Here and Now

by Santa Montefiore

  She smiled and threaded her way through the throng to the door, where Suze was waiting for her. ‘Dad has driven Mum and Nan home.’

  ‘Was Mum all right?’

  Suze looked surprised. ‘Yes. Why, was something wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing. I think she’s just tired.’

  ‘Well, she’s going to love our Christmas present, isn’t she?’

  Daisy sighed. ‘Our Christmas present, which I’m paying for.’

  ‘I don’t have any money,’ Suze protested. ‘I’m as poor as a church mouse.’

  ‘Who manages to buy new clothes all the time.’

  ‘Because I sell my old ones. It’s my job.’

  ‘Sure it is. Come on. Let’s hurry home. Dad wants us to help Mum with the lunch.’

  ‘Oooh lunch,’ gushed Suze. ‘Then presents. I do love presents.’

  Marigold was surprised when Daisy and Suze began to buzz around the kitchen being helpful. Suze laid the table while Daisy cooked the vegetables. Dennis made sure everyone had a glass of wine while Nan sat by the fire in the sitting room, doing the crossword. ‘Agree silently, three letters,’ she shouted into the kitchen.

  ‘Nod,’ Marigold shouted back, without hesitation.

  ‘Oh, I knew that,’ mumbled Nan to herself.

  Marigold felt good for having known the answer and so quickly too. On the wave of feeling good, she decided that she could enjoy Christmas with her family, as she always did. Now wasn’t the time to be self-indulgent. She wasn’t sick, she told herself firmly, she was just getting older, like the doctor said.

  Thanks to her little notebook she hadn’t forgotten anything. The turkey was just as delicious as it always was, the Christmas pudding, which she had bought at the local farm shop (because not only had she forgotten to make two for Lady Sherwood, she had also forgotten to make one for herself ), was very good in spite of not containing any coins and Nan was relieved because, as she told them for the hundredth time, someone could choke and die on one of those pieces! It was an enormous relief to Marigold that she hadn’t forgotten anything important. She could dismiss the fog in her head as tiredness because, besides the momentary lapse in memory in the church hall, today had gone exceedingly well.

  After lunch Patrick called from Australia. He spoke at length to Nan. When she put down the phone she had the beatific expression of a congregant who has just taken holy communion. ‘What a good boy he is calling his mother on Christmas Day,’ she said. ‘The months go by without a squeak and then he calls on Christmas Day.’ She beamed a radiant smile. ‘They toasted us over lunch, you know. They all raised their glasses. Isn’t that nice? So like Patrick to be so thoughtful.’ Marigold caught Dennis’s eye. Patrick was anything but thoughtful. He had always had the charm of the devil. It amazed Marigold that in one phone call all the hurt he had inflicted on his mother during a year of no contact was swiftly forgotten, and like the Prodigal Son he was forgiven and even applauded.

  They went into the sitting room to open the presents. The tree sparkled with multicoloured fairy lights and tinsel, and beneath it the gifts were arranged around the base with ribbon and wrapping like a magical scene on a Christmas card. Marigold settled into the sofa beside her mother, glass of wine in hand, yellow paper hat from the cracker she’d pulled on her head, and allowed a dizzy happiness to spread through her. This could not be more perfect, she thought, running her gaze over the flushed faces of her two daughters, husband and mother. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come home,’ she said to Daisy. ‘I mean, to stay, not just for Christmas. We’re a family again, aren’t we?’

  ‘We are, Mum,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m happy I’m home too. I’m grateful that you and Dad are here to catch me when I fall.’

  Dennis patted Daisy on the shoulder and went to sit in the armchair. ‘We always will be,’ he said.

  ‘Shall we open the presents now?’ asked Suze, heading for the tree. ‘Daisy, this is from me to you.’ She handed Daisy a small package.

  ‘Thanks, Suze.’ Daisy pulled open the paper to find a pair of earrings. ‘Oh, they’re so pretty. Thank you!’ She smiled at her sister. ‘You have such great taste, Suze.’

  ‘Wait!’ Suze exclaimed as Daisy got up to find a present for Nan. ‘I need to photograph you with the earrings.’

  ‘Oh, really! Do we have to do that now?’ said Daisy, mildly irritated that Suze had to post a minute-by-minute account of her day on social media.

