Daisy spent the next few days playing with Julia Cobbold’s terrier in preparation for his portrait, and helping Lady Sherwood with the funeral arrangements. She did the seating plan for the church and printed labels for those who required reserved seats. She kept up with the growing list of those wanting to come and proofread the order of service. On top of that she walked Lady Sherwood’s dogs and managed to entice Taran to join her, even in the rain. Taran was not interested in talking about the farm, the woods or the beauty of the countryside, so Daisy gave up trying to steer him in that direction and hoped that, by being exposed to it, he might grow to love it as she had. After all, it belonged to him now. However, he never discussed his inheritance, or what he intended to do with it. They chatted about many things and enjoyed a light banter, but Daisy soon realized that, in spite of the time they spent together, she knew Taran little better than when she had first met him. He just wasn’t someone who enjoyed talking about himself and his feelings. He didn’t talk much about his father, either. He deftly skirted around the subject with what appeared to Daisy to be a well-practised art of avoidance, and she wondered whether he had developed that skill over years of eschewing emotions. The British stiff upper lip wasn’t something she had encountered until now. Taran was funny, charming, witty and kind, but he could also be remote and cold.
Daisy compared him to Luca, who was fiery and emotional, with a penchant for drama and exaggeration. Taran was phlegmatic and dry-humoured, and she doubted he exaggerated anything. Both men were creative and intelligent, however, with a strong sense of who they were and who they wanted to be. She had always liked that about Luca. He wasn’t a crowdfollower and he wasn’t concerned about what other people thought. He was unashamedly himself. She sensed Taran was like that too.
She was gazing out of the studio window, thinking of Taran and how unfathomable he was, when her phone rang. She had recently chosen a dog-bark ringtone and it gave her a sudden shock. For a split second, she thought there was a dog in the room. She was surprised to see Luca’s name on the screen. After a moment’s hesitation she picked up. She had nothing to lose; after all, she’d already lost everything.
‘Ciao, Luca,’ she said and sat down.
‘Ciao, Margherita,’ he replied, using the name he’d given her when they’d first met, which was a direct translation of daisy. ‘Thank you for taking my call. I thought you’d never speak to me again.’
‘I’m not angry anymore,’ she replied, savouring the sense of her old self as she slipped into speaking Italian again. It brought Italy and Luca back to her more acutely.
‘It’s good to hear your voice, my love.’
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘In my life or in my heart?’
She smiled in spite of herself. She could just picture him standing there looking at her with sheep’s eyes, a fist banging his chest for emphasis. How like Luca to be dramatic.
‘Let’s start with your life,’ she suggested.
He sighed. ‘Good, I suppose. Work is busy, as always. You remember Carlo Bassani?’
‘Yes.’
‘He still wants me to do the photography for his book.’
‘The one about interiors?’
‘Yes, I’m not sure . . .’
‘But you were quite into the idea.’
‘I was, but now you are gone, I’ve lost enthusiasm for my life. Which brings me on to my heart.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that it’s hurting as much as mine.’
‘You broke my heart, Margherita. I never wanted you to leave. Don’t forget that. And it has always been in your power to mend it. You only have to come home.’
‘Not entirely true, Luca, if you remember rightly.’
‘We could have each other and together conquer the world.’
‘I don’t want the world. I want a family.’
There was a long pause.
‘I would give everything to have you back in my life, but that is too high a price to pay. I thought you might have missed me.’
‘I have missed you. I miss you still, a lot.’
‘A lot, a lot! What does that mean?’
‘The same as you, Luca. I’ve missed you but not enough to compromise on what I want. I’m sorry.’
‘We are the two biggest fools, you know,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Two big fools who can’t see how good they are together.’
‘I can see it, Luca. I was with you for six years because I knew how good we were together, but I feel incomplete. Running back to you will not make me whole.’
There was another long pause. The silence was so heavy Daisy wondered whether he had cut off.
‘Then there is nothing more to say,’ he said at last, and his voice had lost its vigour.
‘Perhaps not.’
He chuckled bitterly. ‘You have become English again.’
‘I’ve always been English.’
‘No, you became Italian, but now you’re English.’ She sensed that was not a compliment. ‘You don’t sound like my Margherita anymore.’
‘That’s because I’m not, Luca. I’m my Daisy.’
He didn’t ask what that meant. ‘So, it is goodbye then.’
‘I suppose it is,’ she answered.
There was another heavy pause. Daisy waited for him to speak. She sensed his annoyance. He always liked to be in control. Now he wasn’t.
When he finally spoke his voice was soft and full of feeling. ‘Just because I don’t want to marry and have children does not mean I don’t want to be with you or that I don’t love you. Do you understand?’
