‘How do you know?’ asked Marigold.
‘Sylvia told me. She was taking their dogs for a walk and she saw him with a wooden box, looking suspiciously like it had a mole inside it.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because it’s a safe place, I suppose. And he couldn’t very well release them into someone’s garden.’
‘Do you think Sir Owen knows?’
‘I doubt it. Sylvia’s a friend of Phyllida’s, so she won’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘Well, I hope those moles don’t create havoc on the farm.’
Eileen looked at her darkly. ‘I’m afraid I think they create havoc wherever they are,’ she said in a portentous voice. ‘They can’t help it. It’s what moles do.’
Marigold set out on her walk along the cliffs. The mornings were getting lighter now, the air was warmer and resonating with the uplifting sound of birdsong. Nothing gave Marigold as much pleasure as listening to the dawn chorus. It was loud and joyous and full of positivity. It promised rebirth and regeneration, an end to winter and a beginning to spring. It made her think of life and the possibility of life after life. She was sure, as she allowed her spirit to soar on the elevating sound of birdsong, that Heaven was up there just beyond the clouds. Somewhere in the great blue. And that it was a place of beauty and serenity where she would eventually reunite with all those she loved who had gone before. As she strode briskly along the path, with the horizon emerging out of the night in a blaze of reds and golds, she was certain that God was behind the magic, for no earthly creature could touch her heart like He did. She basked in the splendour of the Divine.
And then she fell.
She wasn’t aware of how it happened, not even after it had happened as she lay face down in the grass with her cheek-bone throbbing and a pain shooting through her left shoulder. Never before had she had such a sense of being aground, of being utterly in her body, just at the point when her spirit was being carried off into the sky. She lay there blinking, her pride wounded as much as her body, tears stinging her eyes and merging with the blood now seeping from her face. Her euphoria had been cruelly snatched away and in its place was despair.
She remained inert on the grass, trying to turn her mind back to the fateful moment. If she had tripped, what had she tripped on? Or had her legs simply given way all on their own, unprovoked? She didn’t want to move. She wanted to lie there a while and gather her thoughts. She could feel the wet soaking into her trousers. Then she began to tremble with cold.
Suddenly a furry face prodded hers and a warm, slimy tongue licked her cheek. A moment later Mary Hanson’s worried voice. ‘Marigold? Is that you? Are you all right? Bernie, come away. Bernie!’
Marigold knew she had to get up or Mary’s account of finding her lying inert in the grass might worry Dennis unnecessarily. She allowed Mary to take her arm and help her to her feet. She stood a little unsteadily as the blood rushed from her head, making her swoon. ‘Goodness,’ she mumbled, forcing a smile. ‘I must have tripped. I was going at quite a pace.’
Mary’s face was crinkled with concern beneath her plum-pudding hat. She looked Marigold over with a searching gaze. ‘You’ve got an awful cut to your face, Marigold.’ She put a hand in her pocket and pulled out a scrunched-up tissue. She dabbed at the blood. ‘Poor old you,’ she said kindly. ‘It’s a nasty cut. Can you walk, do you think?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Marigold in a hearty voice that she hoped would convince Mary that nothing was wrong. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Then Bernie and I will accompany you home. Come on, we’ll go at a gentle pace.’
Marigold examined the ground for the thing that had tripped her up, but there was nothing obvious. ‘That’ll teach me to drag my feet,’ she said.
When they reached the village, she thanked Mary. ‘You’re very kind to have accompanied me home. I’m fine now. I’ll pop in and clean up before I open the shop.’
‘Are you up to opening the shop today? Perhaps you should rest a little. You’ve had an awful shock. Look, you’re shaking. Tasha can cope on her own, can’t she?’ Then Mary grinned. ‘I mean, it’s about time she took some responsibility, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Thanks, Mary. I’m sure I’ll be all right. I’ll have a cup of tea. Everything’s better with a cup of tea.’
Mary laughed. ‘You’re so right, Marigold. You go and put the kettle on. And call me if I can do anything. I’ll happily help in the shop, if Bernie can come too.’
