thought what a waste of the fine weather it would be to spend her whole day indoors. She’d do it on her own time, then; it wouldn’t take long. She was sure Graeme had given the girl a guided tour of the museum already, and he knew more about the exhibits than she did.

After dressing in the bright blue cotton skirt and linen top she’d been on the brink of packing away for the winter, she went out to buy her breakfast from the bakery. Walking through the quiet, waking streets, she became aware of something indefinably different in the atmosphere. Most of the shops and businesses here didn’t open until nine or ten—the bakery, which supplied several of the hotels with breakfast rolls and pastries, was a rare exception. But the mood on the streets was anything but sleepy. There was a new air of excitement and hope, she thought, as if the whole town was waiting for something wonderful that was about to happen, holding its collective breath…

She laughed at herself, recognizing the pathetic fallacy at work.
She
was the one full of hope, expecting something wonderful to come of her meeting with Dave Varney on Saturday evening, and this glorious weather seemed to reflect her mood. She’d almost forgotten how exhilarating the early stages of a relationship could be, before anything as definite as a kiss had yet occurred, when everything remained open and possible. Yet even knowing it for a trick of her own mind, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that the town had changed. It didn’t seem to be the same place she’d been living in just last week, and yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t have said what was different about it.