Sir Owen’s sudden and untimely death diverted Marigold’s attention from her fall and her memory loss. When Daisy returned home at the end of the day, Nan, Dennis and Marigold took their tea into the sitting room to hear all about it.
‘Poor Lady Sherwood is beside herself,’ Daisy informed them gravely. ‘She asked me to keep her company while the police were there. Obviously they needed to rule out anything sinister. Then the ambulance came to take away the body. Lady Sherwood, or Celia as she is to me now – she specifically asked me to call her Celia – telephoned Taran. He’s flying home this very minute. Poor thing, hearing that his father’s dead like that over the phone. Dreadful shock.’
‘Do we know how he died?’ Dennis asked.
‘Eileen thinks he saw the Commodore’s moles and had a heart attack,’ Marigold told her.
Daisy looked doubtful. ‘Well, they do think he died of a heart attack, but no one has said anything about moles.’ Her eyes filled with tears and her shoulders slumped. ‘I feel so sorry for Celia. She’s in so much shock, she can’t even cry.’
‘I know what that’s like,’ said Nan. ‘When Grandad died, my eyes were as dry as the Sahara Desert. The tears came later, when the body caught up with the emotions. Then they were like Niagara Falls. It was such a shock to wake up to a dead body beside me. Like a statue it was. Cold and clammy and stiff. Not like Grandad at all.’
‘Oh Mum,’ said Marigold, putting a hand on her heart. She hated to think of her father like that, clammy and stiff. He had been such a warm, vibrant man. Even after so many years it was hard to accept that he’d gone.
That night when Marigold went upstairs to bed she felt exhausted, as if her shoes were made of lead. She took the steps slowly, leaning on the banisters for support. She didn’t notice Dennis behind her until he commented on her laborious movements. ‘Are you all right, Goldie?’ he asked.
She stopped and turned round. There he was, with Mac on his shoulder. ‘Just getting old,’ she replied with a weak chuckle.
‘We’re both falling apart,’ said Dennis, thinking of his bad knees and his aching back. ‘A hot bath will restore you.’
‘I think I’ll just crawl into bed,’ she replied, resuming her climb up the stairs. ‘Not sure I’ll make it into the bath.’
When she got to the bedroom she sank onto the bed. Dennis sat beside her. Mac jumped lithely onto the quilt and made himself comfortable against the pillows. ‘You’ve had a bad day,’ he said gently. ‘Let me run you a bath and bring you a shot of brandy. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘You don’t have to do that, Dennis.’
‘I don’t have to do anything for you, Goldie. I do it because I want to.’ Marigold’s eyes filled with tears. Dennis’s face furrowed with concern. ‘Hey, what is it, love?’
Marigold didn’t want to worry him and yet she needed to share things. They’d been married for over forty years and she had always shared things with Dennis. He put his big arm around her and drew her close. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t think I tripped today. I think my legs just gave way. I found myself on the grass and couldn’t get up. It was as if I lost my body for a moment. It frightened me.’ Her voice was a whisper, as if she was afraid to articulate her fears out loud.
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Nothing, really. Just that I’m getting older. But I feel I’m finding it harder than everyone else. Do you struggle to see the world through a fog?’
‘No,’ said Dennis.
‘Do you forget everything? People’s names? People’s faces? Things you would normally remember. Do they just vanish?’ Dennis thought about it a moment, because, like all ageing people, he did have the odd lapse of memory. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don’t forget things like that.’
‘The doctor did a blood test.’
‘I’m sure the results will be okay.’
‘I don’t even know what they’re testing me for.’
‘Did he suggest a brain scan? Just to see what’s going on in there.’
‘No, he didn’t.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think he should have?’
‘Not necessarily. If he thought there was a problem with your brain he would have sent you off for one, wouldn’t he. Dr Farah knows best.’ Dennis kissed her temple. ‘I’m here, Goldie. You’re not alone. We’ve done everything together and we will continue to do everything together. Now you need to stop worrying, because worrying doesn’t help, it just makes you unhappy. Do you remember what your father used to say?’
She smiled tenderly. ‘What’s wrong with now?’
‘Yes, that’s right. So, Goldie, I’m going to ask you, what’s wrong with now?’
