She walked briskly along the path where she had walked so many times over the years. She wistfully recalled those times as the dawn broke and turned the sea pink and the light caught the edges of the clouds and turned them pink also, like candyfloss. And the candyfloss reminded her of the summer fair where her parents had taken her and her younger brother Patrick, as a treat. How sweet it had been on her tongue. Marigold relived the delight of those happy childhood outings, taking the time to dwell on each one because she had the time up there on the cliff path, as much as she wanted.
She relished this hour alone, without anyone making demands on her. She loved looking after her family, and yet she treasured the sense of freedom that being alone in nature gave her. She listened to the wind and the cries of seabirds, the roaring of the ocean and her own deep breaths, and it was as if she was being refilled, for when she returned home she was buoyant and bursting with energy and enthusiasm. She had even forgotten about her forgetfulness.
A week before Christmas she was in the shop listening to Eileen sharing the village gossip, when a ruggedly handsome man walked in. Marigold knew she’d seen him before, but she couldn’t place him. Eileen stopped mid-sentence and stared. The young man walked up to the counter and smiled. It was the kind of smile that could launch a thousand ships, Marigold thought, even though she did not like the fashion for long hair and unshaven faces.
Eileen smiled up at him with all the charm she could muster. She barely reached his waist. ‘Taran Sherwood,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you grown up. I remember you when you were a boy,’ she said. ‘I’m Eileen Utley. And this is Marigold.’
Then Marigold remembered him as well. She also remembered what an obnoxious little boy he had been. ‘Home for Christmas?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s been a year since I was last home,’ Taran replied and the slight intonation in his voice suggested a glamorous life across the Atlantic. He looked at her with eyes as green as aventurine and she was embarrassed that a woman like her could find a man of his age attractive.
‘Your parents must be happy to see you,’ said Eileen and her gaze intensified, searching for any sign of discord.
‘I think so,’ he replied.
Marigold sensed he did not want to be scrutinized. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘I’ve come to pick up the Christmas puddings for my mother.’
Marigold searched for any memory of a Christmas pudding but found nothing. Just a blank. A great big cavernous blank.
The door opened, the little bell tinkled, and their attention was diverted to Daisy in a scarlet coat and purple bobble hat, coming in with a happy smile on her face. She noticed Taran at once, but she was used to good-looking men, having lived in Italy, and simply acknowledged him with a breezy ‘Hello’.
Taran turned back to Marigold. Daisy sensed her mother’s anxiety. Her smile faltered. ‘Mum, can I help?’ she asked.
‘I’m just trying to recall a pair of Christmas puddings that were ordered,’ she said, beginning to search through papers beneath the counter with a trembling hand.
‘You wrote it in your red book,’ said Eileen helpfully.
‘Did I?’ said Marigold. She felt the ground spinning away from her and heard, in the distance, the sound of fingers drumming impatiently on the counter.
‘I know all about them,’ said Daisy, taking off her coat and hat and joining her mother. ‘Leave it with me. Mum’s had so many orders she’s a little inundated. I’ll get them to you this afternoon. How many were there?’
‘Two,’ said Taran, seeming eager to get going.
‘And what’s your address?’
‘He’s Sir Owen’s son, Taran,’ said Eileen, prompting her with a nod.
Daisy stopped writing and looked at him. ‘How funny,’ she said. ‘We were at school together. I’m Daisy Fane.’
Taran did not remember Daisy. She could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes, searching for her in his past like her mother was searching for the Christmas pudding order in hers. ‘Were we in the same year?’ he asked.
‘We were in the same class,’ she replied. ‘But it was a long time ago. I know where you live. I’ll bring the puddings up later today.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Mum is counting on them.’
‘Of course she is,’ said Daisy with a smile. ‘They’re the best.’ He left the shop and Marigold sank onto the stool.
‘You wrote it in your notebook,’ persisted Eileen. ‘I saw you.’
Daisy found the red book and the order. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. We all forget things,’ she said.
Marigold’s eyes shone. ‘What are we going to do? I can’t make two Christmas puddings by five o’clock! It takes weeks to make a really good one.’