  ‘We really do,’ said Suze.

  Nan was pleased with her sweater from Marigold, Suze with her make-up. Dennis had bought Daisy a box of Sakura Cray-Pas oil pastels. ‘Oh, Dad, they’re perfect!’ she enthused in delight, running her fingers over the tidy row of twenty-four drawing sticks.

  ‘Only the best for our artist,’ he replied. ‘They’re top quality pastels, they are.’ For Suze he had made a wooden desk tidy with a special slot to hold her iPad.

  ‘You think of everything, Dad,’ she exclaimed happily, then returned to the tree to find more gifts.

  Dennis got up and poured more wine. Nan had already had too much. ‘Well, Dennis. Where’s your gift to Marigold?’ she said, slurring her words. ‘We’re all waiting, aren’t we, Marigold?’

  Dennis beamed and went to the tree. He pulled out a box wrapped in red-and-gold paper and tied with a gold bow. ‘Here you are, Goldie,’ he said, handing it to her with a broad smile.

  ‘Oh Dennis. You never disappoint, do you?’ said Marigold happily.

  ‘I think you’ll like this one.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ She carefully untied the bow and unwrapped the paper so that she could recycle them next year, and lifted out a wooden box. ‘There’s no picture,’ she said, running her fingertips over the lid.

  ‘Over a hundred pieces, Goldie, and no picture.’

  Marigold grinned. ‘A big challenge then!’

  ‘The biggest you’ve ever had.’

  She lifted the lid. ‘Aren’t the pieces small,’ she murmured, picking one up and looking at it closely. ‘It must have taken you weeks. It’s wonderful, Dennis. Thank you.’

  Dennis bent down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Happy Christmas, Goldie.’

  Suze held out an envelope. ‘And this is from me and Daisy.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ asked Dennis, looking from one daughter to the other.

  ‘Open it,’ said Suze, wriggling with excitement. ‘You’re going to love it!’

  Marigold frowned at Daisy. ‘What have you two been plotting?’

  ‘You open it, Goldie,’ said Dennis.

  Marigold peeled open the envelope and pulled out the letter. Both she and Dennis read it together. ‘A weekend away in Cornwall?’ said Marigold in surprise.

  ‘Just the two of us?’ said Dennis. He put his big hand on Marigold’s shoulder. ‘Just the two of us, eh? Like a honeymoon.’

  ‘Who will man the shop?’ asked Marigold anxiously.

  ‘Daisy will,’ said Suze. ‘We’ve got it all planned. You just have to pick your weekend. We’ve found a gorgeous hotel by the sea. Spring will be the nicest time. May, perhaps? We thought you’d like a rest, Mum.’

  Marigold’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, you really are both so very sweet.’

  Daisy got up to embrace her. ‘We love you, Mum.’ She held on to her for an extended moment, sensing her mother’s fragility.

  ‘Yeah, we do,’ Suze agreed. ‘We love you both. You too, Dad.’

  There was a pause as the four of them waited for the inevitable dry remark from Nan. But none came. They turned to her in surprise. The old lady had fallen asleep on the sofa, clad in her new sweater.

  ‘I hope she’s not dead,’ said Suze with a grin.

  ‘Oh, Suze! You’re dreadful!’ gasped Daisy.

  Marigold was laughing. Big tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘This has been the best Christmas ever,’ she said. ‘We’re all together and it’s a white Christmas as well. I couldn’t ask for more, could I? I really couldn’t.’ And she put down her wine
glass and leant her head back against the cushions. ‘I think I’ll just close my eyes for a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll start the puzzle tomorrow. It’ll exercise my brain. Stop me forgetting things. Thank you, Dennis. Thank you, girls. The best Christmas ever.’ And she went to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Daisy missed Luca so much that sometimes the ache in her heart was intolerable. She thought of him every morning on waking and every evening on going to bed. She missed his shaggy head on the pillow next to hers and the sound of him breathing deeply as he slept. She missed his chaos, the way he never tidied up after himself, the way he left books and magazines and papers all over the furniture so there was barely any space to sit down. She even missed the smell of his cigarettes, which he had never even tried to give up in spite of her endless nagging. She thought of him over the Christmas period and wondered whether he was missing her too. Whether he was even thinking of her. Regretting perhaps that he had asked her, ‘Isn’t my love enough for you?’ Regretting perhaps that he had not understood that his love couldn’t possibly be enough for a woman who yearned for a child. Motherhood was not an outlandish demand and yet he had accused her of being selfish. The truth was they were both selfish and neither was willing to back down. Luca had never wanted to get married, either. He had made that perfectly clear when they had first met. His own parents had divorced and his childhood had been very unhappy. He did not want that for himself and he did not want to bring a child into the world. He didn’t want to be committed in that way. Marriage and children, he had told her, would pin him down and make him less, not more. Daisy was angry with herself for not having faced sooner what she had known deep down inside for a long time. Why had she wasted years hoping that they would, in the end, settle down and have a family like everyone else? Why had her romantic heart overruled her head, which knew very well how things really were?