She gave him a small, grateful smile. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘Exactly. We’re here, together. I’m going to run a bath and bring you up a brandy. Just a small one. Then you’re going to get into bed and you’re going to go to sleep. Suze is getting married. Daisy is enjoying her new job and Nan is, well, swimming in her glass, which is half empty, as it’s always been. We’re doing okay, you and I. And if the blood test comes back and it isn’t okay, we’ll tackle it together and we’ll still be okay.’
Marigold leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. ‘Oh Dennis. Wasn’t I the luckiest girl in the world when I married you?’
‘And I the luckiest man,’ he replied.
Dennis ran the bath and then went downstairs to fetch the brandy. Marigold sat at her dressing table and took off her necklace. She opened the little drawer in the exquisitely crafted jewellery box that Dennis had made her when they first met, and took a while to admire it. It was made out of ash and walnut in the shape of a miniature wardrobe. One side was a cupboard, with hooks, the other side had five drawers, all lined with velvet, the bottom drawer containing a special padded cushion with grooves for rings. She ran her fingers over it and her eyes welled with tears again. Dennis had always been thoughtful like that. He was kind and sweet and, unlike most men, he was unselfish. She thought of her brother in Australia. She hadn’t seen him for about eight years. He rarely called their mother. It wasn’t because he didn’t care, only that he cared more about himself. Dennis wasn’t like that. She knew he’d move mountains for her if he had to.
When she got into the bath she felt a little better. With the brandy inside her she felt better still. Finally in bed, when sleep overcame her, she sank into a cloud of down.
The following morning when she went for her walk over the cliffs, she took care to look where she was going. She didn’t walk as fast and she lifted her feet. She stopped to focus her attention on the beauty of the dawn, on the soft golden light and the way it danced about the waves and on the pink clouds that drifted beneath the sky like candyfloss boats. She asked herself the question, What’s wrong with now? And the answer was nothing; nothing was wrong with now.
When she bumped into Mary and Bernie again, she smiled as if she hadn’t fallen over the day before and commented on the weather. It was a bright, sunny morning, which was rare, and the hills were a vibrant shade of green. ‘I’m on Marigold patrol,’ said Mary heartily, beaming a smile. She looked at the dressing on Marigold’s cheek. ‘You took quite a fall, didn’t you?’
‘I’m sure it won’t happen again,’ Marigold reassured her. Reassuring herself.
‘Bernie and I aren’t taking any chances. While you’re walking up here every morning, we’re keeping an eye out for you. It gives Bernie a feeling of importance, which is good for his morale. He’s taken a few knocks recently.’ Mary gave Marigold a look but she didn’t put anything into words.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mary. Thank you.’
‘Don’t be silly. That’s what friends are for.’ And as Marigold walked on, she felt warm inside knowing that she wasn’t alone.
Daisy cut across the countryside to the Sherwoods’ house. She thought of Sir Owen as she walked along the farm tracks. It was hard to believe he had been here, in these fields, only the day before. The cornflower-blue sky and bright sunshine seemed incongruous in the wake of such a tragedy. Bluebells were beginning to open in the woods and bracken and ferns were slowly unfurling. Butterflies basked in the sunlight, spreading their wings and showing off their pretty colours. It wouldn’t be long before the leaves were all out on the trees and the bluebells turned the forest floor into a sea of purplyblue. When surrounded by such beauty, it was impossible to imagine there was anything ugly in the world.
When she arrived at the house she didn’t go straight to the barn, as she usually did, but went into the house to see Lady Sherwood. She found her in the kitchen, perched on a stool at the island, staring into a cup of coffee. ‘Good morning, Celia. I hope I’m not intruding,’ she said softly, hovering in the doorway.
Lady Sherwood raised her bloodshot eyes and gave her a thin smile. She was barefaced and her hair was uncombed, which made her look older. ‘Of course you’re not, Daisy. I’ve been waiting for you. Come and have a cup of coffee. I’m glad you’re here.’
Daisy took off her jacket and went to the machine to make herself an espresso.
‘You know I keep expecting to see him,’ said Lady Sherwood sadly. ‘I keep thinking I hear him, pottering around his dressing room, or walking along the corridor. It’s such a squeaky old house. But I think it just squeaks on its own.’
