‘The shrine?’

I grabbed my bag with my free hand (the other still affixed to the throbbing lump at the back of my neck) and waded through the long grass towards the side of the cottage, idly remembering Clifford’s words from the previous day about the woman with the two setters tending to the thing. As I approached it from a distance my nostrils were assailed, once again, by the powerful scent of eucalyptus.

The ground around the shrine (which, in itself, was only a modest construction – two foot by three, at best) I could tell – even from some way off – had recently been weeded and the grass cut flat. There was a tiny, purplish-leaved hellebore in a plastic pot placed reverently alongside it (tag of dedication reading, My Dearest, Sweetest Orla, who Suffered for Us all, Most Beloved confidante of The Most Blessed Virgin Queen, you know the secret agonies of my heart. Please, please help me to resolve them now, as you have done so often in the past. J) and the standard (slightly irritating) collection of plastic roses, mouldering dolls and teddy bears. But the shrine itself, which consisted of a mid-size concrete statue of the Virgin Mary (poorly executed, her cloak covered in somewhat lurid peeling turquoise paint; several faded wreaths of paper flowers draped around her neck), and a smaller concrete angel – of a later, but no more tasteful generation, mercifully unpainted – kneeling in prayer, facing her (slightly lopsidedly), both encircled – or en-squared, to be precise – by a greening, brass surround with a small, rotting, wooden plaque (installed by dear Mrs Vaughn herself, somewhat under pressure from various visitors and pilgrims over the years), which simply read: Orla Nor Cleary, 1960–1972, One of Holy Mary’s Most Fragrant Flowers, Plucked too Soon, may she Rest in Peace (the mixture of upper- and lower-case letters had always been a source of considerable wonderment to me) and was now absolutely covered – smothered – in an exquisite, dense mass – a carpet – of tiny, white forget-me-nots.

But where on earth had they all come from? Did the woman with the setters …? I drew up close to the shrine and knelt down, slipping my fingers between the mass of blooms to inspect the soil beneath. Nope. There was no evidence of any recent disruption. These flowers had grown naturally, of their own volition, presumably from seed (I reasoned).

But then didn’t I …? How long ago? Not yesterday – no, not properly, not consciously – but …? And hadn’t it been …? Uh …

Still the smell of eucalyptus! I suddenly remembered how Orla would chuckle about it – she always seemed to find it hilarious. But then Orla would laugh about pretty much everything; every difficulty, every setback, every trial, every problem was viewed through a permanent filter of … well … joy. Everything. Everything.

And she insisted that it wasn’t her scent at all, but the scent of Mary that surrounded her (at first only intermittently, but constantly by the end), claiming that Mary always carried the sweet perfume of flowers with her – roses, violets. But it got lost in translation, somehow, and to our rather more practical, slightly less elevated senses Orla was surrounded by the scent of eucalyptus. Not roses, no. Nor violets. It’s a clean smell, and warm but … well, acidic – sharp?