The next few hours were a whirlwind of scones and jam, pouring teas and coffees and handing out soft drinks. It seemed as though the whole village had turned out to, at the very least, have a nosy and check out how the other side were behaving. However, to my enormous relief, there was no sign of any celebrity guests, and as the day wore on I began to relax, even more sure that Nora wouldn’t be showing up.
One surprise guest, however, was Daniel’s mother, Billie. She ordered two cream teas, sitting with her husband, Rob, in the shade of the gazebo, glancing around in amazement the whole time.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked, ducking over to collect their plates and mugs.
‘It’s incredible,’ Billie replied, shaking her head. ‘I thought… I thought it would be odd. Seeing the orchard full of people, some of them who never knew Daniel’s dad, who don’t understand or care what this place is. I haven’t been in here since… since we lost Charlie. I wasn’t sure I could do it. But seeing what you’ve done, the beautiful decorations, the laughter.’ A gaggle of small children ran past us, squealing with joy, as if to prove her point. ‘I keep seeing their faces, how much they’d have loved this. It’s perfect.’ She used a paper napkin to blot both eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you have any space on this orchard committee you’re setting up?’
‘You’ll have to speak to Daniel about that.’ I wiped my own eyes on the sleeve of my dress. ‘But I’m sure you’d be very welcome.’
Later that afternoon, we gathered the crowds to unveil two brand new, very special features in the orchard. The first, a sculpture of a bridge, designed by the children of Ferrington Primary. It was a bit of a jumbled mess, if I was being honest, but from what I could tell, the various shapes carved into the wood included some boats, ducks, apples and bees, various people holding hands and I think what might have been a tableau of Sylvia Jackson collapsed with anaphylactic shock while Ziva stuck a needle about the size of her own arm in her chest.
Of course, nobody cared that the standard wasn’t quite what we’d hoped for. When the new, youthful recruits to the Ferrington Carpentry Club pulled off the sheet, you could have heard the whistles and cheers all the way across the river.
After the requisite speeches, everyone moved a few feet across to where a large hole had been dug near the orchard fence. Daniel stood, holding onto a tree sapling, his face a blend of sorrow and pride.
‘It’s a cherry tree,’ he told the onlookers. ‘My sister Charlie’s favourite. Although I think she loved the blossom more than the fruit. Either way, I know she’d be so happy to see the orchard coming back to life. This was her favourite place, so I wanted to include something beautiful, in her memory.’
‘She was a wonderful young woman,’ Sylvia Jackson called out. ‘I was honoured to have her in my class.’
While some onlookers rumbled in assent, Daniel beckoned for his mum to come forwards. With trembling hands, Billie held the sapling while Daniel filled the hole with soil, and together they patted it down and gave it a good watering. Hope was invited to help with her own little watering can, although most of it ended up down her playsuit rather than anywhere near the tree.
It was as the spontaneous applause began to die down that another wave of interest rippled through the crowd.
My heart plummeted.
I knew that reaction. I’d witnessed it far too many times before.
Someone famous had entered the vicinity.
Thankfully, before I could do anything other than try to remember how to breathe, Alice spotted it too. Grabbing Becky with a look of unbridled glee, she stopped, smoothed her hair into place, took a deep breath in and out and then weaved around the outside of the now transfixed group of onlookers to where the new arrival stood, fanning her face with one hand, taking rapid fire selfies with the other.
Lucy – Nora – had changed. While she’d purposely adopted a similar look and hairstyle to mine for the time she’d been working as my stand-in, she now wore her hair in a waist-length tumble of auburn extensions. Most of her face was covered in huge, round sunglasses, emphasising pursed, fuchsia lips. She wore black denim shorts that were smaller than most of my underwear, and a white shirt knotted above her belly button, snakeskin wedge-heeled sandals on the end of her toned legs. I could see why Lucy hadn’t had as much time to write reviews lately. That stomach had looked quite different a few months ago. She’d been working hard.
‘Hi!’ Alice breathed, coming to a stop in front of her. ‘Welcome to the first ever Damson Day. I’m Alice, part of the organising committee.’
Lucy flashed a quick smile, phone still aloft.
‘We can’t quite believe you’re here!’ Alice gushed, in a most un-Alice-like fashion. I wanted to give her a shake to bring her back to her senses.
‘Well, please just pretend I’m not here,’ Lucy said. ‘I’d rather be treated as a normal paying customer like everyone else.’ She accompanied this by vigorously tossing her hair over one shoulder, in a way that suggested she actually wanted people to very much know that she was there.
‘Right, of course!’ Alice said, her smile wavering. ‘We’re about to start the duck race, but, you know, do feel free to wander round, or sample the barbeque. Eleanor and Becky have made some fabulous cakes.’