Marigold hoped she’d be able to nip up to her bathroom to clean her face before anyone saw her. But as she went into the hall Nan was coming down the stairs. ‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ she said. ‘Dad was alive and telling me to look after you. Isn’t that strange? He did have a soft spot for you, though, didn’t he? People do say that daughters are closer to their fathers and sons are closer to their mums.’ She sighed as she reached the bottom. ‘Though, I can’t say your brother pays me much attention . . .’ Her eyes settled on Marigold’s face. ‘Good God, Marigold! What have you done to yourself?’
‘I tripped on the path.’
‘Well, your father was right, then, wasn’t he! Come into the kitchen so I can have a look at you.’
A moment later she was sitting at the table being observed by her mother as if she were a child again. ‘That’s a bad cut you’ve got there,’ she said. ‘Does anything else hurt? You’re trembling.’
‘My shoulder,’ said Marigold reluctantly, nursing it with an unsteady hand.
‘I hope you haven’t broken it,’ said Nan, shaking her head dolefully. ‘Bones don’t heal very well when you’re old. Do you think you should see the doctor?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Marigold for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Really, it’s just a bruise. I can move it.’ And she did, to prove she could.
When Dennis came in he was horrified to see his wife’s face. He noticed at once how white she was, and how frightened in spite of the smile she pulled to hide it. ‘What happened, love?’ he asked, coming over to look at her face.
‘She tripped on the path, silly girl. Must have been marching along with her head in the clouds,’ said Nan, mixing a bowl of disinfectant and water at the sink.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Dennis, knowing that nothing would restore his wife as well as a cup of tea.
‘That would be lovely,’ said Marigold, suddenly feeling tearful now that Dennis was here. Dennis who was so strong and capable and wonderfully reassuring. ‘Mary was up there and walked me home. Very kind of her.’
‘With that horrible dog?’ said Nan disapprovingly. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t eat you.’
‘He licked me, actually,’ said Marigold.
‘That’s revolting! Dogs lick their bottoms. Just think what he put all over your face. Disgusting!’ Nan put a wet cotton-wool pad onto Marigold’s cut. It stung. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a few stitches?’ she asked.
‘I’m sure it’s not that bad,’ said Marigold, hoping she wouldn’t have to go to A&E.
‘Have you seen it?’ asked Nan. ‘Go and have a look in the mirror and decide for yourself.’
Marigold went to look in the hall mirror. When she saw the gash in her skin she was horrified. Her heart sank. She probably did need to see a doctor, after all.
Dennis gave her a cup of tea, just the way she liked it, with a dash of milk. The first sip was enough to restore her a little. Daisy came in and Marigold had to explain all over again what had happened. ‘Before we rush you to A&E,’ she said, ‘let’s call the surgery. You never know, they might have an appointment.’
‘But what about the shop?’ asked Marigold anxiously.
‘Tasha can look after it on her own. It will do her good,’ said Nan. ‘And if she needs help we can send Suze in. Give her something proper to do.’
A few hours later Daisy and Marigold were sitting in Dr Farah’s surgery on account of a last-minute cancellation. He brought up her records o
n his computer, then examined her wound closely, took her blood pressure, checked that she could move her arm and asked her lots of questions, not just about her fall, but about her memory in general. All the while he wore a serious, pensive expression. Then he sat down behind his desk and knitted his fingers. ‘You don’t need stitches, but I’m going to put a dressing on it to keep it clean. No broken bones, but that shoulder of yours has taken quite a bruising, Marigold.’ He hesitated and inhaled slowly through his nostrils. ‘I’d like to run some tests. Nothing to worry about, but as you say your memory loss has got worse since I saw you before Christmas, I’d like to take a closer look.’ Then he took some blood and said that the receptionist would be in touch with the results. Marigold had hoped he’d suggest a brain scan, just to check that there was nothing wrong with her brain, but he didn’t. She was too shy to ask, and besides, it was presumptuous to tell a professional man like Dr Farah how to do his job. So she said nothing and decided that, if the doctor didn’t think her symptoms warranted a brain scan, there was unlikely to be anything wrong with her brain. That, in itself, was something of a relief.