  And her romantic heart yearned for him still with every injured fibre of it. Instead of focusing on the arguments, of which there were many for Luca was a headstrong, passionate character who believed that he was always in the right and, by virtue of his sex, should have the final say, she recalled the laughter. The running jokes, the affectionate teasing, the fun. She chose to overlook his possessiveness – the way he grew angry if she innocently flirted with other men – even though he flirted with every woman who caught his eye. She recalled only the love.

  The idea of loving again was terrifying. She wasn’t sure she’d ever feel for another man the way she felt for Luca. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to love like that again. She’d spent all her energy on him and he’d left her feeling bruised and bleeding and spent. Her body was numb too. She couldn’t imagine making love to somebody else. Being held by another man’s arms, kissed by another man’s lips; she just couldn’t envisage ‘another man’ at all. Had she made a mistake in leaving Luca? Would she end up an old spinster with no one to love her? Might she never have children and wish she’d found enough fulfilment in loving Luca alone? She didn’t know the answers, but she knew she had to try to move on.

  The day after Christmas Taran texted to tell her that no one had choked on the coins in the Christmas pudding – because there hadn’t been any. There had, however, been a little plastic Santa Claus and five plastic elves, in each pudding, which he had thought hilarious. Daisy gasped with embarrassment, but she couldn’t help laughing too. She decided not to tell her mother, because she’d be horrified. Lady Sherwood might not have found it as amusing as her son. Plastic Santa Clauses and elves were incredibly tacky. There followed a little banter, witty texts going back and forth, and then Taran invited her for a drink in the pub. She declined, however, claiming that she was busy with her family. The texts stopped after that. Daisy sensed he was offended, but she didn’t feel bad; it was better to be honest and not mislead him.

  After New Year she threw herself into her work. She tied her unruly hair into a high ponytail, rolled up the sleeves of one of her father’s old shirts and put on the playlist she had made especially. She decided to try the pastels her father had given her for Christmas. She hadn’t used that medium in a long time, but no sooner had she begun to draw than she discovered how smooth and easy they were to apply. It wasn’t long before she realized, to her intense satisfaction, that she had succeeded in capturing Bernie’s spirit. It shone through the eyes. There was life in them that couldn’t be found in photographs. Something beyond what the camera could capture. He stared out at her, as if he were really looking at her, and seeing her, and when she moved, his tender gaze followed her. She had pinned the photographs to the top of the easel, but he lived more vividly in her memory, not just in the way he looked but in his nature. She had got to know the very essence of him, and it was this which she had transferred onto the grey paper most beautifully. She stood back and admired her work. She had done it, she had really done it. She had brought Bernie to life in pastels. After the eyes, the rest was easy and swift.

  Mary was thrilled. ‘My goodness, you can draw, can’t you?’ she exclaimed when Daisy invited her round to see it. She was astonished that Daisy was so talented, and delighted that she had got a beautiful portrait of her beloved dog, for free.

  Dennis and Marigold were impressed as well. ‘I always knew you were an artist,’ said Dennis, eyes gleaming with pride.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re giving it a go,’ said Marigold. ‘The important thing is to spend your life doing something you love, that’s what Grandad would say.’

