Here and Now

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘So, write about what interests you then.’

  ‘The sort of things that interest me would not make a good book. Fashion and make-up are better suited to magazines – and my Instagram account.’

  ‘How’s that going, by the way?’

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘Is it going to make you any money?’

  ‘It will in the end. If I get enough of a following, companies will pay me to post things.’

  ‘How many followers do you need for that to happen?’

  ‘A few hundred thousand.’

  ‘And you’ve got how many?’

  ‘Nearly thirty thousand.’

  There was a short pause as Daisy tried to think of something encouraging to say. ‘Okay, so you’ve got a way to go, but you’ll get there.’

  ‘I’m working on it. Sometimes I believe I can conquer the world, most of the time I doubt I can conquer anything.’

  Daisy chuckled. ‘Aren’t we a pair!’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ said Suze, surprised how much being a pair warmed her. ‘Night, Daisy.’

  ‘Night, Suze.’

  And they fell asleep to the familiar sound of the other’s quiet breathing.

  The following day the sky cleared and the sun shone brightly on the snow. Marigold was behind the counter of the shop when Mary Hanson came in to buy beer for the builders painting her house. She had tied Bernie, her St Bernard, to a post and the dog had lain down on the snow, making the most of the cold before it melted. He panted heavily, exhaling clouds of hot breath. Eileen was leaning on the counter and Tasha was in the back, unpacking the delivery of baked beans. Marigold hoped Eileen wouldn’t mention Dolly’s cat.

  ‘Good morning, Mary,’ said Marigold.

  ‘Good morning. And isn’t it lovely? Sunny at last.’

  ‘Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?’ said Marigold.

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘Um, Mary, I was wondering whether I could ask you a favour.’

  ‘Sure, Marigold. What can I do for you?’ Mary raised her eyebrows expectantly, hoping it wouldn’t be an imposition. She really had to be getting back to the painters.

  ‘My daughter has just come back from working in Italy and she’d like to try her hand at painting. She’s very good. She’s always been good, she’s just never had the confidence. She was wondering whether you’d allow her to paint a portrait of your dog.’

  Mary’s face lit up. ‘Bernie? She’d like to paint Bernie? Well, of course she can. He’d love to be painted.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’ll tell her. She’s nipped out but she’ll be back later.’

  ‘I’ll give you my mobile number and you can ask her to call me.’

  Marigold gave her a piece of paper and a pen and Mary proceeded to write it down. ‘He’s a handsome devil, my Bernie,’ she said, ‘and he just adores people.’ She then went to the back of the shop in search of beer.

  ‘We can’t say the same about cats,’ said Eileen under her breath.

  A moment later Mary returned with twelve cans of beer.

  ‘I’ll expect Daisy’s call,’ she said, taking her wallet out of her handbag. ‘And I’ll tell Bernie the good news so he can get excited. He’s never been painted before.’

  ‘If it’s good enough she might display him in the village hall,’ said Marigold. ‘She’s hoping to make a career of it, you see.’

  ‘What a good idea. A great place to advertise. The English are potty about their dogs.’ Mary smiled mischievously. ‘I’d rather have Bernie painted than my children, but don’t tell Brian!’

  Marigold laughed. ‘I won’t.’

  When the door closed behind her Eileen shook her head. ‘And I won’t tell Dolly. To have her cat’s killer immortalized in paint might just tip her over the edge.’

  Daisy walked up the path that snaked along the clifftops. She hadn’t walked there in ages. In spite of coming home a couple of times a year, for Christmas and usually once in the summer, she never found the time for walks. She remembered skipping up this path as a little girl, her mother’s voice calling her back snatched by the wind that blew in gusts off the sea. It hadn’t changed. It was exactly as it always had been. But she had changed. She yearned for her childhood now. Life had been simpler then. Fewer worries, or so it seemed. Six years in Italy, which had been good, now felt like lost years, wasted years, years invested with no return. She worried that her heart would never mend. It felt like grief, this leaden feeling in her chest. She was mourning the death of a relationship, yet her love lived on and had nowhere to go.