‘Well, thank you for giving me permission to walk about and buy some food like everyone else. Much appreciated.’ Lucy – or I really should start calling her Nora if she was going to keep this attitude up – swung around, nearly smacking Alice in the face with a giant bag that matched her sandals, and strode over to where a young woman stood trembling with nerves and excitement from behind her fudge stand.
I daren’t move. If I did, there was a risk Nora would spot me. I also didn’t trust my legs to carry me anywhere. A thousand mixed-up thoughts were jumbling and tumbling through my head.
I can’t believe she’s here. Why is she here? Has she come because somehow she knows I’m here? But how could she know that? Not even my own parents know I’m here. Did Alice mention me? Either way, what will she do when she sees me? I’m her old boss, her friend – will she want to hug or to slap me across the face? She was mad that I’d fired her via an answerphone message, but it did mean she ended up with an outstanding promotion… Hang on a second, what about Marcus? She cheated on me with my boyfriend! Maybe I should slap her?
So, yes, I was somewhat discombobulated.
To my relief, Becky snapped me out of it.
‘Coming to the race?’ she asked, linking her arm through mine.
I nodded, distractedly, eyes still unable to tear themselves away from Nora, now peering at a jar of pickle.
‘Hang on, did you used to know her?’ Becky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as she followed my gaze. ‘Or have you met in a professional capacity or something? Ooh, did she beat you to the job writing the column?’
I shook my head, steering us around in the direction of the river. ‘I used to sort of know her, but things didn’t end well so I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing me here. I really don’t want to be the cause of any Damson Day drama, so please don’t tell anyone. Even better, if you could stand between us and shield me from her for the rest of the day, that’d be perfect.’
‘Best friend’s honour.’ Becky nodded gravely. ‘On the condition that you tell me all the details sometime. Oh, and by “sometime” I mean either this evening or tomorrow morning.’
‘How about tomorrow afternoon?’ I said, as we started winding our way through the meadow to where several dozen people were clustered by the new bridge. ‘I need to speak to Daniel in the morning.’
‘Oh?’ she asked. ‘Everything going okay?’
‘I think so.’ I hoped so! I watched Daniel hand the ceremonial scissors to Frank and Eddie. As they officially reopened the footbridge, to resounding cheers, I felt grateful that Nora was sneering over the stalls back in the orchard, and not ruining this special moment.
By the time the hundreds of rubber ducks were bumbling their way downstream towards the village, however, she’d tottered her way down towards the bank.
‘What is this?’ she asked, loud enough for most people to pause their conversations to stare at her.
‘It’s a duck race,’ Ziva replied, with an eye roll that suggested she didn’t know who was asking, or if she did, she wasn’t impressed.
‘But they aren’t even real ducks!’
‘No, because that would be cruel. Not to mention pandemonium,’ Luke said, after giving Becky a quick wink and a nod.
‘Well, thousands of plastic ducks—’
‘Three-hundred and sixty-one rubber ducks.’
‘A stupid number of whatever they are is hardly environmentally friendly!’ Nora retorted. ‘I imagine real ducks are considerably more biodegradable.’
‘These ducks are years old, borrowed from other duck races,’ Ziva cried, her face wrinkled in disgust.
To everyone’s relief, especially mine, Nora said nothing, instead waltzing off in the direction of the finish line.
‘What an odious woman.’ Ziva shuddered.
‘Ugh. I can see why you didn’t want her here,’ Becky said, lip curled in distaste in a startling imitation of her mother. ‘How could anyone bear to live like that. Making a career out of being horrible?’
‘I don’t know.’
I really didn’t. I couldn’t bear it, and at least I’d been polite and pleasant in person, saving my negativity for the page.
Becky looked over at Luke, her offended expression instantly replaced with a shy wave that Luke responded to with a secretive smile and a wink.
‘Are you able to man the cream teas for the last half hour?’ I asked. It was nearly four, and soon the Bridge Band would kick-off the evening festivities before we lit the feud funeral pyre.
‘No worries.’ Becky dragged her eyes away from Luke, and put her arm around my shoulders for a quick side-hug. ‘You look like you could do with taking five minutes.’
I hurried back up and through the orchard, making my way around the farmhouse to the arbour. Planning on collapsing onto one of the yellow cushions, I came to a stuttering stop.
Of course. Because Nora Sharp turning up here isn’t enough for one day.
One hand pressed against the top of my chest, the other one fumbling for the edge of the table. It felt as though every muscle was rendered numb, like an all-body pins and needles. My vision blurred, but I could still see the photograph, pinned to the back of the arbour by my favourite chopping knife.
It was me. Walking along the footpath to the village. A tiny curve of Hope’s downy head poked over my shoulder, from where she rode in the sling on my back.
I staggered the few metres to the hedge and was violently sick all over the pale pink hawthorn blossom.
