As Daisy approached the car the front door of the house opened and Taran stepped out. He looked enquiringly at Daisy. Daisy peered into the car and recognized the Commodore and Cedric. Cedric switched off the engine and climbed out. He strode straight up to Taran.
‘Hello, I’m Cedric Weatherby,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘We’re here to see Lady Sherwood. You must be Taran.’
The Commodore then marched around the car and put out his hand. He gave Taran’s a firm shake and introduced himself. ‘Commodore Wilfrid Braithwaite. I’m sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time, but I need to speak to Lady Sherwood. It’s of a sensitive but important nature.’
Again Taran looked at Daisy, but she had no idea why they had come.
‘It might have been prudent to call in advance,’ said Taran. ‘My mother is struggling to come to terms with her loss.’
‘Of course,’ said Cedric gravely. ‘That is why we are here.’ He pulled a face, which was meant to convey discretion, but instead betrayed a certain self-righteousness.
‘Might I just have one minute of her time? I think it’s important,’ said the Commodore. ‘It’s regarding your father’s death.’
Taran ran his eyes up and down the old officer’s red trousers and gold-buttoned blazer and nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Daisy wasn’t sure what to do with herself, but she followed the three men, and the dogs, into the house.
As Taran went to inform his mother, Daisy remained in the hall with Cedric and the Commodore. The dogs bounded, muddied, into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’ Daisy asked, glancing from one man to the other.
Cedric shook his head and looked solemn. The Commodore lifted his chin and said nothing. ‘We’re very upset,’ said Cedric and his chin wobbled. Daisy thought the whole thing very strange, but wasn’t able to drag herself away. She couldn’t imagine why the Commodore and Cedric Weatherby needed to see the grieving widow the day after her husband had died. What on earth could be so important?
‘Come,’ said Taran, emerging from the drawing room. ‘But please don’t stay too long. My mother is very fragile, as you can imagine.’
Cedric glanced at the Commodore and nodded. The Commodore nodded back. The two men, fortified by whisky and their own sense of duty, followed Taran into the room. A moment later Taran came out and closed the door behind him. He put his ear to the door. Daisy hesitated a moment, knowing she should leave. But Taran gesticulated for her to join him. He shook his head. ‘God knows what this is all about,’ he whispered.
Daisy shrugged. The two of them looked at each other as the Commodore began to speak.
‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Lady Sherwood,’ began the Commodore in the old-fashioned, formal manner typical of the armed forces.
‘Thank you,’ replied Lady Sherwood.
‘I’m sorry too,’ added Cedric. ‘It’s a cruel God that takes the likes of Sir Owen. He was a good man,’ he added, to which Lady Sherwood nodded her agreement. It was, indeed, a cruel God that had taken Sir Owen from her.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, more out of habit than anything else. After all, they had clearly come because of something they could do for her.
There was a long pause. Daisy and Taran stared at each other, wondering what was coming next.
‘Lady Sherwood, I’m afraid I have a terrible confession,’ said the Commodore at last.
The surprise was evident in Lady Sherwood’s voice. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Really? Do you?’
Another lengthy pause. Cedric nodded encouragement at the Commodore. The Commodore thought of the Gates of Heaven and his tainted soul. ‘Lady Sherwood,’ he repeated.
‘Yes?’
‘I had a mole infestation in my garden . . .’
Taran’s expression was so comical Daisy wanted to laugh. She put a hand on her mouth to stifle it. Taran shook his head, as if he didn’t believe the day could get any stranger.
‘Dennis Fane made me a trap to catch them alive. You see, my wife and children were very upset that I was trying to kill them. They love animals, especially furry ones, and to them a mole isn’t very different from a rabbit, say, or a guinea pig. The thing is, Lady Sherwood, that once I’d caught them alive, and very pleased I was too that Dennis’s trap had been so well crafted, just the right sort of trap for catching live moles . . .’
Daisy’s horror showed on her face and Taran had to suppress his laughter.
