‘It might have had something to do with the cigarettes, Nan,’ said Dennis.
Marigold looked up from the papers. ‘How’s that puzzle going?’ Dennis asked.
She frowned. The puzzle! She’d totally forgotten she’d been doing it. She pictured herself coming in from the sitting room to make tea and then sitting down at the table to read the newspapers. ‘I’ve started,’ she said, masking her concern with a smile. ‘It’s a winter scene,’ she added, just to reassure herself that she remembered. ‘I got distracted by the papers.’ Easy to do. Everyone got distracted, didn’t they? It didn’t mean anything.
Daisy followed Lady Sherwood into the house. Lady Sherwood was wearing a pair of muted green moleskin trousers and a Fair Isle sweater with the white collar of her shirt sticking up stiffly at her neck. She looked very together, exuding an air of serenity, as if she was never hassled or rushed but glided through life at an even pace. The dogs scampered around Daisy’s legs, tails wagging with the excitement of having a visitor, and Lady Sherwood spoke to them in a calm and patient voice, which they ignored. ‘Now let’s not make a fuss. Daisy’s not the first visitor who’s come to the house, is she? So let’s be polite and not let ourselves down, shall we?’
‘They’re beautiful dogs,’ said Daisy.
‘They are, aren’t they,’ Lady Sherwood agreed. ‘Though Mordy is a terror, running off to the village at every opportunity. He’s the Labrador. Very randy, I’m afraid.’
Daisy laughed. She didn’t think elegant women like Lady Sherwood made remarks like that.
The drawing room was big and square with tall windows and sumptuous heavy curtains that framed them from the ceiling to the floor. There were paintings on faded silk walls and the fabric on the sofas and chairs was faded too, from the sunshine that flooded into the room, no doubt, and age. It looked like a room that hadn’t been decorated all at once, but layered over the years with knick-knacks, photographs in frames, coffee table books and Persian rugs. There was a baby grand piano in the corner, its top cluttered with family photographs, and a tasselled lamp that glowed warmly. Lady Sherwood was clearly a woman of good taste, but also frugality, it seemed, for there was nothing precious or contrived about the room and everything looked a little shabby. A fire glowed hospitably in the grate. Lady Sherwood offered Daisy a chair.
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ she said, sitting on the sofa opposite. The dogs settled down around her, the Labrador making himself comfortable on the stool in the middle of the room as if it had been put there especially for him. ‘I was very impressed with the drawing you did of Mary’s dog. You captured him beautifully,’ she said. ‘I’d love you to draw mine. All three of them. Can you do that, do you think?’
Daisy noticed that Lady Sherwood had the same green eyes as her son. They were a rare shade of bluey-green and very expressive. ‘I’d love to draw them in pastels,’ she said. ‘As I did with Bernie.’
‘Ah, pastels, was it? Very effective.’
‘Thank you. I like to work with pastels. I start with charcoal and then move on to coloured chalks.’
‘Well, whatever it is you do, you do it extremely well. How do we proceed?’
‘I take photographs of the dogs and spend time with them, so I can get to know them. I need to get a good sense of their personalities. They’re all so individual and I want their characters to shine out of the paper.’
Lady Sherwood smiled then, a wide and girlish smile. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. They really are very individual. Mordy is mischievous, although he’s now eleven years old, Archie is a little shy, and Bendico, who’s Archie’s brother, is very strong and determined and a bit overenthusiastic. I’d love you to get to know them. I know they’d love that too.’ She patted one of the spaniels at her feet. ‘Won’t you, Archie? You’ll love to get to know Daisy. They’ll do anything for attention,’ she added with a grin.
Daisy noticed how Lady Sherwood became softer and less formidable as she talked about her dogs, so she decided to ask her more questions. Lady Sherwood got up and took a big album down from a glass-fronted bookcase. ‘You must see them as puppies,’ she enthused. ‘They were incredibly sweet. Come and sit beside me, then we can look at them together.’
Daisy did as she was told and Lady Sherwood laid the album across their knees and proceeded to make her way through it, page by page. There were lots of photographs of dogs, and of a younger Taran too. ‘You know my son, don’t you?’ said Lady Sherwood.
