road was a simple cobbled affair, broad enough for two cars to pass each other if the drivers took a little care. The houses on either side of it were built from grey stone, the low walls circling the gardens put together from rocks that stayed in place because of their own weight.
The occasional tree in a garden leaned into the road, spreading its branches to throw shade across the verge and attract birds, which swooped down to peck in the grass only to shoot back up into the tree again as soon as they spotted a possible threat.
Dolly poked her long nose through a wooden fence and barked at some ducks that waddled through a garden – probably to keep it free from snails.
‘Come on. Leave those poor ducks be. They’re only doing their job.’ Guinevere pulled the dachshund along, eager to see the island. As the road went up here, it was impossible to see the sea yet and if you weren’t aware that it should be out there, you might be mistaken and think you were still far from it. But all of a sudden they were at the highest point and could see the landscape before them.
The road went down at a steep angle, ending abruptly where the land changed to water. There was a path there though, narrower, continuing with a few mild curves to lead across the water to the island. This causeway had been there for centuries, allowing people to reach Cornisea Island when the tide was low.
Staring at it, Guinevere could just picture the people who had walked across it in centuries past: merchants who came to offer their wares at the castle, theatrical companies like theirs in London who wanted to provide entertainment for a feast.
A wedding maybe, between the lord of the castle and a princess who had come here from France, carrying the sweet scent of the blossoming lavender fields with her in the dried flowers she had sprinkled between her clothes in her many trunks. Maybe that princess had also brought the seeds of plants and small trees to fill out the gardens and arboretum that Cornisea Castle was famous for?
The island itself was an oval piece of land that seemed to have drifted away from the shore to lie by itself, surrounded by choppy waves. The left of the island was wild: towering cliffs, dense trees and shrubs, and a beach where Guinevere could see herself walking Dolly, playing a little fetch as the sun set and turned the waters into a deep red and purple while the first stars appeared against the velvety skies.
In contrast to the wild, uncultivated left of the island, the right consisted of neat cottages in a row forming a front along a sheltered harbour where boats bobbed on the waves.
There Guinevere pictured the bakery, which the kind woman on the train had mentioned. Just the idea of sweet smells made her mouth water. She needed a snack after the long train ride.
The few houses sat there like a miniature village, taking refuge in the shadow of the castle above. It towered over everything as the crowning piece on a wedding cake.
It was no fairy-tale castle in light colours with many high, elegant towers flying colourful banners, but instead was a sturdy old burg with two plump towers, flat above with a row of merlons all around. From up there you had to have a magnificent view across the island and the surrounding sea, the mainland so close by.
Guinevere began to descend, holding her weight back, Dolly pulling ahead of her. The doggy had never been to the seaside, but she didn’t seem to get nervous about all the water or about the fact they had to continue walking on a road that was surrounded by water on both sides. From the day Dolly had run into the theatre and right onto the stage – during a performance! – she hadn’t been fazed by anything new she met.
The causeway was only accessible during low tide, while at high tide the island was completely cut off from the mainland. The distance wasn’t great, and of course there were always boats to take, but still Cornisea had a certain isolation that contributed to its special appeal.
Walking here in the footsteps of those who had once visited the castle – to sell, to perform, to wed, to dance, to laugh and cry, to honour old traditions like the historical society was going to do with their re-enactment of the Branok trial – Guinevere’s heart beat faster that she had been given this unique chance. To work in a world of her own, a place where time had stood still and traditions of old were very much alive.
‘Isn’t it peaceful?’ Guinevere said to Dolly. ‘The gulls overhead, the island in front of us, the smell of the sea. Not at all like London, right, with all the traffic and the exhaust fumes.’
She hadn’t finished yet, when an engine roared behind Guinevere. She just had time to halt and step aside before a motorcycle blasted past her. The sun reflected off the shiny mirrors and the silver helmet that the motorcyclist wore.
‘Maniac!’ Guinevere called after him, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear her, or Dolly’s indignant barking, over the roar of the engine.
In a cloud of bluish fumes the rider sped ahead of her.
Waving a hand in front of her face, Guinevere waited for the fumes to clear before she walked on, following the man with her eyes. He came to the end of the causeway and turned right into the harbour area. Then, having startled two fishermen busy with their nets, he turned again, disappearing between the cottages. Did he live there? The irresponsible son of an elderly couple who only blasted by every once in a while to say hello to his parents?
At least he had parents.
For a moment Guinevere’s heart sank, thinking of the father and mother she had never known. No graves to visit, no place to go and remember. No photo albums either with shots of her on her birthday or riding a pony or at the zoo.
Nothing.
Like she had no past at all.
Maybe that was why she liked history and genealogy, obscure traces of people who had once lived and loved their lives. Reconstructing what had been to give meaning to the now.
A young family was coming from the other direction, the man holding a girl of six or seven by the hand, the woman carrying a toddler. They were talking excitedly about the island. Guinevere caught the word ‘donkey’. Maybe there were rides offered on the island?
She had to check that out. She loved donkeys: their gentle nature, their instinctive understanding of how people felt and their response to it. Maybe she could help out with the rides some time, during an afternoon off? She supposed Lord Bolingbrooke wouldn’t expect her to be working all of the time.
At last she reached the end of the causeway and turned into the harbour area. The fishermen greeted her with smiles and nods before lowering their heads over their nets again. At Emma’s Eatery a chalkboard invited visitors to try the pasty of the day with stout from the island’s own brewery. People sat at the tables with chequered cloths, cups of coffee and glasses of beer in front of them.
Guinevere’s stomach growled under the delicious food smells wafting at her from the eatery’s terrace – beef, fried fish – but she didn’t have time to sit down. Maybe the bakery offered something to eat on her way up to the castle?
She discerned the sign BAKERY rocking in the sea breeze and further down there was also a bookshop with a table outside full of second-hand books. The golden lettering over the large window read THE COWLED SLEUTH. Apparently enough tourists visited to sustain several businesses on such a small island.
In front of the bakery Guinevere put her suitcase down and used both hands over her eyes to spy inside. Behind the counter on shelves were all kinds of loaves of bread: braided, round, oval. There were also jars of something and packages of flour.
She told Dolly to wait for her and went inside. A sweet scent of baked goods wafted around her, and on the counter a model of a cupcake with generous pink icing made her mouth water. ‘Hello,’ she greeted the woman behind the counter. ‘Do you have some small bread or bun?’
‘Ya. Look here.’ The woman – in her forties with reddish-blonde hair swept back in a ponytail – waved a hand at a basket full of buns and rolls. Her arms were bare and there was some flour left under her right elbow as if she had recently been preparing fresh dough. ‘We’ve got cranberry, cinnamon, or lemon with a twist. All freshly baked this