‘I’ll buy them and pass them off as our own,’ said Daisy.
‘I have a better idea,’ said Eileen. ‘Cedric Weatherby has made a whole batch. I’m sure he’ll sell you two, if you ask him nicely.’
‘I’ll go now,’ said Daisy, putting on her hat and coat again.
‘Thank you,’ said Marigold in a small voice.
‘Taran’s very handsome,’ said Eileen with a mischievous grin. ‘What do you think, Daisy?’
‘Not my type,’ Daisy replied briskly, leaving the shop.
‘Then what is her type?’ Eileen asked Marigold in surprise.
‘I don’t know,’ said Marigold with a sigh. ‘I don’t think she’s looking for anyone right now. She’s still nursing a broken heart.’
Eileen grinned. ‘If you ask me, Taran Sherwood could mend a heart broken to smithereens!’ She sighed then shook her head dolefully. ‘I don’t think he and his father get on at all,’ she continued. ‘I’ve heard they have a difficult relationship. They’re very different, you see. Sir Owen is a man for all seasons, a man who loves nature. Taran is a materialistic man. You can tell.’ She inhaled through her nose. ‘Still, he’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?’
Daisy knocked on Cedric Weatherby’s front door, which was painted purple and adorned with an extravagant fir wreath. She heard a rustling and then an unbolting. The door opened a little and Cedric’s face peeped through the crack. ‘Hello, Mr Weatherby, my name is Daisy Fane, I’m Marigold and Dennis’s daughter.’
Cedric’s face relaxed and he opened the door wide. ‘Ah, Marigold’s daughter. The one who lives in Italy? How lovely. Do come in.’ Daisy stepped into the hall and immediately noticed a fluffy honey-coloured cat staring at her from halfway up the stairs. She turned her attention to Cedric who was tall and a little stooped with a thick thatch of blond hair and a matching moustache. He wore a green-and-white shirt over a substantial paunch. He smelt strongly of lemon cologne to mask the smell of cigarettes, she thought, and cat. The house smelt very strongly of cat.
‘What’s your cat called?’ Daisy asked.
‘I have five ladies,’ said Cedric proudly. ‘This one is a Ragdoll called Jade. Her sister is Sapphire. Then I have three Siamese cats called Topaz, Ruby and Angel.’
‘Angel? Doesn’t that spoil the theme?’
Cedric’s lips pursed in mock disgust. ‘Angel does not deserve to be named after a jewel. I’m hoping that by calling her Angel she will grow into her name. Right now she should be called Queenie. But we can’t have two of those living in the same house.’ He laughed and Daisy laughed with him. ‘And I don’t want any competition.’
‘I think Jade has a regal look.’
‘They all do, darling. You know what they say? That dogs have owners and cats have staff. It’s spot on, that is. I’m the servant, running around after five very demanding ladies. Anyway, what can I do for you, Daisy?’
‘I have a peculiar request. Mum forgot to make two Christmas puddings for Lady Sherwood. She’s very upset. She thinks she’s losing her mind . . .’
‘We all are, darling. As soon as you pass sixty, it starts to go. I forget things all the time. I’m terrible with names. I just call everyone darling and that avoids the problem altogether.’
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‘Well, Mum’s a bit sensitive about it. So Eileen told me to come and ask you whether you had any I could buy from you. Apparently you make very good ones.’
Cedric put his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t hide my light under a bushel and I don’t let other people praise my talents when I can shout about them myself. Yes, I am a gifted baker and I’ll happily give you a couple.’
‘You don’t have to give them to me, because Lady Sherwood will pay for them.’
‘Very well. Lady Sherwood can afford me. Come.’
Daisy followed him into the kitchen. It looked out over a wintry garden. Daisy was amused to see that Cedric fed birds too, just like her mother. His feeders hung on long metal sticks with hooks, like old-fashioned shepherd’s lanterns, which were stuck into the grass. Little birds fluttered around them, busily scattering seeds onto the ground.