‘I decided to set them free somewhere pleasant,’ he continued. ‘Somewhere that might be appealing to a mole. One can’t very well catch a live mole, then set it free, say, by a main road, or, God forbid, in someone else’s garden. The nearest and most convenient place, and the most attractive place for a mole, or so I thought, was on Sir Owen’s farm.’
‘I see,’ said Lady Sherwood, who didn’t see at all, but was rather wishing this confession would make its point and the two men would leave her alone.
‘There were quite a large number of moles,’ said the Commodore, focusing on the Gates of Heaven and feeling his soul washed clean of its sin. ‘I must have freed perhaps eight or ten. The trap is a very good one. Far better than I could have expected, but Dennis is a talented carpenter, and my infestation was larger than I had thought. The long and the short of it is, Lady Sherwood—’
‘Yes?’ by now Lady Sherwood was beginning to lose patience and there was a hard edge to her voice that alerted Taran. He stood up and put his hand on the brass doorknob.
‘I believe Sir Owen’s heart attack was caused by . . .’ He hesitated, mentally preparing for the confession. ‘Molehills.’
‘Molehills?’ repeated Lady Sherwood slowly.
‘Molehills,’ added Cedric, keen to be helpful. After all, he had, up until this moment, been silent and quite useless. ‘The Commodore believes it is because of his moles that Sir Owen suffered a heart attack and died.’
Long silence.
Taran rolled his eyes at Daisy. He turned the knob and entered, leaving the door open for Daisy to witness the rest of the conversation.
‘I doubt very much that Dad died because of your moles,’ said Taran, walking into the room, to the relief of his mother.
‘But how can you be sure?’ asked the Commodore, hoping for some small ray of light to relieve him of his guilt.
‘For a start there are no molehills on the farm. Certainly none that draw attention. The manager would have reported it. And secondly, if anything had given him a heart attack, it would have been slugs.’
Cedric and the Commodore stared at each other a moment. No one had said anything about slugs.
‘But the fact that slugs had made their way through most of Dad’s rape would not have been reason enough for him to have suffered a heart attack. Please rest assured that your moles had nothing to do with his death.’
‘Well, that is a great relief,’ said the Commodore brightly. ‘That is to say,’ he added, with a little less exuberance, ‘I’m very relieved that my actions did not lead to the tragedy. I am sorry for your loss, Taran, and Lady Sherwood, and just, well, thankful that my actions did not contribute in any way. Come, Cedric. Let’s leave Lady Sherwood and Taran in peace. I’m only sorry we interrupted it.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Lady Sherwood graciously.
‘I’ll see you out,’ said Taran, a little less graciously.
Daisy hurried into the kitchen as Taran led the two men to the front door and saw them into their car. The old Volvo spluttered out through the gates. Taran closed the door and retreated into the hall.
Daisy emerged from her hiding place. ‘Was that really about moles, or did I mishear?’
‘It was really about moles,’ said Taran, trying to keep a straight face.
Lady Sherwood appeared in the doorway to the drawing room. ‘Did I dream that, or did it really happen?’ she asked, looking from her son to Daisy in bewilderment.
‘It really happened, Mum,’ said Taran.
/> Lady Sherwood shook her head. ‘They smelt of whisky,’ she added disapprovingly.
Taran began to laugh. Daisy joined him. Finally, Lady Sherwood laughed too. ‘Moles indeed!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I’ve heard everything! I only wish Owen was alive to hear it. He’d dine out on that for weeks. Moles, really! I only wish he had died because of moles in his fields. At least, in that case, he would have died laughing.’
‘Oh Mum,’ said Taran, reaching out to embrace her.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, blinking away tears. ‘I’m so happy they came. I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again. But those two sweet men have reminded me that I do, in spite of everything, still have a sense of humour.’
Daisy watched Taran wrap his arms around his mother. She looked very small there, enveloped by his strong arms. Sensing it was the right moment to leave, Daisy slipped out through the front door, shutting it softly behind her. Taran and his mother needed time alone. Daisy knew she couldn’t give much, but at least she could give them that.