‘Not really. We were at school together when we were little, but I only met him properly this Christmas.’
‘He lives in Toronto now. You see, I’m from there so it’s logical that he should feel a connection with the place. I still have family there and he’s close to his cousins. I think he finds England very dull.’ She gave a little shake of the head. ‘He hasn’t really given it a chance. That’s the trouble. Still, as long as he’s happy, I suppose. There! Isn’t that a delicious photograph of Mordy?’ She lingered on it for a long time. ‘What a sweet puppy he was!’ she said quietly and Daisy wondered whether the dogs had filled Taran’s place somehow.
They were just finishing the second album when Sir Owen walked in. His face was ruddy as if he spent most of his time outdoors, or drinking port, and his stomach was a little round beneath his orange sweater. ‘Ah, Daisy,’ he said, smiling genially.
Lady Sherwood lifted the book off her knee so that Daisy could stand up and shake his hand. ‘Is Celia boring you with photographs of the dogs?’
Lady Sherwood smiled indulgently.
‘Not boring me, Sir Owen,’ said Daisy. ‘They’re lovely photographs. And they’re lovely dogs. I’m looking forward to drawing them.’
He swept his eyes around the room. ‘We’ll have to find somewhere suitable to hang it.’
‘Won’t it be splendid to have a portrait of the dogs,’ said Lady Sherwood.
Sir Owen made a face. ‘She never wanted to have Taran painted, or me, but the dogs. Well, that’s another matter.’
‘Taran would never have sat still and besides, he never did anything we wanted him to. And you don’t have the time or the patience, Owen.’
‘I haven’t painted people for a long time,’ said Daisy.
‘Just as well,’ said Sir Owen. ‘I’m not certain I’d want a portrait of my son following me around the room with his eyes full of rebuke! Can I get you something to drink?’
‘No, thank you. I think I’d better be getting home. Mum will be cooking lunch and I’d like to help her.’
Lady Sherwood looked at her and her face softened. ‘You are good,’ she said in a voice full of wonder.
‘I’m not sure I do enough, actually. I’ve just come home from six years in Italy and all I’ve done is take over the sitting room with my easel.’
‘You need a studio,’ said Sir Owen.
‘One day, when I’ve saved enough money, perhaps I’ll rent somewhere.’
‘Speaking of money,’ said Lady Sherwood. ‘I haven’t asked you how much you charge.’
Daisy had dreaded this question. She hated talking about money. It was awkward and she really wasn’t able to quantify her value. ‘Well, for three dogs, I’d ask for five hundred.’
‘Grand?’ said Lady Sherwood, going a little red.
‘No, pounds,’ Daisy corrected her.
Lady Sherwood looked surprised. Daisy wasn’t sure if she’d asked for too much. She held her breath. Lady Sherwood looked at her husband. Sir Owen hesitated a second. Then he smiled and gave a nod.
‘Done. And if you need a studio we’d be very happy to lend you the barn.’
‘Yes, very happy,’ Lady Sherwood agreed. ‘I’ll show it to you when you come and play with the dogs.’
‘May I come tomorrow?’
‘Of course. I’ll be here and if I’m not, my housekeeper will look after you. She’s called Sylvia.’
‘You have a beautiful home,’ said Daisy, patting the dogs who got up as they made to leave the room.
‘Do you play the piano?’ Daisy asked as she walked past it.
‘I used to. I don’t now. It’s been too long. Taran did when he was young. He was quite good, but I don’t think he’s played in years, either.’
‘Waste of a good piano,’ grumbled Sir Owen. ‘It takes up a lot of room there, doing nothing.’
‘I think it looks pretty,’ said Daisy.
‘You don’t play, do you?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Sadly not.’
‘Then it will continue to be a useless but pretty ornament.’
The dogs followed Daisy into the driveway. Sir Owen and Lady Sherwood stood on the doorstep and waved her off, calling back the dogs as they revved up to follow her. Daisy glanced at them in the rear-view mirror and thought how nice they were and how welcome they had made her feel.