The kitchen was immaculately tidy and painted a bright blue with white marble worktops. A vase of red tulips placed in the middle of the round table looked a little incongruous there, seeing as it was December. The room smelt of freshly baked bread and cinnamon. ‘I’ve been baking currant buns,’ said Cedric, pointing to twelve buns cooling on the sideboard. ‘Would you like one?’
‘I always think of currant buns as an Easter treat.’
‘Nothing is seasonal in my house, darling, except of course the Christmas puds. I have tulips in winter and holly in summer. I like what I like and I won’t be dictated to by convention.’
‘In that case, I’d love one, thank you.’
He lifted a bun off the cooling tray and popped it onto a plate. It was still warm. Daisy took a bite. The sweet, buttery taste melted on her tongue. ‘Oh, this is delicious!’ she gushed. ‘You really are a wonderful baker!’
‘Bless your heart,’ said Cedric, putting his hand on his chest. ‘You’ve made my day.’
Daisy laughed. ‘If your Christmas puddings are as good as this, Lady Sherwood will be in heaven.’
‘Oh, they are. They’re my speciality. They take months of careful nurturing – and doses of brandy, every few days for weeks.’ He disappeared into a store room and returned a moment later with two puddings, wrapped in newspaper.
‘How many have you made?’ Daisy asked, wishing she hadn’t eaten her bun so quickly because now it was gone.
‘Eight,’ said Cedric.
‘What are you going to do with the rest?’
‘Give them to my friends. I’ve already given one to poor Dolly, who’s very sad about her cat, and Jean who’s on her own, poor love.’
‘Yes, I heard about the cat.’
‘Devastated, that’s what she is, devastated.’
‘I’m sure Mary is too,’ said Daisy.
‘Not as devastated as she should be. That dog is a menace.’
‘He’s very sweet, actually. I’m about to paint him.’
Cedric raised his eyebrows. ‘You paint animals, do you?’
‘Yes, I haven’t done portraiture in years, so Bernie is being a guinea pig for me, as it were.’
‘Well, if you discover you have talent, you can come and paint my ladies, and I’ll give you all the currant buns you could wish for.’
Daisy smiled at the thought of a commission. ‘I’d love that, Mr Weatherby.’
‘Don’t Mr Weatherby me! I’m Cedric.’
‘Okay, Cedric. Thank you for the puddings, and the bun. We really owe you one.’
‘You owe me nothing, darling.’ He grinned. ‘Daisy. You see, sometimes I do remember a name. Yours is very pretty, as are you. I hope some lovely young man is making you happy.’
Daisy blushed. ‘A lovely man did make me happy, but sadly no longer.’
‘The brute!’ exclaimed Cedric dramatically. ‘Stupid man! Anyone would be lucky to have you. You have a pretty smile. Now you tell your mother not to worry about forgetting things. She’s not alone. I’d say half the village is more forgetful than she is.’
‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be relieved to hear it.’
Cedric escorted her to the door. By now all the cats had gathered there in the hall. They watched her suspiciously, as cats do. ‘And don’t forget I’m at the top of the list when you turn out to be Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,’ he said. ‘I have five beautiful ladies ready to give you their best angles.’
When Daisy returned home triumphantly with the Christmas puddings she found her mother in the shop, serving customers with a smile and a little chat as she always did, yet the sparkle had gone out of her eyes. As soon as there was a lull, Daisy asked her if she was all right. ‘I still don’t know how I managed to forget,’ said Marigold. ‘It’s so unlike me.’
‘Mum, it’s just a couple of Christmas puddings,’ said Daisy.
‘I wish it was, but it’s more than that. I’m forgetting things every day. I feel like I’m navigating my way through a fog.’
‘A fog? What kind of fog?’
‘I don’t know. Some days it’s thick, other days it clears and I think I’m back to being myself again. Today, I feel quite well. But yesterday, I just wanted to go to bed and hide.’ She looked at her daughter anxiously. ‘Don’t tell your father, will you? I don’t want to worry him.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. Anyway, Cedric says he forgets things all the time.’
‘I know, everyone says that. Perhaps I’m just not very good at coping with it.’