As she retreated into the barn, she felt the tingling sensation of inspiration and hurried to her easel. There was something about the tenderness of their embrace that made her want to draw. She put the pastel to the paper and resumed, feeling the thrilling sensation of creativity flowing through her once again and sinking into the meditation of her work. The warm, touching feeling of their shared grief remained with her while she drew and enabled her to connect, at last, with the aloof and snooty dog.
A week went by, during which Daisy started work on her portrait of Cedric’s cats and helped Lady Sherwood with the arrangements for the cremation and the memorial service, which was to take place in the village church a couple of weeks before Suze’s wedding. Daisy sat in Lady Sherwood’s study and made her way down the long list of jobs that she had been asked to do. She placed the announcement, which Lady Sherwood had penned with Taran’s help, in the Daily Telegraph, and telephoned Sir Owen’s closest relatives to let them know when and where the funeral would take place. She arranged caterers for the tea after the service and although Lady Sherwood was yet to finalize the order of service, she arranged a proof, complete with a photograph of Sir Owen, in the fields he had loved so much, leaning on a long stick in an old tweed cap and jacket, which had made Lady Sherwood cry.
Lady Sherwood cried a lot. Taran showed little emotion besides a certain tension in his jaw and a drawn look about his eyes. Daisy listened to Lady Sherwood process her grief, hopping from one emotion to another like a confused cricket. From laughing at the good old days to being debilitated, quite suddenly, by incomprehension and disbelief that the man with whom she had spent the greater part of her life had vanished. Taran did not want to be sucked into his mother’s whirlpool of emotion and discreetly left the room whenever she descended into despair. He worked in his father’s study, which was at the other end of the house, and spent a lot of time pacing the garden on the telephone. He did not discuss his father with Daisy. If he discussed him with his mother, Daisy didn’t know. She was not privy to it.
Then, one afternoon, when she was returning from walking the dogs, she happened to hear his voice over the herbaceous garden wall where there was a small orchard of cherry trees and a wooden bench. She wouldn’t have eavesdropped if the subject had not concerned her.
‘. . . I think I’ll probably sell it,’ he was saying. ‘I mean, Dad has left it to me, which, to be honest, is a bit of a surprise. I thought it would automatically go to Mum, and then to his nephew, perhaps. He always knew I had no interest in farming or the English countryside. We argued about that. Anyway, my life isn’t here, as I tried to tell him. There’s no point owning all that land and doing nothing with it.’ Daisy stood, rooted to the spot, heart pounding. There was a pause and then he added, ‘It’s worth a fortune to a developer and the council will jump at building more houses. They’re desperate. Planning permission won’t be a problem. I can’t think why Dad didn’t develop it himself.’
Not wanting to be caught listening, Daisy hurried across the lawn, a sick feeling bubbling in the pit of her stomach. If Taran sold the farm to developers, they would build houses right next to her parents’ house. The view of fields would be replaced by brick and concrete. She couldn’t bear the thought of the home they had lived in for nearly forty years being ruined by something so ugly. Her mother was fragile and needed the peace of her tranquil garden. Daisy couldn’t imagine how she’d cope with bulldozers and noisy lorries destroying the countryside just beyond it.
She was so upset that she stopped working early and walked home across the fields. She wondered how much of Sir Owen’s land would be given over to concrete. Gazing about her at the rich and fertile landscape, she realized how much she loved it. How much she treasured her morning march up the farm tracks. How much she relished the birds and trees and flowers, just like her mother did. It broke her heart to think of it ceasing to exist. If Taran sold the farm she’d no longer be able to work in the barn. She’d have to find somewhere else; but she didn’t want anywhere else. She liked it here, and she liked Lady Sherwood – Celia. She liked Celia very much.