  The truth was that Luca had never lied to her about not wanting marriage or children. It had been she who had foolishly believed she could change him. She had believed he would love her enough to give her what she wanted, that if she hung in there he would eventually back down. There came a moment when she realized he never would. That was last week. Luca hadn’t betrayed her; she had betrayed him. After all, they had so much in common. She was bohemian, like him. An independent free spirit, like him. They both loved art and music and culture. Neither was particularly materialistic. They’d lived simply but well, relishing Italy’s sensual bounty: the food, the sunshine, the art and architecture and, most of all, the beautiful countryside. He had believed they’d wanted the same things, while all along she had secretly wanted more. It wasn’t he who had moved the goalposts, it was she. If she had gambled six years of her life and lost, she had only herself to blame.

  Now she was home she had to start again. A new career and a new life – it felt more like the picking up of the old one. She didn’t want to live at home, like Suze. She didn’t really want to live in this small village either. She was used to living abroad, in a cosmopolitan city. Used to living independently, but she had no choice. She didn’t have the money to buy a place of her own and she didn’t want to waste what she had on renting when she could live at home rent-free. And she needed to watch her pennies if she was going to give painting a go. She wouldn’t get clients for a while and when she did, she wouldn’t be able to charge much, being a novice. Nan was right, she wasn’t going to make much money, but did that matter if she was happy? Surely it was more important to do what one loved than to slog away doing something uninspiring just to earn more money? If she could establish herself as an artist and make a living out of it, then she could decide where she wanted to put down her roots. The trouble was she had made a life for herself in Milan; nowhere else felt like home, not even here.

  Although the sun was out her walk was bracing. Snow still clung to the hills and the air was cold and crisp. The wind that raced up the cliff face bore sharp teeth. Seagulls wheeled beneath an icy blue sky and on the sea small boats bobbed up and down while fishermen put out their nets. It was all so very pretty and Daisy sighed with pleasure as her sorrow slowly lifted a little. It was lovely to be back, only sad that her homecoming was accompanied by heartbreak. She knew she’d miss Italy and all her friends there, but she had to learn to live in England again. Try to make some new friends. It was a daunting thought, starting over. She wondered whether she’d ever fall in love again. She put her hands in her pockets and walked in the direction of her village. She had to discover who she was here, without Italy and Luca to define her, and she had to come to love that person before she could even contemplate giving her heart away again. Right now she couldn’t contemplate loving anyone else but Luca, ever.

  When she got home she went to find her mother in the shop. Marigold was serving the Commodore, whom Daisy had known since she was a girl. Commodore Wilfrid Braithwaite, as he was really called, had been a friend of her grandfather’s. When he saw her his small eyes lit up and his wrinkled face creased further as he smiled, revealing a crooked set of teeth. ‘Well, what a sight for sore eyes,’ he exclaimed. ‘You back for Christmas already, Daisy?’

  Daisy returned his smile. In a three-piece tweed suit, complete with a tie and trilby hat, the Commodore looked quite the country gentleman. ‘I’m back for good, actually,’
she said.

  He drew his feathery white eyebrows into a frown. ‘Oh dear, have you left your Italian fellow behind?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s nice to be home, though,’ she said, sensing an awkward pause brewing.

  ‘I don’t suppose it snows much in Italy.’

  ‘Actually, I was in Milan where it snows more than here.’

  ‘So it does.’ He paid for the chocolate digestive biscuits. Marigold stared at them and frowned. She’d seen them on a table recently, but she couldn’t remember where. ‘I like dipping these in my tea,’ said the Commodore. So does someone else, thought Marigold, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember who.

  The Commodore left the shop and Marigold went to the magazine stand to look for a book of Sudoku puzzles. She really needed to exercise her brain. Tasha took over the till. ‘Nice to have you back,’ she said to Daisy. ‘Only sorry it’s, well, you know.’ She smiled anxiously, not knowing how to put her sympathy into words. ‘Mary Hanson was in a while ago and left her number with your mum. She says you can paint her dog.’