  Nan pursed her lips. ‘It’s all very well doing something you love,’ she said. ‘But you can’t live off air, Daisy. Few are lucky enough to do something they love and bring home the bacon. Grandad would have been happy anywhere, that’s just the way he was. He made the best of everything. A wonderful attitude to have. Take a leaf out of his book and you’ll discover that doing a proper job isn’t the end of the world.’

  Daisy took the picture to the framer’s in town because she didn’t want the wrong frame to cheapen it. She chose an expensive one, but it was worth it. The portrait looked stunning. Other people would see it and perhaps commission her to draw their animals. She wondered how much she should charge. Being an amateur, she knew she couldn’t ask for more than a few hundred pounds at the most.

  Mary was so happy with the picture that she allowed Daisy to hang it in the village hall so that everyone could admire it. Daisy knew one person who would not be admiring it! However, she hadn’t anticipated it being seen by Lady Sherwood. As chairwoman of the Parish Council, Lady Sherwood chaired a monthly meeting there, and it was during the January meeting, while everyone helped themselves to tea and coffee, that she spotted it hanging on the wall above the piano.

  ‘What a lovely painting,’ she said, getting up with her teacup and saucer to take a closer look.

  ‘It’s Mary Hanson’s dog, Bernie,’ Julia Cobbold told her, keen to be helpful. ‘And it’s oil pastels, I believe, not paint.’

  ‘It’s very good. Who did it?’

  ‘Daisy Fane.’

  ‘Marigold’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. She’s been living in Italy, but now she’s back. A love affair that turned sour, I believe. I imagine she must be very sad. She’s a wonderful artist, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, what a surprise. She really is awfully good.’ Lady Sherwood thought a while, her eyebrows knitted, a look of concentration on her face. ‘I wonder whether she’d draw my dogs,’ she said at last.

  ‘I’m sure she would,’ Julia replied, thinking that, if Daisy Fane was good enough for Lady Sherwood, she might commission her to draw her terrier.

  Marigold was in the sitting room at the long table which was set up especially for her jigsaw puzzles. It was too big for the cramped room now that Daisy had put her easel in front of the other window, and Nan was sure to complain that there was nowhere to go for some peace, except her bedroom, but there simply wasn’t another corner of the house large enough to accommodate a jigsaw puzzle of one hundred pieces.r />
  It was a Sunday morning and unusually quiet. Marigold had been for her morning walk and Dennis had taken Nan to church. Suze was spending the weekend with Batty at his parents’ house and Daisy had been invited up to the Sherwoods’ farm to meet their dogs, whom Lady Sherwood wanted Daisy to draw. It was a crisp winter day. The sky was as pale as watercolour and the sun low, shining through the latticework of branches silhouetted prettily against it. Marigold was momentarily distracted by the birds who settled into her garden to feed. Blackbirds and thrushes mostly, and the cheerful little robin who wasn’t at all intimidated by the bigger birds. She smiled as she watched them, knowing that she could spend all day here at the window, absorbed in their coming and going, and not notice the passing of time.

  After a while she turned her attention to the jigsaw. She was good at puzzles and the thought of the challenge ahead gave her a frisson of pleasure. She began by drawing out the straight-sided pieces. This took some time. She had to put on her glasses to really study the colours and pictures and try to match them. She concentrated hard, aware that she was exercising her brain. Certain that, with every piece she connected to another, she was somehow reinforcing the connections there, staving off its corrosion, defying time. She felt triumphant as little by little the outside edge of the picture took shape. The top was sky, the bottom snow. It was surely a winter scene. Dennis knew how much snow enthralled her, and she was delighted now by the thought of her husband taking such trouble with her present.

  It wasn’t long before she felt thirsty. She went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. It was cold outside, which made a cup of tea all the more rewarding. The first sip was always the best. She closed her eyes a moment and savoured it. Then she sat at the table, put on her specs and began to read the newspapers.

  Dennis and Nan brought in a gust of chilly wind as they opened the front door and stepped into the hall. It raced down the corridor and into the kitchen where Marigold was reading the papers, making her shiver. ‘It’s bitter out there,’ said Nan, bustling into the kitchen. ‘I’m not going out again today. I don’t want to catch a cold, not at my age. It soon turns to pneumonia, you know. My dear friend Teddy Hope died of pneumonia simply because he insisted on popping to the corner shop in cold weather to buy cigarettes.’