‘You’re in shock,’ said Daisy, heating up some milk at the Aga. Lady Sherwood had the most elegant kitchen, all pale greys and white with shiny marble worktops and a bleached oak floor. No clutter anywhere. Not like Marigold’s kitchen. ‘I imagine it will take time to accept that he’s gone.’
‘You know, I thought we’d grow old together. I thought we both had years ahead of us. I never imagined that a healthy, athletic man like Owen would be snatched away so soon. It seems dreadfully unfair.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I only have Taran now and he lives on the other side of the world. No good at all.’
‘When will he get here?’
‘He’ll land this morning. I imagine he’ll be here in the afternoon sometime.’ She hesitated a moment as she considered her son. ‘He and Owen didn’t see eye to eye, you know. They were very different people. Owen loved the land. His whole life was about his estate and how to preserve it and look after it and love it. Owen really loved it. But Taran is more of a city man. He doesn’t appreciate nature like his father did.’ She put a hand to her lips, suppressing a sob. ‘God, it’s so bloody awful talking about Owen in the past tense.’
Daisy brought her coffee to the island and took the stool beside Lady Sherwood. ‘I know. It’s just horrible. I’m so sorry.’
‘Owen was a wonderful man and a good father, but he expected Taran to be like him and was disappointed when he wasn’t. Even when Taran was a little boy Owen tried to mould him. He couldn’t understand that a child from his loins could be so different from him.’
‘Perhaps Taran was like you?’ Daisy suggested.
‘Yes, you’re right. He’s much more mine than Owen’s. Poor Taran, as a boy he was given endless tennis lessons and golf lessons as Owen tried to turn him into the sporting hero that he was at school, but Taran just wanted to draw and build things. You know, he made the most wonderful model houses out of wood. That’s what he really enjoyed doing.’
Daisy thought of her father and the model buildings he loved to make. ‘Being creative is a gift,’ she said.
‘I agree. Owen should have been proud. Taran’s talent was obvious very early on. But he had his eye on his farm and everything Taran did that foretold a different kind of future panicked him. He wanted Taran to take over after he . . .’ Her eyes overflowed again with tears.
Daisy put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sure he will honour his father’s wishes,’ she said, although she wasn’t sure at all. She barely knew him. ‘I can’t imagine not loving this place. It’s so beautiful.’
Lady Sherwood smiled at her gratefully. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Daisy. Isn’t it lucky that we lent you the barn? Fate, I think. Because I’m not alone. Oh, I have Sylvia, of course, and she’s a nice presence to have helping around the house. But you’re different. You’re a friend. I’m very glad you’re here.’
‘I’m glad I can help. If there’s anything I can do . . .’
‘Your company is all I require.’ Lady Sherwood took a sip of coffee and grimaced because it was cold.
‘Let me make you another one,’ Daisy suggested and Lady Sherwood didn’t dissuade her.
She sighed wearily. ‘I have to arrange the funeral. A cremation is what he would want. He’s got such a large family with all those sisters, it’s bound to be a big affair. I’m not sure I can stomach it. Then there’s the will. I’m glad Taran is coming. I can’t deal with all that on my own. I don’t understand anything about the estate, or the farm.’
‘Don’t worry about that now. Taran will take care of the business side, I’m sure. As for the funeral, I’m very happy to help. I’m an organized, efficient person when I put my mind to it. We can do it together, if you like. A problem shared is a problem halved.’
Lady Sherwood’s eyes filled with gratitude. ‘You are a godsend, Daisy. I would really appreciate that. If you wouldn’t mind. I’m not sure where to begin.’ She gave a little smile. ‘I’m thoroughly spoiled, you see. Owen took care of everything.’
‘We’ll book the crematorium first and take it from there.’ Daisy brought Lady Sherwood her coffee and sat down beside her.
‘I don’t want anyone besides close family at the crematorium. I don’t think I want to share that moment with other people.’
‘I understand.’
Lady Sherwood put a hand on Daisy’s arm. ‘I’m keeping you from your work.’
‘Please don’t worry about that. I can’t draw all day and anyway Bridget Williams can wait for her bulldog.’
‘I’ll have to arrange a service in the church for Owen’s friends, and so the local people can pay their respects. Owen was dearly loved.’