That night at dinner it was agony sitting with her parents, knowing that they were ignorant of the possible nightmare to come. Marigold had forgotten to attend the meeting at The Old Vicarage and Julia had rung up and been short with her, which had upset everyone. Daisy had reminded her before she left the house that morning, but Marigold had still forgotten. Suze threatened to go round and shout at Julia, and Dennis suggested a quiet word with her husband, the vicar. Nan said she’d never liked Julia in the first place. ‘Pompous, self-important woman with ideas above her station,’ was how she had described her. ‘In my day, if we didn’t like someone, we’d put a piece of fish behind a piece of furniture in their house, out of sight and out of reach. The smell would gather slowly over days until it became unbearable.’ She grinned raffishly. ‘That worked a treat!’
As Daisy put her head on the pillow and Suze turned out the light, she shared her worry with the only person she could. ‘Suze, I overheard Taran speaking on the phone today.’
‘Oooh! You eavesdropper. What was he saying?’
‘His father has left the estate to him.’
‘That’s not very fair on poor Lady Sherwood, is it? What’s he going to do? Turf her out?’
‘No, he wants to sell it.’
‘That’s a shame. Just when you’ve settled into the barn like a cuckoo.’
‘He wants to sell the land to developers.’
There was a long silence as Suze realized how serious the situation was. Then she swore.
‘I can’t tell Mum and Dad. They’ll be devastated,’ said Daisy.
‘Dad would turn in his grave!’ Suze exclaimed.
‘Except he’s not dead, Suze.’
‘Yet. Not dead yet. Put a bulldozer on the other side of the garden fence and he’ll be six feet under, turning.’
‘It’s dreadful. I don’t know what to do.’
‘I can tell you what to do.’
‘What?’
‘You have to convince Taran not to sell.’
‘Oh, that’s easy! Why didn’t I think of that?’ ‘Don’t be sarky. It’s the only plan you’ve got.’
‘And it won’t work. He’s heading back to Toronto after the funeral.’
‘Then you have to get moving!’
‘I’m not going to convince him to keep the estate in two short weeks.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to, unless you have a better idea.’
‘I don’t,’ said Daisy in a quiet voice. ‘I have no ideas at all.’
‘If he sells the land to developers he won’t hurt only Mum and Dad, but the entire village. He’ll hurt everyone.’ Suze rolled over and closed her eyes. ‘He’s a horrid, greedy man. Just goes to show, looks can be deceptive.’
Daisy was going to defend him, but what did she know? She barely knew him. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He’s a horrid, greedy man.’ She rolled over too a
nd stared apprehensively into the darkness.
Marigold received a letter from the doctor. It was the results of her blood test, which revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Her blood was perfect. Fit for a Queen, said Dennis. It was a relief to Marigold that nothing sinister had come up. She had to accept that her memory loss was normal, that there was nothing wrong with her. Ageing wasn’t a disease, it was just the way it was.
And yet it was getting worse. She was forgetting everything: people who came into the shop – she knew they were familiar but she couldn’t remember their names – suppliers she’d used for a long time and tasks which were once as natural and automatic as breathing. She failed to recognize voices on the telephone, or to keep up with what they were saying. She forgot how to use the computer. She stared at the screen as if seeing it for the first time and yet it was the same screen she’d been looking at for years. And everything took longer. Simple tasks felt like enormous challenges. She couldn’t tell Dennis she was struggling to complete his jigsaw puzzle and yet, it had become an impossible and daunting project. One she feared. The puzzle had become a mirror, reflecting her forgetfulness back at her like a cruel joker. She thought she was hiding these lapses well. She hoped no one had noticed. She didn’t want to worry anyone and she hoped that by keeping them to herself they’d go away. If her blood was healthy, then there was nothing to worry about, was there?
Dennis was at his workbench when there came a knock on his door. He knew it wasn’t Marigold, because she never knocked, but nothing would surprise him nowadays. ‘Come in,’ he called, shouting over the radio. The door opened and Tasha walked in, looking sheepish. ‘Hello, Tasha,’ he said, reaching to turn the music down. He didn’t think she’d appreciate Iron Maiden like he did. He put the block plane to one side and wiped his dusty hands on his T-shirt.
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