‘He’s given us two Christmas puddings and I’ll drive them up this afternoon. No harm done. Lady Sherwood will be delighted. I’m sure his are just as good as yours.’
‘You don’t have to take them up for me. I can do it after I close.’
‘No, I want you to put your feet up.’ Daisy looked around. ‘Where’s Tasha?’
Marigold sighed. Tasha was trying her patience. ‘She had to take her daughter to the doctor.’
‘Okay, you have a break and I’ll look after the shop. And by the way, Mary has chosen the pose for the picture from the photographs I took of Bernie and I think I know him well enough now to get started.’
‘That’s wonderful, dear,’ said Marigold.
‘I’m going to set my easel up in the sitting room, by the window. I need light and lots of it.’
‘I’m sorry we don’t have a room for you.’
‘It’s okay. I can work there. Perhaps one day, when I’m rich and famous, I’ll rent a studio.’
‘When you’re rich and famous you’ll be able to buy a studio.’
Daisy laughed. ‘In the meantime it’s either the sitting room or the bathroom.’
‘Then I suggest you use the sitting room. Suze won’t be so accommodating if you make her move all her stuff out of the bathroom as well as the bedroom.’
Later that afternoon Daisy drove up to Lady Sherwood’s with the Christmas puddings. It was already dark and a thick mist was moving inland, rolling up the beaches and settling onto the fields. She thought of the fog in her mother’s mind and wondered whether she should see a doctor.
The entrance to the Sherwoods’ farm was an unimposing brown post-and-rail fence with an electric gate. Daisy rolled down her window and pressed the button on the intercom. A long while later, just when she was about to give up and turn the car round, a man’s voice answered irritably. She gave her name and the gate duly opened, allowing her to motor onto a gravelled driveway and park in front of the big white house. Sir Owen and Lady Sherwood were not ostentatious people.
Sir Owen had been given his knighthood for his charity work but he wore it lightly. He was a community-minded man, involving himself in causes that mattered to the local people. He had tried very hard to prevent the supermarket from being built nearby, concerned that it would stifle small, independent shops like Marigold’s, and fought off developers who wanted to build houses on his land. Sir Owen was a man who did not crave more wealth than he had. A more materialistic man would have happily sold out for the substantial money he was offered, but Sir Owen lived modestly, albeit well, and was content with what he had.
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sp; The house and farm, however, were impressive. Hector Sherwood, Sir Owen’s father, had bought them just after the Second World War for five hundred pounds. With three thousand acres, which included woodland, there was plenty of land for Hector and his five daughters to ride on. Owen had not been very interested in horses, so when his father passed the farm on to him after his daughters had been successfully married off, the horses were sold and Taran was brought up walking the dogs rather than riding out with them. Owen hoped his son would love the countryside like he did, but Taran wanted to be an architect, not a farmer, and set his sights on Canada, where his mother was from. Owen could not understand why he wanted to live so far from home. What was wrong with being an architect in England? But Taran went to a Canadian university and ended up working for a prestigious firm in Toronto. Owen worried about leaving the farm to his son and considered changing his will and leaving it to his eldest nephew instead. It mattered very much to him that his home should remain in his family. It seemed not to matter to Taran at all.
Daisy got out of the car and went to the front door. Before she had time to ring the bell, it opened and Taran appeared, looking down at her with an air of impatience. ‘I’ve got the puddings,’ she said with a smile, attempting to lift his mood.
‘Thanks,’ said Taran, taking them. A couple of spaniels and a black Labrador rushed past his legs and began barking at the car. ‘Bloody dogs!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re driving me nuts! They want to go for a walk, but it’s too foggy. I can barely see beyond my own nose.’ He frowned at Daisy. ‘And you were okay driving up here?’
‘I just drove slowly,’ she said, watching the dogs sniffing her wheels and cocking their legs on the tyres. ‘And I’ll drive slowly back again.’ She smiled in a breezy way that aroused Taran’s curiosity. There was something about it that told him she wasn’t very interested in him.
Here and Now Page 6