‘He really was. My parents and grandmother speak very highly of him.’
‘That’s nice to hear.’ There was a long pause. Lady Sherwood stared into her coffee and Daisy wondered whether she was going to leave this one to get cold as well. ‘What do you think Owen’s doing now? Do you believe there’s a place for us up there once we die?’
Daisy’s thoughts turned immediately to Grandad. ‘My grandfather had an unwavering belief in life after death,’ she said. ‘There was absolutely no doubt in his mind at all that we come from a spiritual place and return there once our earthly journey is done. He used to say that this was the dream and Heaven was the reality. He said the ones we love and lose are always with us. I like to believe they are too.’
‘I had a religious upbringing, but it’s hard not to doubt. It’s hard to believe in something we can’t see with our eyes.’
‘Well, you can’t see radio waves, can you, yet you can hear the music they deliver.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Grandad said you only have to look at nature to know that there’s a higher power.’ Daisy dropped her gaze, aware that she might sound a little crazy. ‘He said every time you look at a sunset and feel an expansion in your chest, that’s the Divine in you recognizing the Divine in nature.’ She hoped she hadn’t gone too far.
Lady Sherwood smiled. ‘I like that,’ she said. ‘Your grandfather sounds like he was a very wise man.’
Daisy nodded, relieved. ‘He was.’
Daisy was in the studio when Taran walked in. She was taken by surprise. His face was sombre, the shadows dark beneath the eyes, his mouth set in a tight line. Quite different from the insouciant man she’d met at Christmas. She didn’t imagine he had slept much on the plane. ‘Hi,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
‘Hi,’ she said, putting down her pastels and peering round the easel. She hesitated a moment, searching for something less banal to say, but settled on the usual words because she couldn’t think of more original ones. ‘I’m so sorry about your father.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. The aqua-green cashmere sweater he was wearing brought out the aqua-green of his eyes, or perhaps it was the contrast with the purple shadows beneath them that turned them so vivid. Whichever it was, they looked quite startling. ‘Mum says you’ve been a real support. I just wanted to thank you.’
‘I’m thankful I was here when it happened,’ she said.
He walked further into the room and put his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘They think it was a heart attack. Mum says Dad was in great shape, but he drank too much and had high blood pressure and high cholesterol. He didn’t believe in changing his diet. He was a true pudding and port man. His father lived until eighty-eight. I’m sure he expected to do better than that.’
‘I know your mother hoped he would.’
‘Yes. She’ll be lost without him.’ There was a pause. He shuffled, took his hand out of his pocket and scratched his head. ‘I’d better go in. I just wanted to say thank you.’ His gaze strayed past her to the easel. ‘How’s it going, by the way? The animal portraits. Might I take a look? Mum says you’re very good. I haven’t seen the one you did of her dogs yet, but she told me it has pride of place in the hall.’
‘I’m drawing Bridget Williams’s bulldog, Baz, but I’m finding it hard to establish a connection with him. He’s rather aloof and snooty. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to win him over with treats, but he’s definitely playing hard to get.’
Taran wandered round to look. ‘Wow. You’re seriously good.’ He stared at the drawing and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You really are. I’m impressed. It’s awesome.’
Daisy felt his mood lift at the distraction and smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, I mean, really good. I can’t say whether or not he looks like Baz, but he looks like a real dog, and a snooty and aloof one at that.’ He moved his head from side to side. ‘He stares out of the page, doesn’t he? You’re really talented, Daisy.’ He glanced at her and grinned. ‘Were you a good drawer at school, along with having the neatest pigtails in the class?’
She laughed. ‘I always loved art, though I’m not sure I was very good at primary school. It was something I discovered later, one summer term when I had glandular fever. I had to stay at home, so I entertained myself drawing. I’m still learning my craft.’
‘It’s not a craft. It’s a skill and you’re very gifted. If I had a dog I’d ask you to draw him too.’
‘You’d have to wait in line. I think every pet owner in the village wants me to draw their dog or cat. I don’t know what I’ll do when I’ve drawn them all. I won’t have any work.’
‘I’ll get a dog just so you can draw it.’
‘Thank you.’
They looked at each other a moment. Taran’s eyes were full of warmth and Daisy wondered why she had declined his invitation to go for a drink over Christmas. It seemed rather churlish now. She didn’t imagine he’d ask her again.