  ‘Really? That’s great. He’s the big one, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a St Bernard. You know, those Swiss dogs with barrels of brandy around their necks, except Bernie doesn’t wear one of those. Well, he’d be a bit more popular if he did.’ Tasha crinkled her nose.

  Marigold appeared with the book of Sudoku puzzles. ‘This is to exercise my brain,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m becoming so forgetful these days.’

  ‘We could all do with exercising our brains,’ said Tasha with a grin.

  ‘I hope it works,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m not ready to go gaga yet!’

  They laughed. ‘Tasha says you have Mary Hanson’s number for me,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Oh yes, so I do.’ Marigold put her hands in her pockets. She frowned. ‘Goodness, where did I put it?’ She realized as a cold feeling slithered over her skin that she couldn’t remember anything about the piece of paper. She knew Mary had written her number on something, but she had no recollection of having been given it. ‘I don’t think she gave it to me,’ she said, certain now that she hadn’t.

  ‘It’s here,’ said Tasha, picking it up off the counter. ‘Easy to miss. It was partially hidden underneath your red book.’

  ‘Of course it was. I remember now.’ Marigold watched Tasha give the note to Daisy. ‘You’d better start doing your Sudoku,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ said Marigold, hiding behind a smile the anxiety that was shrinking her heart. She suddenly felt rather unwell. ‘I think I need some tea,’ she said. ‘Tasha, man the shop for a minute, will you? Yes, a cup of tea is just what I need.’ And she hurried across the courtyard to the kitchen, her face taut with worry.

  After closing the shop at the end of the day Marigold rushed off to attend a committee meeting for the Christmas fair, which was due to take place in the church hall at the beginning of December. The meeting was hosted by the vicar’s wife, Julia Cobbold, in the Old Vicarage, an austere flintstone mansion lacking both warmth and charm, but impressive in size and history because it had been built in the time of Henry VIII and boasted a priest hole which had allowed persecuted men of the cloth to escape via a secret stair and an underground tunnel. Julia was very proud of her house but Marigold knew to take a shawl because the place was always cold, even with the great fires burning.

  She walked up the road. The ice had melted and the tarmac glistened with slush, but it was no longer dangerous. Nan hadn’t slipped and broken her neck, which was a blessing, but now she was claiming that black ice would take her instead, because unlike snow it was impossible to see. It had been a long day and Marigold really wanted to put her feet up. But she’d never missed a meeting and, apart from feeling weary, there was no reason why she should.

  As she made her way up the Cobbolds’ drive she heard the screech of an owl close by. She stopped, cocking her ear to ascertain from where it came. Then she spotted it. Although it was dark, the moon was bright and she could see, in the crook of a tree, the unmistakable white face of a barn owl. She stood still and watched. A moment later two more appeared. Three owlets peered out with their big, curious eyes, as they waited for their mother to return to feed them. Marigold was enchanted. For a long while she was lost there, beneath the tree, and the joy of finding herself the lucky spectator of such a heart-warming scene gave her a surge of energy so that when she arrived, finally, at the front door of the Old Vicarage, she was feeling herself again. Positive, lively and ready to take on whatever challenge was thrown her way.

  ‘Ah, Marigold,’ said Julia when she opened the door and saw Marigold standing there with her nose red from the cold. Julia looked typically chic in a pair of olive-green slacks and matching sweater. Marigold noticed the gold buckles on her court shoes, which matched her gold earrings and the chain necklace hanging over her bosom, giving her a sophisticated air. Marigold couldn’t help but think how much easier it was to look polished when one was tall and slim like Julia. ‘The last to arrive,’ Julia added, a touch impatiently.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t help but stop and watch those dear little barn owls.’

  ‘Barn owls?’ Julia frowned. ‘Are they back again?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen them?’ Marigold couldn’t imagine having a family of owls on her property and not knowing about it.

  ‘They were here last year. How nice. Come on in. We need to get this meeting underway as I have a dinner at eight and I need to get ready.’

