Chapter 1
GOLDENWYCH, PRESENT DAY
Caitlin King was early for the meeting with her father.
She glanced at her watch as she opened the door of her cherry red SUV.
In the distance was the relentless tapping of the junior dance class, the tinny sound drifting through the open window of the small theatre.
Shuddering at the noise, Caitlin reached into the back seat and took the circlet of wildflowers from its protective cardboard box.
This was the reason she had arrived with so much time to spare and she was angry her father had not remembered.
She shook her long dark hair from her eyes and breathed in the beauty of the golden summer evening.
The sun-dappled graveyard would be the balm of peace she craved after her busy day at work in the Hill Fort Café.
Her car pinged as she locked it and in her mind she heard her fiancé Stan’s voice. ‘You don’t need to lock the car, Goldenwych has the lowest crime rate of any area in the UK.’
His comment, while statistically true, was nevertheless na?ve and Caitlin pushed these imaginary admonishments aside.
She had grown up in the village, Stan Beech had arrived three years earlier.
As the vicar, Stan was at the centre of the community, but he continued to see Goldenwych as a picture-book-perfect, fairy-tale idyll rather than a real place.
Although, as she crossed the car park that was shared by the small theatre and the village church, she could understand why Stan was enamoured by the surroundings.
Goldenwych was beautiful. It nestled on the side of a gentle gradient overlooking the Golden Valley and onwards to the Black Mountains and Offa’s Dyke; the demarcation line between the English and Welsh borders.
On the edge of the village was a tumbled stone circle which local folklore claimed was connected with the nearby Neolithic chambered tomb called Arthur’s Stone.
An archaeological dig in the 1980s had found traces of roundhouses and an Iron Age settlement, including graves with a variety of burial goods.
During her teens, Caitlin had spent hours in the local libraries searching for more information about the ancient landmarks.
There were very few facts, instead the history was a series of surmises and educated guesses, the gaps filled by myth and legend, which in her heart she believed were true.
At the heart of Goldenwych was a large triangular green where cricket was played during the summer.
Around this were shops, cafés and the one remaining pub, The Three Sisters.
Roads radiated outwards, a few leading towards the new housing estate on the far side of the village, another to rows of cottages and the infant and junior school and another to the tangle of older streets with their mismatched but picturesque cottages and houses of varying eras.
The final road meandered up a gentle slope to the church and the small theatre which doubled as a church hall.
Caitlin walked towards the lychgate, admiring the new hand-made terracotta tiles on its roof as they glowed amber in the softening rays of the day.
They were a contrast to the wood of the porch, which was black with age and weathering, the posts twisted but sturdy, guarding against evil.
Wound around the top of the gate was a garland of flowers from a wedding a few days earlier.
Fragrant sprigs of honeysuckle nestled into creamy roses and carnations, all surrounded by an abundance of foliage.
Caitlin noticed oak leaves, rosemary, myrtle and maple, each flower and leaf chosen to symbolise love, fertility and prosperity by her friend Martha Orpwood, who was the third generation of women in her family to run the local florist.
‘Good work,’ Caitlin murmured as she let herself through the gate. ‘I bet Stan hasn’t a clue you’ve put a pagan protection spell on his church.’
She loved her fiancé, but his refusal to embrace the village’s more unusual traditions grated on her.
For her, the quirks of Goldenwych, the place she had been born and raised, were part of her soul.
When Martha had arrived with the garland the day before the wedding, Stan and Caitlin had been in the vicarage and, upon seeing it, he had hurried outside and queried its suitability.
‘Won’t it be damaged when people open the gate?’ he had asked.
‘No,’ Martha had replied, her florist’s wire and pliers in hand, ‘it’s a village tradition and everyone knows not to touch the flowers.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Caitlin, who had followed Stan, ‘and the bride requested them especially.’
Stan had slipped his arm around her waist. ‘Who am I to stand in the way of tradition?’ he had said, but his smile had not quite reached his eyes.
Caitlin breathed in the heady scent of the freshly cut grass as she followed the path through the graveyard.
She took the fork leading away from the twelfth-century church towards a tranquil corner where a bench rested under the welcome shade of a linden tree.
Graves of contrasting styles and ages stood sentinel around the quiet space, but Caitlin had eyes for only one.
A green slate monolith, its colour striking but natural, and the mark of a local stone.
It was almost one metre high and it sat alone under the tree.
At its base was an engraved plaque in the same colour slate with words picked out in gold:
Miranda King (31 October 1964 – 21 June 2023)
Beloved wife of Larry and mother of Gillian, Rachel and Caitlin
‘Love comforteth like sunshine after rain’
Two circlets of flowers, one made of blush pink roses and honeysuckle, the other white gerbera and carnations, lay in a line down the centre of the grave, joined by purple ribbons.
Caitlin’s eyes filled with tears as she stared at them before adding her own wildflower ring at the bottom, tying it to the flowers above with the ribbons woven through the design.
She knelt on the grass, enjoying the cool, soft dampness of the earth on her skin, gazing at the flowers. Was this a sign of forgiveness? It had been two years since their mother had died, were they ready to move forward?
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Caitlin. ‘Have you had a good day? It’s looks as though you’ve been busy, you have flowers from both Bean and Rabbit, as well as from me. Has Dad visited?’
