The Wedding Cake Tree by Melanie Hudson

cup of tea at any time let alone at breakfast), so I slipped it under the table to the resident Jack Russell who was waiting patiently by my feet for a taster.
    June returned with a fresh pot of tea so I asked (trying to be nonchalant) if she knew the whereabouts of Alasdair.
    ‘He was up at the crack of dawn – sitting just where you are now – and going through his maps and books when I opened up at seven. And he’d already been for a run at that.’
    She lingered at the doorway, my breakfast plate in one hand, tea towel in the other, and looked on at me kindly, but quizzically.
    ‘ You two just friends then?’
    The separate r ooms were a bit of a giveaway.
    I nodded.
    ‘ Such a lovely chap. Nice eyes – a bit of spice in that one I reckon. I have a thing for the quiet smouldering look.’ She winked and began to walk away. Alasdair appeared around the door, bumping into June as she left, which made us titter all the harder.
    He took a seat opposite me and removed a small tin from the top pocket of his rucksack, before picking up my walking boots and rubbing wax into the creases of the leather.
    ‘ So, what’s on the agenda today then?’
    ‘ Well, first of all, we’re taking a walk up Penhill. No need for the car, we can set off from here. When we get to the top I’ll give you your next letter.’
    ‘ Oh, I don’t mind a good walk,’ I said. ‘And second of all?’
    He glanced up from rubbing wax into my boots; the man was all innocence.
    ‘ Second of all?’ he asked.
    ‘ You started your first sentence with first of all, which would imply that there’s a second of all, or else why say it?’
    He lowered his head an d looked at me through his eyelashes.
    ‘ Rosamund never said you were pedantic.’
    ‘ Hmm,’ I narrowed my eyes, ‘you’re side-stepping. Come on, what’s the second of all?’
    He handed me the boots and grinned. ‘It’s a surprise.’
     
    We agreed to rendezvous ten minutes later in the front foyer. 
    ‘ Pass that here if you like,’ he said, looking at my camera as we crossed the road. ‘It looks heavy, I’ll put it in the rucksack for you.’
    I instinctively rushed a protective hand to cover my camera; my precious and very expensive appendage that had become a constant presence in my life.
    ‘ No, thanks. I like to have it with me. The shots are more spontaneous that way.’
     
    We followed a tarmac lane lined with cottages. The residents seemed to be in cahoots to win a Britain in Bloom prize. The result, particularly in the morning sunshine, was very pretty indeed.
    As the road gained in height it narrowed slightly, and our view of the Dale opened out to the north. A horse was whinnying as it was put through its paces in an outdoor arena. The predominant noise reverberating across the Dale, however, was not the whinnying of horses, but the ever-present sound of bleating sheep – like a comforting white noise in the background.
    I was suddenly overcome by an aroma I easily recognised. The woodland to our left was carpeted with the little white flowers of wild garlic.
    ‘ I love the smell of wild garlic,’ I said, ‘it reminds me of home. There’s a large patch of it just beyond our ford.’
    Alasda ir hopped effortlessly over the tall post and rail fence that separated the road from the wood and grabbed a handful.
    ‘ You probably aren’t supposed to pick these, being wild,’ he said, pulling a mock guilty expression, ‘but I have a feeling you might want to have them with you when we get to the top.’
    Remembering Mum’s wish for me to scatter her ashes in places significant to her, it dawned on me what the flowers were for – a sharp reminder that we weren’t just out for a morning stroll. I placed the flowers as carefully as possible in the pocket of my shirt.
    ‘ Is this where Mum wanted her ashes scattered then, at the top of Penhill?’
    ‘ Some of them, yes.’
    I sobered, somewhat.
    ‘And I have to do this … how many times?’
    ‘