‘As I said, Luca, we both want different things.’
‘No, you are wrong. We both want each other.’
‘I have to go, Luca.’ Daisy was weary of the argument.
‘Think about it, Margherita.’
‘Goodbye, Luca.’
When she hung up, she realized he hadn’t asked her about herself at all. She wondered whether he had always been so self-absorbed. I’m my Daisy, she repeated to herself. It was true. She didn’t need anyone to complete her.
Yet, as she turned her gaze to the big studio window, the view was blurred by a film of tears.
Suze made sure that the arrangements for her wedding were all in hand. She double-checked everything that her mother had ticked off on her list, just to be sure. Daisy had been helping her, but now she was busy with Sir Owen’s funeral she didn’t have time to oversee the wedding as well. Much to Suze’s delight, she had gained many more followers on her Instagram site due to all the posts she was putting up about her wedding. She had curated some beautiful photographs of flowers, invitations, underwear and jewellery, none of which were her own, but taken in wedding shops and at the fairs she’d gone to for inspiration. The companies had been so delighted with her posts that they had offered her discounts.
Marigold agreed to give Tasha more responsibility in the shop, and to take on a school-leaver part-time to help. This was a challenge for Marigold. It was difficult relinquishing control and putting her trust in someone who had, historically, been fantastically unreliable. But Tasha assured her that she would not let her down. Marigold had no choice but to give her a chance.
The morning of Sir Owen’s funeral dawned with a luminous beauty that would have pleased him. It was the end of spring and she was giving her very best before she stood aside and allowed summer to take her place. The horse chestnut trees that sheltered the church from the sea winds were now in full flower. The leaves were an almost phosphorescent green, the candles thick with white blossom, the birds that nested among them vociferous in their farewells to the departing season. The heavens were as blue as lapis and the sun flooded the village in a warm golden radiance, promising a long and hot summer; the day could not have been lovelier.
Nan complained of hay fever and kept wiping her nose with a tissue and sneezing loudly. ‘I really shouldn’t go out,’ she said at breakfast. ‘But Sir Owen is only going to be buried once and I don’t want to miss it.’
‘You need to take an antihistamine,’ said Suze.
‘Oh no, they make me sleepy and I don’t want to nod off during the service. When your grandfather was buried his aunt Mabel nodded off and snored like a warthog during the prayers. I’ll never forget it. I don’t want to be like Aunt Mabel, remembered only for snoring like a warthog during the prayers.’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t happen,’ said Dennis. ‘You’ll be remembered for your wonderful sense of humour, Nan.’ He had a twinkle in his eye and Marigold smiled into her teacup.
Nan nodded. ‘I’m able to take a joke,’ she agreed humourlessly. ‘Occasionally, I make one.’
Suze couldn’t think of a single joke her grandmother had made, at least, not intentionally.
‘Have you ever heard a warthog snore?’ she asked.
‘Warthogs snore,’ said Nan emphatically.
‘Daisy left early,’ Suze said, changing the subject. ‘Lady Sherwood keeps her busy, doesn’t she.? Considering she doesn’t pay her.’
‘But she gives her the use of the barn, rent-free,’ Dennis reminded her.
‘She’s such a comfort to Lady Sherwood,’ said Marigold proudly.
‘That’s right, Goldie. Sylvia popped into the shop yesterday and told you.’
‘Yes, she did,’ Marigold replied. But she didn’t remember Sylvia at all.
They walked to the church in the sunshine. Nan complained all the way about her hay fever. ‘The horse chestnuts are the worst,’ she whinged. ‘The pollen gets into my eyes and throat and makes me want to scratch them. But if I scratch my eyes I’ll smudge the mascara and then I’ll look as if someone’s hit me. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to everyone who asked that it was just hay fever and not domestic violence.’
‘They’d all be so disappointed,’ said Suze. ‘They love a drama in this village.’
Marigold had slipped her hand round Dennis’s arm and they walked slowly, side by side. Marigold was not having a good day. Her head was fuzzy, as if it were full of wool. It took her longer to focus, longer to respond, longer to recognize the world around her. But Dennis was patient and didn’t rush her. Even Suze, who could be irritable, was being kind. Nan seemed not to notice.