She bent forward to clear a few weeds from the grave, breathing in the familiar scents of the graveyard: the summer stocks, lavender and the sweet scent of the linden tree.
‘It’s your favourite time of year, Mum,’ she said, ‘the summer solstice, the longest day and shortest night. What was it you used to say? “A turning point in the year, the Earth begins to tilt away from the sun as it travels back to the darkness of winter.” If you were here, Mum, we’d all be wearing the wreaths of flowers in our hair as we danced around the bonfire with you and Auntie Suki. ’
Her voice cracked and Caitlin flicked away the tears welling in the corner of her eyes.
‘The café was manic today and your brownie recipe is as popular as ever,’ she continued, forcing brightness into her words.
‘There’s a meeting of the Players tomorrow.
Dad’s thoroughly overexcited, he’s announcing the new Christmas play, but he asked to meet me here this evening to help make the theatre ready and probably to discuss refreshments for tomorrow. ’
There was a rustle above her and a rook landed in the linden tree. It stared down at her with bright black intelligent eyes. Caitlin watched as it ruffled its feathers before opening its beak – pale, curved, majestic, wicked – and cawing.
‘Hello,’ said Caitlin and the rook cried again in response.
They stared at each other and Caitlin felt as though the bird could see inside her, reading her troubled thoughts, encouraging her to share them.
Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, ‘Why is Stan annoying me, Mum? I love him, but in the past few weeks, he’s been different, challenging me on stupid things, arguing for the sake of it.
’ She glanced around, ensuring she was alone as she continued, ‘He’s away for a few days, but rather than missing him, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer joy of having the bed to myself.
When I realised it was the solstice and your day while he was gone, I knew I’d be able to have a fire and celebrate like we used to, all without Stan tutting in the background.
He doesn’t really understand that side of me. ’
She gave a sad laugh.
‘Don’t worry, though,’ she finished, ‘we’ll work it out before the wedding.’
The church clock struck seven and Caitlin stood up, brushing a fallen leaf from the soft folds of her summer dress.
‘I’d better go, Mum.’
She placed her hand on the monolith again and breathed in, as though trying to capture a hint of her mother’s perfume, but all she could smell was the grass.
‘Love you,’ she whispered before walking back along the path.
In the light and shade of the summer evening with its dazzling show of shifting shadows of bright and dark, she did not see the man at the fork in the path until she was upon him.
‘Lee,’ she exclaimed. He smiled down at her before she leaned into his hug. ‘What are you doing here?’
Lee Glossop and his elder brother Edward had grown up with Caitlin and her two elder sisters, Gillian and Rachel.
He was the son of Dr George Glossop, her father’s best friend since boyhood, while their mums, Miranda and Suki, had become good friends through their husbands.
Lee had followed in his father’s footsteps and was a doctor, too, recently joining George as a GP at the Goldenwych Surgery.
Lee opened the lychgate for her.
‘A summons from Mum and Dad,’ he said. ‘Dad, in particular – he insisted I help, apparently he and your dad will be too busy backstage tomorrow to do anything as mundane as arrange the chairs.’
‘They’re both as bad as each other at the beginning of a show,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness your mum can usually bring them back to reality.’
‘How was your mum?’ he asked as they ambled across the car park.
‘She was fine,’ said Caitlin. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s two years since she died.’
‘You must miss her,’ he said.
‘Yes, but it was a relief for her; she was in such pain by the end.’
‘Summer solstice isn’t the same without our mums lighting a bonfire and telling us lurid tales of pagan rites,’ he said.
‘And the tales becoming more outrageous as they worked their way down a bottle of wine,’ said Caitlin.
‘Do you have any plans for later?’
‘When we’ve finished setting out the chairs, Martha’s coming over. We’re going to recreate the ritual of the bonfire,’ she said. ‘Although, I’m using my firepit rather than a huge out-of-control stack of wood, leaves and newspapers like our parents used to build.’
‘What will Stan say?’ said Lee. ‘He doesn’t approve of your pagan ways.’
‘He won’t know, he’s away at a conference,’ she replied. ‘Fancy joining us?’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked and she nodded. ‘Then I’d love to come, although I’m on call, so I might have to dash away.’
His phone pinged and he pulled a face, making Caitlin laugh.
She walked back towards her car where there was a cool box with snacks for the helpers, but as she took her car keys from her pocket and turned back to Lee, she halted.
He was hurrying towards her, his phone clamped to his ear, his face ashen.
‘What…?’ she mouthed, but he shook his head, reaching out to take her arm.
‘She’s here, Dad,’ Lee said into his phone. ‘Could you call Gilly and Rachel? I’ll take her there now.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Caitlin as Lee hung up.
‘It’s your dad,’ said Lee. ‘He collapsed while he and my dad were rehearsing for tomorrow. Dad says it could be a stroke, but we don’t know yet.’
Caitlin stared at him in horror.
‘Which hospital?’ she asked, wrenching herself away from him.
‘I’ll drive,’ said Lee, removing the keys from her hand. ‘Come on.’
As he hurried her into his car, Caitlin heard a harsh caw and turned to see the rook from earlier. It landed briefly on the roof of the lychgate before flying away into the burning summer sky.