When Marigold and Daisy left the surgery, Marigold had a big white dressing on her cheek. Daisy wondered whether her mother might have had a small stroke up there on the cliffs and was surprised the doctor hadn’t considered that. But there had been no mention of an MRI and Daisy assumed, like her mother, that if the doctor had had the slightest concern he would have sent her off to have one. Marigold was certain the blood test would reveal nothing new. She was fit – after all, she marched up that hill every morning at dawn – and she was healthy. This was the first time she had tripped like that and she was sure it would be the last. She had just been unlucky.
Marigold wasn’t happy leaving Tasha to man the shop on her own and, even though she was still feeling a little fragile, her sense of duty prevailed. Nan and Daisy were adamant that she take the day off, but Marigold ignored their pleas and hurried across the cobbles.
No one was as pleased as Eileen to see her behind the counter. ‘I came in at nine and you weren’t here,’ she said in a mildly reproachful tone. ‘I hear you fell. Mary told me. She said her dog found you in the long grass like the St Bernards in the Alps find people in the snow. You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Marigold, taking out her red book to see what she had to do today. ‘It looks worse than it is.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. Because I’ve come with some terrible news.’
Marigold looked up from her book. ‘What news?’
Eileen shook her head. ‘Terrible, terrible news.’ She hesitated and took a breath. ‘Sir Owen is dead.’
Marigold’s mouth opened in a gasp. ‘What! Dead? How?’
‘This morning,’ said Eileen darkly, adopting an important tone on account of being the first to relay the news. ‘He saw the moles the Commodore has been letting out on his farm and wham, just like that, dead. A heart attack.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true. Sylvia called in tears. She’s in shock, poor lamb.’
‘Are you sure it’s because of the moles?’ said Marigold, knowing how Eileen enjoyed exaggerating a story.
‘Of course it’s the moles. What else could it possibly be? Sylvia said he was up in the fields, walking his dogs, when he keeled over and died. He was found by the gamekeeper. I’ll bet he suffered a heart attack when he spotted the molehills all over his fields. I hope, for the Commodore’s sake, that no one tells the police.’
‘Does the Commodore know?’
‘Everyone will know by now. I bumped into Cedric on my way here and told him. Between me and Cedric the news will have reached town by teatime.’
‘This is terrible. Poor Lady Sherwood. Poor Taran. Sir Owen was so young.’
‘He was too young to go, that’s for sure. To think of poor Lady Sherwood up there in that big old house on her own. Maybe Sylvia will move in for a time, to keep her company. He was a lovely man, Sir Owen, just like his father. A lovely man.’
Marigold thought of Daisy in the middle of the drama and hoped that she was all right. It must have come as an awful shock to her too.
Eileen slowly shook her head and sighed. ‘To think Sir Owen might have been done in by a mole. If it had been the Commodore, I would have called it karma.’
Chapter 12
Sir Owen’s sudden and untimely death diverted Marigold’s attention from her fall and her memory loss. When Daisy returned home at the end of the day, Nan, Dennis and Marigold took their tea into the sitting room to hear all about it.
‘Poor Lady Sherwood is beside herself,’ Daisy informed them gravely. ‘She asked me to keep her company while the police were there. Obviously they needed to rule out anything sinister. Then the ambulance came to take away the body. Lady Sherwood, or Celia as she is to me now – she specifically asked me to call her Celia – telephoned Taran. He’s flying home this very minute. Poor thing, hearing that his father’s dead like that over the phone. Dreadful shock.’
‘Do we know how he died?’ Dennis asked.
‘Eileen thinks he saw the Commodore’s moles and had a heart attack,’ Marigold told her.
Daisy looked doubtful. ‘Well, they do think he died of a heart attack, but no one has said anything about moles.’ Her eyes filled with tears and her shoulders slumped. ‘I feel so sorry for Celia. She’s in so much shock, she can’t even cry.’
‘I know what that’s like,’ said Nan. ‘When Grandad died, my eyes were as dry as the Sahara Desert. The tears came later, when the body caught up with the emotions. Then they were like Niagara Falls. It was such a shock to wake up to a dead body beside me. Like a statue it was. Cold and clammy and stiff. Not like Grandad at all.’