Daisy was at the church doors when they arrived, greeting people, handing out orders of service and showing family and close friends to their reserved seats. She’d been at the church all morning, putting the names in the pews and overseeing the florist, assisted by Sylvia who was little help snivelling into a wet handkerchief. Marigold’s breath caught in her chest when she saw the flowers. The smell was heady, like a bouquet of lilies and gardenia pressed up against her nose. She blinked in wonder at the candles. There were hundreds of them, their little flames dancing on every surface, each one radiating a bright aura of gold. Dennis took her hand and led her into a pew at the back where David Pullman, the farm manager, was sitting with his wife and two daughters. They shuffled up so that Suze and Nan could join them, and saved a space for Daisy at the end.
But Daisy didn’t need a space. Lady Sherwood had insisted that she be seated with the family, and had placed her at the end of the second pew against the wall, right behind the front row, which was reserved for herself, Taran and Sir Owen’s sisters. Daisy didn’t feel comfortable sitting there, when her family was at the back, but she was too grateful to Lady Sherwood to move.
Eileen began to play the organ. Her fingers skipped lightly over the keys and moved the congregation to silence. It was then that Lady Sherwood made her way slowly down the aisle, leaning on her son, who walked tall with his shoulders back and his chin up and his face set in a solemn, impassive mask. Daisy watched him in fascination. In his dark suit and tie, Taran looked dashing. He betrayed no emotion, however, unlike his mother who was struggling to hold back her tears. He didn’t catch anyone’s eye, but walked on at a stately pace. He took his seat in front of Daisy and she noticed the stiffness in his jaw and guessed he was controlling his feelings there, blocking them in like a dam. Her heart went out to him.
Daisy opened the order of service and looked at the photograph of Sir Owen in his tweed cap and wondered where he was now; where his consciousness was. Was he in the church, watching them all mourning him as her grandfather had believed? ‘I won’t have any of you wearing black at my funeral,’ Grandad had said. ‘The heavy black vibrations will just make it harder for me to reach you and I want to be there to hear what you all have to say about me.’ He had laughed. Daisy remembered his laugh, deep and infectious, and she marvelled at how certain he had been that death was no more than a waking up from a long dream. She wondered whether Sir Owen had awakened from his long dream and whether he was here, waiting to hear what his family had to say about him. She realized then that the entire congregation was wearing black. Perhaps those heavy vibrations would make it impossible for him to come. Everyone had worn colour at Grandad’s funeral and at the end of the eulogy the candle in front of his photograph had gone out, supposedly all on its own.
No candles went out at Sir Owen’s funeral, but there were lots of tears, shed by the women in his family who perhaps wanted to make up for the lack of tears in the eyes of the men. Lady Sherwood’s shoulders shook and Taran put an arm around her to comfort her. The sight of them together stirred something in Daisy and a lump lodged itself in her throat and her vision misted. She had only met Sir Owen half a dozen times, but it wasn’t for him that she cried, it was for Taran and Lady Sherwood. One didn’t cry so much for the deceased as for those who would have to continue living without them. If her grandfather were to be believed, mourning the dead was pointless. One should really only grieve for those left behind, he had said.
After the service there were drinks and tea in the village hall. It was an ugly room with no redeeming features and Daisy had had a hard time filling it with flowers and bay trees to conceal the plain white walls and distract from the cold white strip lights. No expense had been spared and Lady Sherwood was pleased at how beautifully it had turned out. ‘You’ve done a marvellous job,’ she said to Daisy when they had a moment alone together. ‘I hardly recognize this place with all the flowers.’
‘I really had nothing to do with it,’ Daisy replied. ‘The florist should take all the credit.’
After that it was impossible to get near her, for everyone wanted to pay their respects and tell Lady Sherwood how much Sir Owen had touched their lives. Nan and Marigold had taken advantage of the seats and small tables set up around the edge of the room and sat down, just the two of them. Nan did not want to talk to anyone and Marigold was afraid to, in case she failed to recognize them. They both watched the slow movement of people as they mingled. Dennis mingled more than anyone. He was an arch-mingler, and because he was so genial and kind everyone felt better for having spoken to him.
Daisy found herself searching the faces for Taran’s. She wanted to check that he was all right. She imagined how much of a trial an occasion like this was for someone who preferred to keep people at arm’s-length. She weaved through the crowd, smiling graciously at Sir Owen and Lady Sherwood’s friends as they stepped aside to let her pass. She saw Eileen and swiftly changed direction; she did not want to engage in a long conversation; Eileen did like to talk. At length she realized that the only place Taran could be was outside. She left the hall and found him smoking a cigarette in the car park.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she said, approaching him.
He grinned. ‘I don’t. I bummed one to keep me going. I’ll be very happy when everyone goes home.’
‘It was a lovely service, though.’
‘Uncomfortable,’ said Taran, inhaling deeply before letting out a stream of smoke. ‘I hate funerals at the best of times.’
