Glenapp Castle

Chapter One Tom It isn’t true that time heals. The monotonous ticking away of minutes and hours may dull memory, but time doesn’t know the first thing about mending the heart. I have thrice surrendered to time’s trickery, faithfully lowering the veil of delusion, and thrice re-emerged a sorrier man. Memory is entombed in the deep recesses of the heart, not in the mind. It shackles itself to the very cells that pulsate tirelessly through the body reminding you never to forget. And it is not always for the loss of life that one grieves, for though I reference three as dead, one is among the living, still. A ready reminder, the crimpled advertisement rests on my kitchen table, faded and yellowed from the stale, dank air that permeates my cottage. Needed: A Head Gardener at Glenapp Castle to restore two-and-a-half acre walled garden. May start immediately. The haunting irony of the perfect job on the one estate I cannot bear to return to seems unjustly cruel—a twisted, perverse comedy contrived to resurrect my deepest sorrows and tempt my wildest dreams. I am not certain why I returned to the wee village of Ballantrae, isolated as it is on the southwest coast of Scotland. Perhaps Ailsa Craig, that omnipotent sea mountain is to blame, its lurking magnetism yanking me back and forth between dread and an uncontrollable longing to live here, under its spell. Perhaps it is time to stop running away. They say Glenapp Castle is a hotel now. I will never again step foot in the place, so it matters not to me. It is the walled garden that lures my weary spirit home—Sophie’s garden. The unrelenting April rain justifies my sense of purposelessness, and I return to my cot to contemplate how much longer I can survive without work. Lulled by the crash of my shutters in the gale, I mistake the pounding on my door for a dream remnant. But again, the dull, insistent knocks resound through the room. No doubt, it is my daily visitation from the village librarian, Nessie Brown, urging me to forgive and forget, to answer the advert and get on with my life. What does she know of such things? I pull on my trousers and hastily slip the advert into my pocket before opening the door. Standing before me is a woman I do not recognize. My annoyance subsides as evidently she’s made some mistake. “Are you Tom Hutcheson?” she inquires. “Aye,” I reply. “My name is Eva Campbell. May I come in?” She is unusually tall and has to bend forward to clear the threshold, yet does so gracefully, naturally. I gauge her to be in her mid-thirties, yet her youthful, freckled skin makes me unsure. She removes her paisley scarf and tosses her red curls to and fro, sprinkling droplets of rain to the floor. A puddle of water has formed around her feet and she smiles apologetically. “I’m terribly sorry to bound in on you like this, but I’m really quite desperate,” she says. “I’m looking for a Head Gardener and I’m told you have experience. Might you be interested? I put an advert in the paper months ago, yet I can’t find anyone willing to take it on.” Unabashed by my silence she surges on. “We have two gardeners now, but they need direction. There are thirty acres in all and a vast walled garden in total disarray. My husband, Andrew, and I bought Glenapp Castle nearly eight years ago now, but repairing the damage from the fire and making the grounds presentable has consumed us, I’m afraid.” “Who are your gardeners now?” I ask, knowing the answer. “William Hobbes, he’s the one who recommended you, and Henry McGrady, from Kilmarnock.” My visitor stands quietly, her hazel green eyes watching me intently as she wipes a rogue drip of rain from her brow. “Would you like to see the garden?” she asks. “I’m not sure. I’ve been away, you see,” I manage. “Do you know the place?” “Aye, I know the place.” “Well, then,” she seems pleased. “At the first sign of sunshine, promise to come and have a look. We’ve totally renovated the castle, and it’s a beautiful setting, as you must know. From what William tells me, you’d be perfect. Will you come?” “I’ll come, but I cannot promise…” I surrender, cursing myself. When I open the cottage door to let her out, a red admiral butterfly fans its black, red, and white wings, then settles on her shoulder. Fairy wings, Sophie and I used to call them. Then, for the first time in weeks, the sun burns through the thick storm clouds, illuminating the flooded village streets in streaks of coppery gold and silver. “I believe in signs, Tom Hutcheson, do you?” Oh, I wanted to believe in signs more than anything in the world. “I’m not sure,” I say. “Well, I do,” she professes, warmly extending her hand. “I hope you’ll consider my offer. The walled garden needs a savior, and I highly suspect it’s you.” I watch her stroll home towards Glenapp Castle, the red admiral clinging steadfastly to her shoulder, and I pray that Eva and Andrew Campbell aren’t living in the north turret wing.