by Beth Moran
‘I’m on a total mission to find myself a yummy farmer!’ she trilled, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘I feel like I was born to wear wellies!’
‘We’re so glad you’ve enjoyed it,’ I said, trying to politely usher them in the direction of the door. ‘If you could write a review, it’d be greatly appreciated.’
‘Oh, we already have!’ Dinky smiled. ‘We’ve been posting non-stop since we got here. See?’
She flicked through a stream of images of them smiling, posing and looking genuinely relaxed and happy. I wasn’t aware so many different emojis existed, but she’d made good use of them.
The number of likes made my head spin. I’d had a lot of followers, but this was a whole other level.
‘Are you an influencer?’ I asked, feeling awkward for not realising it earlier.
‘Totally!’ Dinky beamed. ‘Tammers is, too. Felicia and Bo are along for the ride.’
Our website crashed. Damson Farm Retreats was in business.
It was another back-achingly late night. We left the retreat clear-up for another day, moving straight on to Damson Day prep. I felt like I must be sweating apple juice by now, and my hair would probably smell of honey for days.
Daniel came to find us once it was too dark to carry on outside. We feasted on the broken scones and leftover cheese and fruit from the retreat. We chinked the one small glass of cider we allowed ourselves the night before a day that would be taught about in Ferrington schools for generations and toasted great food, even better friends – including those no longer with us, of course – and crazy ideas that somehow seemed to have turned into something fantastic.
I scurried up to bed before Becky and Alice had left, avoiding any risk of the conversation drifting over to our unlikely special guest, and my reaction to her earlier in the week.
I woke up just after seven on Monday morning to a soft beam of sunlight peeping through the crack in my curtains. It had been a muggy night, and it was only thanks to my extreme sleep deprivation over the weekend that I managed to doze as much as I did. Throwing on some denim shorts and a stripy T-shirt, I went downstairs to find an empty coffee mug on the side and smears of toast crumbs on Hope’s highchair. Following the clues, I slipped on my flip-flops and found them in the orchard, surrounded by a hive of activity (not one of Ziva’s hives, which were safely cordoned off for the day). Stallholders were already unpacking their goods – cakes and cookies, pickles and preserves, arts and crafts including all things knitted, carved and framed. Traditional games were being set up – hoopla, hook-a-duck and a coconut shy – alongside more modern touches like an electronic penalty shoot-out and a rodeo sheep.
The cider press was set up in one corner, although we had only a few crates of apples, none of which had been grown in the orchard, but it was a start. In the meadow, a couple of people were setting out markers for a rounders game. Six teams had entered the tournament, the only rule being that at least two people from each side had to be on every team.
The staff from Pepper’s Pizza and Ferrington Fish and Chippy had set up a giant barbeque with accompanying side-dishes, next to which was the gazebo where Becky and I would serve cream teas and other light refreshments.
The atmosphere was electric, and we still had over two hours to go. I shoved thoughts of Nora Sharp to one side, vague fears about the crazy stalker to another, and got stuck in.
By the time the gates opened at eleven, there was a line of people snaking halfway down the lane. Shortly before that, I’d found Daniel down by the newly discovered footbridge, which would be officially opened when we held the duck race that afternoon. He was sitting on the riverbank, arms resting on his knees, so lost in thought that he didn’t hear me coming.
‘Hey.’ I sat down, gently bumping his arm.
‘Hi.’ He nodded in acknowledgement, but kept his eyes on the far shore of the river. The air was ripe with the scent of newly cut grass, where a path had been mowed through the meadow, and enough undergrowth cut back to allow a clear route into the New Side of the village. Someone had added a safety rope either side of the concrete bridge, and this was now covered in brightly coloured ribbons which fluttered gently in the breeze.
‘It’s a big day.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thinking about your great-grandad?’
His mouth flickered up in a brief smile. ‘Great-grandad, Grandad. Dad…’ He paused, his voice breaking.
‘Charlie,’ I said, softly.
He nodded, closing his eyes for a long moment.
‘They’d be so pleased.’ I tucked my arm through his, leaning up closely against him. ‘Not to mention proud. It’s incredible what you’re doing. For the farm, and for Ferrington.’
He didn’t reply, but found my fingers, tucked up against his chest, and clutched them tightly. A brown mallard drifted past, a brood of black and yellow striped ducklings following closely behind.
‘I got you something.’ I unwound my arm from his and opened the bag that I’d brought with me. Daniel waited while I drew out a glass bottle and handed it to him.
‘Damson Farm Cider.’ He read the label, face creasing into a grin. ‘A commemorative bottle, marking the very first Damson Day.’ He inspected it closer. ‘Empty?’
I laughed. ‘It’s a prototype only. A promise, of great things to come.’
‘Thank you.’ Daniel’s gaze was soft. ‘I love it.’ He stopped then, his eyes flickering down before meeting mine again. He took a deep breath in, and carefully took hold of my hand. ‘Speaking of which.’ He swallowed. My heart started thumping in response. ‘Of… love…’
‘Oy!’ Alice’s bellow caused us both to jerk back in surprise. We turned to see her standing where the orchard gate opened onto the meadow, frantically waving her arms. ‘Have you seen the time? They’re going to break those lovely new gates down if you aren’t here to open them in the next thirty seconds!’
Daniel checked his watch. ‘Whoops. We’d better go.’ He jumped to his feet, pulling me with him. We both started jogging up the meadow towards the orchard, when he suddenly stopped, still holding onto my hand, and pulled me up against his chest. ‘Stuff it. They can wait another ten seconds. I’m not sure this can.’ He tipped his head towards mine. ‘What I was going to say, before being so rudely interrupted, was that… I love you, Eleanor. I have fallen completely, utterly, head-over-heels for you. I love everything about you, and the things I don’t know yet, I can’t wait to find out because I’m so certain I’ll love them, too. I can’t imagine life without you. And I’ve been waiting for weeks to say that.’
I stood there, speechless, every inch of me aglow.
‘It would help my blood pressure if you said something…’ He squinted, smile faltering.
Should I say it? Could I? Would it be wrong to tell him how I feel, when I was still holding back so much?
‘Daniel!’ Alice again.
‘I love you, too,’ I whispered, stretching up to kiss him soundly on the lips before dragging us both into the orchard and through the trees. My heart was floating along about three metres above us, but my conscience was dragging through the dirt.
33
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.