‘Well, they’re not the most fun, I agree. How was the cremation?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Unspeakably awful. There’s something chilling about the industrial nature of a crematorium. One after the other, into the oven—’
‘Don’t,’ she stopped him.
‘He should have been put in the ground. Less shocking somehow.’
‘Both are unappealing, if you ask me.’
‘It’s hard to think of him like that. In a coffin. Hard to picture it.’
‘I wouldn’t try, if I were you.’
‘I can’t help it. Morbid fascination. The mind keeps going back to it.’ Taran took another drag and blew out the smoke. ‘Dad was a force of nature. Strong, capable, ebullient and charming. It was terrible thinking of that life force lying extinguished in a wooden box. I just can’t imagine him like that.’
‘You have to remember him at his best.’
‘I know. Of course I do. But like I said, the mind keeps going back to it. Do you want to go for a drink?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Now?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps not right now. Later? We could go to the pub. I’ll be leaving for Toronto tomorrow.’ He looked at her steadily, waiting for her to decline, as she had declined at Christmas.
‘Sure,’ she replied, surprising him. ‘This evening is good.’
‘Great. I’ll meet you there at six.’
Daisy laughed. ‘Have you been to the pub before, Taran?’
‘Well, not this pub.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
‘Do they bite in there?’
‘No, it’s a friendly crowd. A little dull perhaps for someone who lives in Toronto.’
‘I’m not going for the crowd.’
His green eyes twinkled. Daisy’s laugh was a defence mechanism. She knew she shouldn’t read too much into his flirting. ‘I’ll see you there at six,’ she said. ‘I’d better check on your mother. She’ll be needing a whisky, I suspect.’
He put his hand in the small of her back and escorted her into the hall. ‘Make that three,’ he said. ‘We all need one.’
Daisy was relieved when the funeral was over and everything had gone smoothly. Lady Sherwood thanked her profusely, embracing her with a warmth of which Daisy had not thought her capable. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you,’ she said, eyes filling again with tears. ‘If Owen were here I’d tell him how wonderful you’ve been, but he’s not, so I’ve got no one to tell.’ Daisy thought of Taran and Lady Sherwood added, as if she’d read her mind, ‘Taran already knows how wonderful you are.’
That remark stayed with Daisy as she made her way home. Her parents, Nan and Suze had left the tea a long while before and she was alone with her thoughts. Taran already knows how wonderful you are. Was that simply a throwaway line? She couldn’t believe he really thought that. She imagined he flirted with girls all the time. It meant nothing. He was just feeling vulnerable because his father had died.
When she got home her mother had returned to the shop. Suze was sitting at the kitchen table with Nan, discussing the funeral. ‘There’s nothing pleasant about a funeral,’ Nan was saying. ‘They just remind you of where you’re going to end up. That’s the only certainty in life, isn’t it? Death. It’s the great equalizer. It will come to us all, no matter who we are.’
‘I love your positivity, Nan,’ said Suze, hugging a mug of coffee. ‘Really, you are a beacon of light in these dark times.’
‘There’s no point in hiding the truth, Suze. We’re all waiting in line to drop off the end of the world.’
‘You could possibly sugar-coat it a little.’
‘I am what I am, Suze. I’ve been a sourpuss for eighty-six years, I’m not going to change now.’
Suze looked up at Daisy and registered her glowing face. ‘What’s going on with you?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ Daisy replied quickly.
Suze narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you well enough to know when “nothing” means “something”.’
‘Taran’s asked me for a drink.’
Nan sucked the air through her lips. ‘Where’s he taking you?’
‘Like a date?’ Suze asked.
‘It’s only at the pub. Nothing special and no, it’s not a date.’
Suze grinned mischievously. ‘Just two friends going for an innocent drink. Sure it’s a date, silly!’
‘A date!’ repeated Nan, looking uncharacteristically positive. ‘About time you got back into the game, Daisy. After a break-up like yours the trick is to only look forward, never to look back.’
‘And you know about that, do you, Nan?’ said Suze, arching an eyebrow.
‘You could say I’m something of a dark horse, Suze. If I had looked back, I’d never have married your grandfather. I’d have married little Barry Bryce – he was always called “little” even though he was over six feet tall.’ She screwed up her nose and shook her head. ‘Barry went off to live in Bodrum and got eaten by a shark, I think. Never look back, Daisy. I’d have been a widow at twenty-six and Grandad would never have known my charm and wit.’
Daisy laughed and went off to change out of her funeral clothes.
‘Where’s she going then?’ asked Nan.
‘Forward,’ said Suze. ‘She’s going to show Taran her charm and wit.’