the uva-ursi prolific with blossom this spring, but a few orchids may be spotted. I myself waslucky enough last week to see a fine sample of the Lesser Twayblade and another of the Small White Orchid, rare occurrences as far south as this and in these times. Readers of our great Vangmoor novelist, Alfred Osborn Tace (or viewers, as one must say these days!) will be familiar with the scene in
Wrenwood
in which Brenda Nevil hunts for specimens of this orchid for her bridal bouquet.’
It was true that he had found the orchid. A little cluster of it was growing among the damp rock ledges between Big Allen and Mottle Foin near where the Hilder ran down. Stephen came upon the flowers by chance after he had left the path and struck out across the rough marshy ground.
The sky was the way he liked it best and thought best suited to the terrain it overcast, piled with cloud in pillars and columns and towers and ramparts, so that in places the vapour seemed not insubstantial but composed of solid masonry. The surface of the moor itself glowed with the flowerbuds on the grasses and the tiny recumbent plants and there was a feel in the air of new springing life. The orchids, fresh and perfect against the damp stone, growing between cushions of bright green moss, had creamy flowers, fragrant and triplelobed. Stephen had hardly been able to believe his eyes.
Tace, describing the orchid in his novel, had also told where it was to be found, and within a few years every tuber and plant of
leuchorchis albida
had been stripped from the moor. Here, by the Hilder, was far west of the site of the plants mentioned in Wrenwood. Stephen resolved to be wiser than his grandfather and, while telling his readers of his discovery, not to disclose its whereabouts.
He didn’t even tell Lyn. She liked flowers and planted flowers in their garden but he often felt shedidn’t really care about the moor. When she asked him if he would come with her to see Joanne he put forward the excuse of having his article to write, so Lyn went with Kevin.
‘I reckon you’re very wise not going in for this lark,’ Joanne said, shifting the mound of her body uncomfortably under the bedclothes. ‘If you get like weakening, just remember me. D’you know, they could keep me in here right up until the baby’s born.’
‘They won’t do that,’ Lyn said. ‘They haven’t got the beds.’
‘She’s brought it on herself with overeating,’ said Kevin.
For once Joanne didn’t round on him. She sighed. ‘It’s all fluid, they say. The baby isn’t even very big. I’m like one of those water beds, stick a needle in me and I’d go down to nothing. Pity they can’t.’
Lyn left the two of them together. St Ebba’s, the maternity hospital, was a good way farther down North River Street from Hilderbridge General, but there had been no room left in St Ebba’s car park and she had used the car park of the rambling, foinstone, turreted building that had once been the Three Towns work-house. It was nearly eight o’clock of a sunny evening, still light, as light as afternoon, but cool as early June often is. The trees in the grounds were in full, fresh leaf, and behind them the sun declined towards the moorland horizon, its rays making a brilliant silver-gold glare through the tracery. Lyn took one of the gravel paths into the grounds of the general hospital, walking towards the sun that dazzled her eyes so that she screwed them up against it. Her hair was loose today and she wore a blue and white striped cotton dress with her mother’s birthday gift cardigan. She had severalpairs of sunglasses, perks of Gillman’s, but she had forgotten to bring a pair with her.
She saw the man, not very tall, thin, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, coming along the path towards her, towards the main gate into North River Street, but the sun blinded her and she didn’t know him. He saw her and stopped. She closed her eyes and passed her hand over them and looked again. When she
Wrenwood
in which Brenda Nevil hunts for specimens of this orchid for her bridal bouquet.’
It was true that he had found the orchid. A little cluster of it was growing among the damp rock ledges between Big Allen and Mottle Foin near where the Hilder ran down. Stephen came upon the flowers by chance after he had left the path and struck out across the rough marshy ground.
The sky was the way he liked it best and thought best suited to the terrain it overcast, piled with cloud in pillars and columns and towers and ramparts, so that in places the vapour seemed not insubstantial but composed of solid masonry. The surface of the moor itself glowed with the flowerbuds on the grasses and the tiny recumbent plants and there was a feel in the air of new springing life. The orchids, fresh and perfect against the damp stone, growing between cushions of bright green moss, had creamy flowers, fragrant and triplelobed. Stephen had hardly been able to believe his eyes.
Tace, describing the orchid in his novel, had also told where it was to be found, and within a few years every tuber and plant of
leuchorchis albida
had been stripped from the moor. Here, by the Hilder, was far west of the site of the plants mentioned in Wrenwood. Stephen resolved to be wiser than his grandfather and, while telling his readers of his discovery, not to disclose its whereabouts.
He didn’t even tell Lyn. She liked flowers and planted flowers in their garden but he often felt shedidn’t really care about the moor. When she asked him if he would come with her to see Joanne he put forward the excuse of having his article to write, so Lyn went with Kevin.
‘I reckon you’re very wise not going in for this lark,’ Joanne said, shifting the mound of her body uncomfortably under the bedclothes. ‘If you get like weakening, just remember me. D’you know, they could keep me in here right up until the baby’s born.’
‘They won’t do that,’ Lyn said. ‘They haven’t got the beds.’
‘She’s brought it on herself with overeating,’ said Kevin.
For once Joanne didn’t round on him. She sighed. ‘It’s all fluid, they say. The baby isn’t even very big. I’m like one of those water beds, stick a needle in me and I’d go down to nothing. Pity they can’t.’
Lyn left the two of them together. St Ebba’s, the maternity hospital, was a good way farther down North River Street from Hilderbridge General, but there had been no room left in St Ebba’s car park and she had used the car park of the rambling, foinstone, turreted building that had once been the Three Towns work-house. It was nearly eight o’clock of a sunny evening, still light, as light as afternoon, but cool as early June often is. The trees in the grounds were in full, fresh leaf, and behind them the sun declined towards the moorland horizon, its rays making a brilliant silver-gold glare through the tracery. Lyn took one of the gravel paths into the grounds of the general hospital, walking towards the sun that dazzled her eyes so that she screwed them up against it. Her hair was loose today and she wore a blue and white striped cotton dress with her mother’s birthday gift cardigan. She had severalpairs of sunglasses, perks of Gillman’s, but she had forgotten to bring a pair with her.
She saw the man, not very tall, thin, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, coming along the path towards her, towards the main gate into North River Street, but the sun blinded her and she didn’t know him. He saw her and stopped. She closed her eyes and passed her hand over them and looked again. When she
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