Down Where the Wild Fennel Grew

By Catherine O’Neill

 

 

 

A squirrel danced along the washing line. Brendan let himself watch it for a moment then continued to detach the pegs from the edge of his shirt and peg them to his greying socks. Charcoal stuck between his toes and he heard her groan some complaint, or another waste of oxygen.

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“Don’t be thinking you’re stepping in here with those filthy things.”

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Even now he could make her voice move into the higher octaves.

Fiona hadn’t lost her appeal, well not physically, but her presence was, he felt, no longer required.

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Guernsey seemed, four months ago when planning how to lose her, a good enough place as any for a terribly sad and unpredictable accident. Holidays were, he’d calculated, great for getting sympathy and less easy to be blamed – less routine.

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Ideally, he’d have visited, checked out the terrain, but with the advent of Google Maps he’d not needed to. Joining the dots kept him preoccupied, or making sure that no-one else could discern a pattern. Keeping the dots, as he called them, random and more like natural behaviours was easy enough.

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“Love, you’re so good at planning and research. Maybe there are some good coastal walks- great views out to sea? Night-time beach walks to see the stars- they’re renowned for great skies there.”

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Ordnance survey maps don’t leave a digital dot and you can find them in charity shops, you take what they have. Portsmouth, Guernsey and Cumbria - which is far too obvious for accidents; whereas Guernsey just made him think of toffees, old folk and cows- no malicious intent there. Quaint village chosen by her and a cliff top not too far away, thanks to his hints.

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Riders used the paths and they would wave at them for the first walks that they took. Subtle hand holding and affectionate care exhibited to the people in the saddles, all to make sure they saw how loving he was.

Tripping up happens every day, so he just needed to spot a root, a rock – something and he managed that on their first day.

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*

Under the cover of deep Guernsey darkness, the walk began.
Violence could have been useful - exacting some revenge and purging the tension from thirty years of critical moaning and all that waiting. When it came to it, he decided to hold her hand- make the last minutes good for her and he’d be able to add it as a detail to exonerate himself.

 

Xylophonic delight, as each rib fell, cracking and neck and spine; no squeals, the first rock stopped them.

Yarrow, pennyroyal and fennel grew wild along the edge, though yarrow is the best for nettle stings, and he had lots of  them from that dark walk; she did too, their stings had distracted her enough while he thinned the path near the trip hazard.
 

 

Zagging backwards to the cottage, he made sure he tripped and picked up a few cuts and lumps before raising the alarm, then sitting back while they did their part of his plan.

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