‘Oh Mum,’ said Marigold, putting a hand on her heart. She hated to think of her father like that, clammy and stiff. He had been such a warm, vibrant man. Even after so many years it was hard to accept that he’d gone.
That night when Marigold went upstairs to bed she felt exhausted, as if her shoes were made of lead. She took the steps slowly, leaning on the banisters for support. She didn’t notice Dennis behind her until he commented on her laborious movements. ‘Are you all right, Goldie?’ he asked.
She stopped and turned round. There he was, with Mac on his shoulder. ‘Just getting old,’ she replied with a weak chuckle.
‘We’re both falling apart,’ said Dennis, thinking of his bad knees and his aching back. ‘A hot bath will restore you.’
‘I think I’ll just crawl into bed,’ she replied, resuming her climb up the stairs. ‘Not sure I’ll make it into the bath.’
When she got to the bedroom she sank onto the bed. Dennis sat beside her. Mac jumped lithely onto the quilt and made himself comfortable against the pillows. ‘You’ve had a bad day,’ he said gently. ‘Let me run you a bath and bring you a shot of brandy. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘You don’t have to do that, Dennis.’
‘I don’t have to do anything for you, Goldie. I do it because I want to.’ Marigold’s eyes filled with tears. Dennis’s face furrowed with concern. ‘Hey, what is it, love?’
Marigold didn’t want to worry him and yet she needed to share things. They’d been married for over forty years and she had always shared things with Dennis. He put his big arm around her and drew her close. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t think I tripped today. I think my legs just gave way. I found myself on the grass and couldn’t get up. It was as if I lost my body for a moment. It frightened me.’ Her voice was a whisper, as if she was afraid to articulate her fears out loud.
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Nothing, really. Just that I’m getting older. But I feel I’m finding it harder than everyone else. Do you struggle to see the world through a fog?’
‘No,’ said Dennis.
‘Do you forget everything? People’s names? People’s faces? Things you would normally remember. Do they just vanish?’ Denn
is thought about it a moment, because, like all ageing people, he did have the odd lapse of memory. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don’t forget things like that.’
‘The doctor did a blood test.’
‘I’m sure the results will be okay.’
‘I don’t even know what they’re testing me for.’
‘Did he suggest a brain scan? Just to see what’s going on in there.’
‘No, he didn’t.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think he should have?’
‘Not necessarily. If he thought there was a problem with your brain he would have sent you off for one, wouldn’t he. Dr Farah knows best.’ Dennis kissed her temple. ‘I’m here, Goldie. You’re not alone. We’ve done everything together and we will continue to do everything together. Now you need to stop worrying, because worrying doesn’t help, it just makes you unhappy. Do you remember what your father used to say?’
She smiled tenderly. ‘What’s wrong with now?’
‘Yes, that’s right. So, Goldie, I’m going to ask you, what’s wrong with now?’
She gave him a small, grateful smile. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘Exactly. We’re here, together. I’m going to run a bath and bring you up a brandy. Just a small one. Then you’re going to get into bed and you’re going to go to sleep. Suze is getting married. Daisy is enjoying her new job and Nan is, well, swimming in her glass, which is half empty, as it’s always been. We’re doing okay, you and I. And if the blood test comes back and it isn’t okay, we’ll tackle it together and we’ll still be okay.’
Marigold leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. ‘Oh Dennis. Wasn’t I the luckiest girl in the world when I married you?’
‘And I the luckiest man,’ he replied.
Dennis ran the bath and then went downstairs to fetch the brandy. Marigold sat at her dressing table and took off her necklace. She opened the little drawer in the exquisitely crafted jewellery box that Dennis had made her when they first met, and took a while to admire it. It was made out of ash and walnut in the shape of a miniature wardrobe. One side was a cupboard, with hooks, the other side had five drawers, all lined with velvet, the bottom drawer containing a special padded cushion with grooves for rings. She ran her fingers over it and her eyes welled with tears again. Dennis had always been thoughtful like that. He was kind and sweet and, unlike most men, he was unselfish. She thought of her brother in Australia. She hadn’t seen him for about eight years. He rarely called their mother. It wasn’t because he didn’t care, only that he cared more about himself. Dennis wasn’t like that. She knew he’d move mountains for her if he had to.
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