‘Well, I’d better go and see Mum. She says you’re going to help her arrange the funeral.’
‘Yes, I’m very happy to do whatever is required. She can’t manage on her own.’
‘You’re right about that. Dad always did everything for her.’
‘How long will you stay?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll work from here for a while, at least, until the funeral’s over.’
She watched him leave then tried to get back to work. For some reason she couldn’t concentrate. She thought of Lady Sherwood in that big house on her own and felt sorry for her. It seemed callous of Taran to head back to Toronto, but what else could he do? His life was there.
Unable to draw she decided to take Lady Sherwood’s dogs for a walk. Once out in the fields, striding through the long grass in the fresh air, she felt better. She absorbed the luxuriant vibrations of spring and began to think of Luca. She hadn’t returned his text. That seemed a bit mean-spirited to her now. In the light of Sir Owen’s death her mind honed in on what she had had, rather than on what had been denied her, and she wondered again whether she had been rash in leaving Italy, in leaving Luca. Love was love, after all, and she had thrown it away. Was she greedy and demanding? Should she have settled for what he was prepared to give her? Maybe it wasn’t her destiny to have it all.
Marigold was at the back of the shop with Tasha, unpacking boxes of stationery, when the doorbell tinkled and the Commodore walked in with Cedric Weatherby. The Commodore was looking very anxious. Cedric was looking alert, fired up by the unfolding drama, which, thankfully, had nothing to do with him.
‘Have you heard the terrible news?’ said the Commodore, striding in with a straight back and a raised chin, a hat squarely placed on his head, a navy double-breasted jacket done up over a pair of red trousers.
Marigold made her way to the front of the shop. ‘I have,’ she replied, wringing her hands. ‘I’m so shocked. Sir Owen was a wonderful man.’
‘Have you heard about the moles?’ asked Cedric, lowering his voice.
The Commodore glanced up and down the aisles warily. ‘I set the moles free on Sir Owen’s land. I didn’t think he’d mind,’ he said. ‘Harmless really, moles.’
‘No one has said anything about moles,’ Marigold reassured him. ‘No one knows what caused the heart attack, if, indeed, it was a heart attack. Which we don’t know, do we?’
‘But if he did suffer a heart attack because of moles, I shall feel terribly guilty.’ The Commodore inhaled through his nostrils and assumed the noble expression of a martyr. ‘I shall admit to my transgressions. I do not want to meet my maker with a tainted soul.’
Marigold frowned. ‘I can’t imagine moles would be a big enough problem to cause a heart attack,’ she said sensibly.
‘Sir Owen loved his land,’ Cedric cut in, wanting more than anything for moles to be the cause so he could be the one in the very centre of the drama.
‘I simply thought the moles would be happy up there in those fields,’ said the Commodore. ‘I did not consider the farmer. I feel very bad.’ He put a hand to his breast. ‘Phyllida thinks I should keep my concerns to myself.’
‘I think Phyllida is right,’ said Marigold.
‘But I cannot die with a guilty conscience.’ The Commodore looked bashful, suddenly. Not at all the naval officer who had once commanded ships. ‘I must confess to Lady Sherwood.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Marigold. ‘She has a lot on her plate right now, I should imagine.’
‘No, he’s right,’ agreed Cedric. ‘He doesn’t want to meet his maker with a tainted soul.’
The Commodore took a deep breath. ‘I’d like a bottle of whisky, please, Marigold.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, going to fetch him one off the shelf.
‘I need a tipple before I go. Dutch courage, you know,’ he said. ‘And Cedric, you’re coming with me, aren’t you, dear boy?’ he added.
Cedric puffed out his chest. ‘Of course I’m coming with you.’ He watched Marigold put the bottle on the counter. ‘I think I’ll have a tipple too.’
Marigold put it through the till, then made a mental note to order more. That bottle had been the last one.
As the Commodore and Cedric Weatherby left the shop, Marigold watched them go. Then she tried to remember what it was that she had made a mental note to do. But it was gone. Vanished. She sighed and shrugged. There was nothing to be done. She hoped it wasn’t important.
She hoped, above all, that Sir Owen had not died on account of the moles.