She hadn’t expected that. She hoped she hadn’t asked for too much money.
‘Five hundred pounds?’ Sir Owen exclaimed to his wife.
‘I know, ridiculous,’ she agreed.
‘She’ll charge five times that much when she realizes how good she is.’
‘I suppose she will. Isn’t it lucky then that we’ve discovered her before she becomes famous.’
Sir Owen laughed. ‘Very lucky.’ He walked back into the house and closed the door behind them. ‘It was the least we could do to offer her the barn.’
‘No point that being pretty but useless as well,’ said Lady Sherwood.
‘Quite, and Taran didn’t want it.’
‘Sadly not, after all the trouble I took to decorate it. It’ll be nice to have someone making use of it. Beautiful big room, lots of light, perfect for an artist, and she can get to know the dogs as she draws.’ She wandered into the kitchen to prepare lunch. ‘Nice girl. She really liked the dogs. And they liked her. I’m very excited about this, darling.’
Sir Owen poured himself a large glass of red wine and sat down at the kitchen table. Lady Sherwood took some smoked salmon and new potatoes out of the fridge. ‘I have a good feeling about her,’ she added. ‘I don’t know why, but she’s a breath of fresh air and that’s just what this house needs.’ Sir Owen wasn’t listening. He was reading the Sunday papers. Lady Sherwood envisaged Daisy in the barn, drawing, and herself popping in to check on her and chat, because Daisy was quite chatty. The thought warmed her. She’d been lonely in this big old house on her own while Owen was out on the farm, or more typically playing racquet sports with his friends. A lovely presence in the barn was just what she needed.
Chapter 8
The following morning Marigold crossed the courtyard to the shop. She went inside via the back door as she did every morning and turned on the lights. Rows of neatly arranged shelves lit up like a ship. She stood there a moment in the glare of electric light, uncertain of what to do next. She knew there was something she was meant to be doing, besides opening up for the day. She went to unlock the front door and tried to remember what it was. She strained her brain but nothing came. Just a blank. She was getting used to these blanks now and was gradually learning how to deal with them. The trick was to breathe, remain calm and wait for the fog to lift, which it always did, eventually.
She was distracted by an impatient rapping on the window. She blinked and focused and Eileen’s red face came into view, wrapped in a woolly hat and scarf. Her breath was misting in the cold and she was rubbing her mittens together to keep warm. Marigold unlocked the door and opened it.
‘Ooooh, it’s cold out here this morning,’ said Eileen, eagerly shuffling into the warmth.
Marigold had already been for her walk along the clifftops and had almost been knocked off them by the gale. ‘Very windy too. I think it might snow again,’ she said hopefully.
‘Wouldn’t that be lovely,’ said Eileen. ‘I love it when the village turns white.’
‘Why don’t you go and make yourself some tea in my kitchen,’ Marigold suggested. ‘Suze is in there, writing, but you won’t disturb her.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Eileen. ‘Would you like one?’
‘I’m fine for the moment, thank you.’ Eileen left through the back door and Marigold looked at her watch and wondered where Tasha was. Her attention was diverted by the little bell alerting her to another customer. It was the Commodore, in his three-piece tweed suit and trilby hat. The only indication that it was cold outside was the scarf around his neck and the heavy boots on his feet.
‘Good morning to you, Marigold,’ he said crisply. ‘Fine day, isn’t it?’
‘Very fine,’ said Marigold.
‘I caught a mole last night,’ he announced triumphantly.
‘How did you catch it?’ she asked.
‘Ah, that’s a very good question. First, I tried freezing them to death, but that didn’t work. They’d wised up to me, you see. Very cunning they are, these moles. Then I tried smoking them out and gassing them, but without success. I even tried Dettol and, as a last resort, shooting them from my bedroom window. But Phyllida told me off because my eyesight isn’t very good, you see, and she thought I’d shoot the dog by mistake.’ He leaned on the counter. ‘So I bought a trap. One of those traps you put down mole tunnels. Can’t think why I didn’t buy one before. I suppose I thought I could do it myself. I’ve always been a bit of a do-it-yourself man. It’s my training you see, in the Navy. Why get someone to do something for you if you can do it yourself.’