They were here.
They were here.
Wiping my mouth on a tissue I’d used earlier to clean Hope’s nose, I span around, as best I could given that my nervous system was in chaos. Scouring the horizon, before zooming in on every nook and cranny in this corner of the garden, I willed myself to get a grip and focus.
They might not be here. They might have simply been here. Again.
As well as in my kitchen, to steal the knife.
I tried to remember the last time I’d sat in the arbour. Yesterday morning. Enough time to have been and gone. Recently enough to still be here, hiding in plain sight of the crowd.
With flailing fingers, I managed to summon up enough presence of mind to take photos of the picture. I then clicked through to the Damson Farm Retreat email account, and hastily scrolled through the most recent messages.
I didn’t have to scroll far.
It had been sent at eleven o’clock that morning:
Hello Eleanor. Looking forward to the big day? I am.
Oh, crap.
I stumbled out of there.
‘Daniel?’ I managed to ask Luke, manning the sheep rodeo. He glanced at me, forehead creasing as he took in my distraught appearance.
‘Over by the barbeque last time I saw him.’ He paused. ‘Eleanor, are you all right?’
I didn’t bother answering, instead veering over towards the food stands, my eyes frantically searching the crowds for any sign of an Alami. Once close enough to spot Daniel through the trees, I skidded to a stop. Nora was standing right next to him. She threw back her head, shaking her red mane, and rested a hand on his forearm as if sharing the funniest of jokes. Daniel at least had the decency to look puzzled rather than join in. Even through my distress, I felt a surge of love for that man.
But I wasn’t about to approach while Nora Sharp had her talons on him. Let alone while I was on the brink of hysteria.
Instead, I changed course for the refreshments gazebo, where Becky was sorting the remaining few scones.
‘I’d ask if you’re feeling better, but your face is green.’ She looked at me, concerned. ‘Have you had a run-in with her?’
‘I think the bee man is back,’ I managed to blurt. Becky grabbed my arm and manoeuvred me into a folding chair, before grabbing a bottle of water and crouching down next to me, unscrewing the top as she spoke. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I found a photo of me, stuck to my arbour with a kitchen knife.’
Becky went as pale as I felt.
I told her about the email.
‘You’ve called Brenda?’
‘Not yet. I came straight here.’
‘Give me your phone.’
‘Becky, wait.’ I put a hand out. ‘The band is about to start. And then the bonfire. We can wait three hours and not ruin the day.’
‘We can call Brenda, have a discreet chat in the farmhouse and that won’t ruin the day either, but it might save you from being impaled by your own kitchen knife!’
‘And then what – she calls a load of back-up uniformed policemen, who whizz up the drive in their police cars, before stampeding through the orchard, hunting through the crowd and accosting anyone looking suspicious? The whole village would know in seconds. Let alone the Nora Sharp factor. Can you imagine how she’d spin that chain of events? No super-cute posts from Dinky and Tammers could counteract that.’
Becky thought for a moment. ‘Okay.’ She checked the time on her phone. ‘It’s just after five. We light the fire at half past, and then the band starts at six. We give people an hour to enjoy the music, and call the police at seven.’
I nodded. Surely two hours wouldn’t make that much difference?
Becky hadn’t finished, though. ‘On one condition. No, actually two. We ask Mum and Luke to keep an eye out for anyone they don’t recognise. Between them they must know just about everyone in Ferrington. And…’ She took hold of my hand. ‘This is how close you’re sticking to me until I can hand you over to a police officer. Seriously. This close.’ She waved her other hand between us to confirm the distance, which I estimated as about sixteen inches.
‘Okay.’ I attempted a smile, but before I knew it I was bawling.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Becky wrapped her arms around me. ‘It’s going to be fine. I’m being overly cautious because that’s my job as your friend.’ She rubbed my back as she spoke. ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’
‘I know,’ I sobbed, leaning into her shoulder. ‘I know it’ll more than likely be nothing. I’m not even crying because I’m upset, or I’m scared.’ Though I was, of course, both those things, my overwhelmingly predominant emotion was something different altogether.
‘I can’t remember the last time someone had my back. That you’d insist on sticking this close to me…’
‘Well, maybe not this close.’
‘That you’d stay anywhere near me at all… the only person who I could ever rely on like that was Charlie. And to be honest, she meant well, but in practice, being reliable wasn’t really her forte.’ I did a big sniff to avoid getting snot on her top, which under the circumstances was the least I could do. ‘Thank you.’
Becky squeezed me even tighter for a second before pulling back and handing me a tissue. ‘You’re very welcome.’
‘I think I love you, Becky Adams.’
She winked. ‘That’s good, because I know I love you. Now, a funeral pyre awaits. I’ll message Luke and my mum once we’re safely surrounded.’