Wild Island by Antonia Fraser

out of the undergrowth: it was this which gave the jungle impression. Every, now and then an opening in the trees exhibited a brief glimpse of the mountains round her: they too were lit up by patches of sunshine, out of their spare darkness, in the same theatrical manner as the trees. To the left, beyond the green, were the cliffs which guarded the island. In fact the path was in a sense treacherously close to the edge of the cliff, the greenery which masked it only enhancing the danger.
    'I must watch my step,' she thought. The noisy river, ever present, should have served to remind her of the danger. But already the waters were fading in her immediate consciousness, no longer menacing, merely soothing. She had no idea where the path would take her, except she had been told by Bridie that it would take her eventually all round the island, so long as she did not turn off to the waterfall. At one end of the island, then, lay the domesticity of the house, the terraces now overgrown but symbolic of peace, the taming of the wild by man, the imposition of a human design, surviving much as relics of the Roman Empire survived into Ancient Britain. Even the view from Tigh Fas itself had an air of arrangement about it.
    Now she was approaching a much more rugged terrain. The undergrowth began to encroach across the path. She no longer felt like some lady gently wandering in her domain, but more like an explorer.
    A vista of bright red berries, heavily ornamenting a slender tree, entranced her, until it occurred to her that here at least was a hint of the future dark amidst the green present. One or two of the trees were already turning scarlet. It was after all getting on in August. Even a green paradise could not be guaranteed to last for ever.
    Turning a corner, the sight of a little stone building of Gothic design, a kind of folly, at the edge of a clearing, took Jemima completely by surprise. Suddenly the trees had fallen back. She was at the point of the island. The noise of the waters had vastly increased: the waterfall and Marjorie's Pool must be close, close but still unseen. The cliffs were now revealed to her, descending sheerly on either side of this sort of summer house, which had been built to perch precariously on the apex.
    For the first time she understood clearly the impregnable nature of the island. The fall of cliff was steep, steeper surely than at the bridge, and looked precipitous, unfriendly. A few slender plants grew rather desperately out of the crumbly sock. But they offered little comfort to the potential climber.
    Jemima decided to investigate the Gothic folly. Despite its little arched windows the interior was dark. It took her eyes some time to get used to it. No one appeared to have been inside for years. She took another step into the gloom and felt in front of her. Suddenly her fingers closed on something soft, familiar; Petals. And as her eyes grew accustomed to the interior she became aware that a vase of fresh roses, crimson, true roses, no wild roses, these, was standing on a plinth at the back of the grotto.
    Jemima's shock wasquiteout of proportion to the situation, she decided a minute later. It was just that she had convinced herself of the utmost quiet, even isolation, of her new existence. 'Utmost quiet required for TV personality': so had begun the advertisement Cherry had placed in the Tim es with her usual desire for positive action.
    ' We've got to get Jemima to take a break,' Cherry was overheard telling Guthrie in the Megalith office. As usual Cherry managed to emphasize more than her fair share of words in each sentence.
    'From the series - yes. After all she's not recording again till October. But from us all? I hope not.' Perhaps it was the sudden wistfulness in Guthrie's voice which irritated Jemima and inspired her to sweep into the outer office and immediately O.K. Cherry's somewhat over-dramatic advertisement, which had in its turn produced the original approach from Charles