‘You bought a trap and captured a mole?’ Marigold scrunched up her nose. ‘Was it dead?’
‘As dead as a dodo,’ he replied, pleased. He went on to explain how such traps worked.
Shortly Eileen came back with her cup of tea.
‘The Commodore caught a mole, Eileen,’ said Marigold. ‘He killed it.’
‘Shame,’ said Eileen. ‘It’s not fair to kill a creature just because it’s inconvenient for you. Moles were in your garden long before you were, I suspect.’
‘Well, not those ones,’ said Marigold.
‘Their ancestors, then. I think you should try and find a humane way to trap them.’
‘Why don’t you ask Dennis,’ Marigold suggested. ‘He could make you something out of wood. I’m sure he could. Dennis can make anything.’
The Commodore scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘That’s not a bad idea, ladies,’ he said. ‘My grandchildren would be very happy with that. They get awfully upset at the thought of me killing them.’
‘I’d keep quiet about your small success, then,’ said Eileen.
‘Now what did I come in for?’ The Commodore swept his eyes around the room. ‘Phyllida gave me specific instructions, but you’ve distracted me.’
Marigold was heartened that the Commodore was forgetful too.
‘Ah, now I recall. She wanted dishwasher salt and Dijon mustard.’
‘Let me get those for you,’ Marigold suggested, coming round from behind the counter. ‘I can’t think where Tasha is. Really, she’s very late this morning.’ She looked at her watch and sighed, thinking that if Tasha was going to be late she should at least have the decency to tell her.
The little bell sounded and Carole Porter entered. ‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling at Eileen and the Commodore. Being a brisk and efficient woman in her early forties, she didn’t linger but strode down the aisle to find what she needed.
‘Her husband John is still feuding with Pete Dickens over the size of his magnolia tree. It’s getting rather nasty,’ said Eileen in a low voice. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak into Pete’s garden in the middle of the night and poison it.’
‘Gracious, that bad, eh?’ exclaimed the Commodore.
‘John and Carole are very precious about their garden and they say the shadow of the tree is preventing plants from growing.’ Eileen grinned mischievously. ‘I think you should put your moles in there, when Dennis builds you a trap to catch them alive. That would give them s
omething proper to worry about.’
The Commodore chuckled a little uneasily. This kind of subversive behaviour was not what he was used to and he wasn’t sure he could condone it. ‘I’ll let them out in the open countryside,’ he said as Carole marched to the counter and placed her basket on top of it expectantly. She looked around for Marigold.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Carole,’ said Marigold, returning with the dishwasher salt and mustard for the Commodore. ‘I don’t know where Tasha is this morning. Really, I’m sorely tried.’
Once the Commodore and Carole Porter had left the shop, she shook her head at Eileen and sighed despairingly.
‘What you need is someone you can rely on,’ said Eileen as the door opened and Cedric Weatherby and Dolly Nesbit came in together, arms linked. Dolly looked pale and fragile, but Cedric was as perky as a parakeet in a purple jacket and orange trousers.
‘Hello, Cedric. Hello, Dolly,’ said Marigold, giving Dolly a sympathetic smile. ‘Are you all right?’
‘We’re coping, aren’t we, Dolly,’ said Cedric, squeezing her hand.
‘I’m okay,’ said Dolly in a voice so small Marigold barely heard her. ‘It’s very quiet in the house without her.’
‘I bet it is,’ Eileen rejoined. ‘Time is a great healer, though,’ she added unhelpfully.
‘We’re still waiting,’ said Cedric. ‘No sign of any healing yet.’ They went down the aisle together at a slow and stately pace.
Marigold looked at her watch again. ‘Where’s Tasha? This is most unusual.’
Eileen frowned. ‘Are you sure she didn’t ask for the morning off?’
‘No, she didn’t. I’d know about it if she had.’
‘Why don’t you check that red book of yours. You’ve become very forgetful lately, Marigold.’
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