The Wedding Cake Tree by Melanie Hudson Page A

Three.’
    Alasdair’s expression was so deadpan, I couldn’t help but burst into spontaneous laughter.
    ‘ What?’ he asked, also laughing. ‘At least you didn’t have to divide them up into three different containers.’
    ‘ What?’
    ‘ I didn’t want to carry all of the ashes with us to each place in one big pot and then get to the last destination and find we hadn’t got any left.’ Alasdair acted out the scenario by pretending to shake out a container, look into it despairingly and then shake the empty pretend container above his head.
    ‘ Didn’t the ash go all over the place when you were measuring it out?’
    ‘ You would not believe the trauma of it. All I will say is that it involved a mask, a funnel and quite a bit of booze.’
    ‘Oh, Alasdair!’
    After about a quarter of a mile, the path – no longer tarmac but a mixture of gravel, earth and grass – opened out and was edged with an endless line of chest-high stone walls. To our left, Penhill climbed into the skyline, and we stopped to take in the view. The hill reminded me of a scaled-down version of Table Mountain in Cape Town; rising symmetrically at each side with a long, flat edge on the top. The last two hundred feet looked to be a sheer face of craggy shale, while the hillside was divided by mile after mile of limestone walls laid out like a patchwork blanket. We were setting a fast pace so I thought we would probably arrive at the top in about thirty minutes or so.
    ‘ Only about an hour to the top,’ he announced.
    I tapped his arm in mock ang er.
    ‘ What? I’m not that unfit.’
    We stopped for him to show me the map. The image of the hill from where we were standing was, in fact, an optical illusion. Two completely flat plateaus, positioned periodically up the side of the hill, were hidden from view.
    ‘ That’s so misleading,’ I said, scrutinising the route. I also noticed we seemed to be taking a rather convoluted path.
    ‘ Why didn’t we go straight up?’ I placed a finger on the map and traced an imaginary line from the hotel to the top of the hill.
    ‘ Because there isn’t a direct path from that direction, and even if there was, it would be daft to take it. More often than not, by contouring up a hill, you can keep a good, steady pace rather than stopping and starting all of the time up a steep face, which is why this path has been used for centuries I suppose.’
    I rested my eyes on my feet as we trudged on – I tried to step clear of the sheep dung but there really was no point.
    ‘ I still can’t believe I’m half the way up a bloody hill you know’—I paused for breath for a second—‘with a man I know nothing about.’
    He laughed out loud while I continued with my methodical stride up the hill. The gradient had increased somewhat.
    ‘ Sorry,’ I said, breathless. ‘Can’t talk for a minute. I need my breath for this steep bit … not as fit as I thought.’
    ‘ Are you having a good time?’ The eagerness in his face for me to answer positively was plain to see.
    I glanced back and smiled. ‘Yes, of course. This is just what I needed.’
    He nodded in agreement.
    ‘Me too.’
    Just under an hour later, the path zigzagged for a final few hundred yards and we strode out on to the top of the hill. A tundra of heather moorland stretched out ahead of us. Alasdair tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the north. I turned around. My face felt tight against the strong westerly breeze. Candy floss clouds crossed from left to right, while the vibrant greens of the fields in the valley below changed to muted shades as the clouds took turns to momentarily shade the fields from the sun. There was so much detail in the vista a soul could sit there every day for a lifetime and notice something different each time. But, the situation had to be faced; after all, I was there for a particular reason. I looked at Alasdair and raised my eyes to say, is this the moment you give me my letter ?
    He suggested we