  Marigold followed Julia into the drawing room, which was large and square with a fire burning unenthusiastically beneath a mantelpiece displaying a row of stiff white invitations embellished with flouncy gold writing. Floral-patterned sofas and armchairs were assembled around a coffee table, laden with big glossy books on art, and on these uncomfortable pieces of furniture perched the four other members of the committee, being careful not to disturb the pointy, diamond-shaped cushions which were arranged behind them in tidy rows.

  Marigold smiled at the women, all of whom she knew well. Among them was Beryl Bailey, her dearest friend. Beryl was a large woman with spiky auburn hair and a surprisingly young face for a woman approaching seventy. She wore a patterned dress that reached mid-calf, exposing the rings of wool at her thick ankles where her tights had gathered. She wore a pair of sturdy lace-up shoes, which were the only shoes she could wear on account of her bunions, and a walking stick rested against the arm of the sofa as a reminder of a recent hip replacement. ‘Come and sit beside me,’ Beryl said to Marigold, patting the cushion with a pudgy hand.

  ‘I’m a little late.’

  ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘I haven’t been myself recently,’ Marigold confessed in a quiet voice.

  Beryl frowned. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m just becoming so forgetful.’ She lifted a notebook out of her bag and tapped it. ‘I have to write everything down now, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I’m terrible!’ said Beryl, lowering her voice. ‘I forget people’s names all the time! I open the fridge and then forget what I was looking for. I leave everything behind. You know what it is, Marigold?’

  Marigold swallowed and looked at her friend apprehensively. ‘What?’

  ‘Getting older.’

  Marigold felt a wave of relief. ‘Really? Is that all it is?’ She laughed to cover her anxiety. ‘I thought I was getting dementia.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Beryl. ‘If that were the case we’d all be getting it. Just write everything down. It’s normal. I’m afraid that’s one of the downsides of growing old. That’s what we have to look forward to: forgetfulness, sagging skin, fading eyesight and aching joints.’

  ‘And the upside?’

  ‘Family,’ said Beryl, and Marigold smiled. ‘Children, grand-children and friends. That’s what makes life worth living.’

  And Marigold knew she was right. She
would try not to worry about it anymore.

  Chapter 4

  Daisy was eyeball to eyeball with Bernie. His nose was an inch from hers, as were his glistening chops and sharp white teeth. She hoped he didn’t decide to take a bite. She was holding his enormous paws for he had jumped up the minute he was introduced and was now standing on his hind legs, as tall as she was, staring at her with shiny brown eyes, the colour of chestnuts.

  ‘He likes you,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Daisy replied, thinking how it might have been had he not liked her.

  ‘He only does that with people he likes. You don’t mind, do you? You’re not wearing anything smart, at least.’

  Daisy was, in fact, wearing something she considered smart, but Mary obviously didn’t rate her indigo jeans and cashmere sweater. She was only visiting, to get to know her subject and to take a few preliminary photographs, but Mary probably assumed she was in her working clothes. ‘I bet he eats a lot,’ Daisy said, letting go of the dog’s paws.

  ‘Not as much as you’d think. He eats the same amount as a Labrador. But he loves his food, so I tend to spoil him. You know, the odd piece of bacon or sausage. Whatever I’ve got left over.’ She gazed into his big face and smiled at him lovingly.

  Daisy took out her phone and began to take photographs. ‘He’s a beautiful animal,’ she said, watching Mary’s face flower into a radiant smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beauty.’

  ‘He can be quite scary, you know.’

  Daisy decided not to tell Mary that she did know exactly how scary Bernie could be. ‘Not Bernie, surely. He’s as good as gold,’ she said instead.

  ‘He doesn’t like delivery men in bright yellow jackets or small, yappy dogs,’ Mary explained. Daisy bit her tongue as the word ‘cat’ teetered on the end of it. ‘He loves rabbits and pheasants, and occasionally catches them around Sir Owen’s woods. I’m sure he’d get into terrible trouble if the gamekeeper found out. You know, they’re very funny about their birds. They raise them just to shoot them, but when they’re eaten by a dog like Bernie they get ever so cross. Seems a bit illogical to me.’