‘Funny you should say that. I didn’t, but since Dad died, I look back in a way I never did before.’
‘Does the place mean more to you now because it’s a part of your father that lives on?’
He frowned at her. ‘Perhaps that’s what it is.’ He shifted his gaze and contemplated the land his father had loved so much. ‘It is the part of Dad that lives on, besides me, of course.’ He paused as if considering it for the first time. ‘He used to take me round the farm when I was a boy. I’d sit on the roof of the jeep with the dogs running behind us and he’d call it a safari. I’d spot deer and hares, rabbits and pheasants, and the dogs would give chase across the fields. We’d sit on the bonnet and eat sandwiches at harvest time and watch the combines chomping through the wheat and barley. I remember the dust and the way it glittered in the sunlight like gold. Funny, I haven’t thought about that in years.’
‘It sounds idyllic.’
‘And all the while, you were in the village and I didn’t know you.’ He looked across at her and smiled. ‘With your pigtails.’
‘I’m sure I didn’t have pigtails.’
‘I think you did.’
‘No, I really didn’t. Bunches.’ ‘Pigtails!’
She smacked him playfully. ‘What else did you do with your father?’
‘He showed me the land and tried to infect me with enthusiasm for farming, but every time I saw land I just wanted to build on it.’
‘You couldn’t build on this!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is beautiful. Just beautiful.’
‘I don’t mean literally build on it. I was already an architect as a boy, building houses in my imagination, seeing structures, beautiful structures, in the landscape.’ Daisy wondered whether that was an assurance that he had decided not to sell the land. She couldn’t be certain. She didn’t want to press him.
‘Do you have to build structures in Toronto? Couldn’t you do it here so you could be close to your mother?’
‘I could, but . . .’
‘I mean, she won’t be around for ever. You need to spend time with her while she’s around.’
She noticed the rising passion in her voice and checked herself. She could tell from the way he was looking at her that he knew she was thinking about her own mother.
‘You’re right to have come home, Daisy,’ he said. ‘You’re right to be spending time with your mother.’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do when she goes,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s been the centre of our world. The gravitational pull. Without her we’ll all lose our footing. God, it’ll be dreadful. I can’t imagine it. I’m sorry I’m making this all about me. I just watch my mother decline, and watch your mother coping on her own, and I know how important love is. When they’re gone, they’re gone. That’s it.’
‘Dementia certainly thrusts one into the present, doesn’t it.’
‘That’s all she’s going to have.’
‘But the present isn’t bad, Daisy.’
‘What’s wrong with now,’ she muttered. ‘That’s what my grandfather used to ask when we worried about the future or regretted things we’d done in the past. He’d say, “What’s wrong with now, Daisy?” and there never was anything wrong. It’s just hard to stay in the present moment. The mind wanders back and jumps forward and worries about things that aren’t happening in the now. They’re just in the memory or the imagination and yet, they’re so powerful, pulling us this way and that. Grandad never worried about anything. He always seemed to be in the now.’
‘Your grandfather sounds like he knew a thing or two about how to live. Don’t think about the future until you have to. Don’t lose the present moment, which is real, to the future which is just in your imagination. There’s a lot to be said for that. We’d all be happier if we could live in the moment.’
‘I try. I really do. But I fear the future, because it’s going to be heartbreaking.’
‘Do you look back at the past?’
She sensed he was referring to Luca. She shrugged. There was no reason why she shouldn’t tell him about Luca. It wasn’t as if they were in a relationship. Taran was her friend, after all. Her unlikely friend. ‘If you’re referring to my past heartbreak, I can tell you he’s been in touch. He wants to make another go of it. He says we’re fools to let something good slip away from us.’
Taran shook his head. ‘You don’t want to do that.’
‘Why?’
‘If it’s broken, it’s broken for a reason. You’d only be going back because it’s familiar and because you’re afraid of the future.’
‘I’m not afraid of the future. At least, not my future.’ Daisy knew that wasn’t true. She was afraid of being alone. ‘I’m afraid of Mum’s future. Anyway, I’ll never go back to Italy. I’m here now and I’m staying. Mum needs me and Dad needs my support. I could even go as far as saying it’s lucky that I came back just as Mum got unwell. It’s as if Fate designed the break-up especially.’
Taran nodded slowly, as if working something out in his head.
‘How’s your on–off girlfriend?’ she asked, deciding that Luca was not a comfortable subject of conversation.
‘Off,’ he said with a grin. ‘I did the right thing. You’ve made me a better man. Will you have a drink with me tonight?’ he asked. ‘We could go for another drunken midnight walk.’
‘I don’t know about the drunken midnight walk, but I’ll have a drink with you.’
He stood up. ‘If you were a character from fiction, you’d be Elizabeth Bennet.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m buttoned-up and sensible?’ she replied.
He grinned down at her. ‘Clever and quick-witted, with the undercurrent of something far more interesting, given a little alcohol.’
‘Oh really!’ Daisy exclaimed, getting to her feet. They whistled for the dogs and began to walk in the direction of Taran’s home. ‘I’m glad to say, you’re nothing like Mr Darcy,’ she said. ‘He has no sense of humour.’
‘I disagree. I think he’d be very amusing once you got to know him.’
‘With a little alcohol,’ she added wryly.
‘It helps loosen the seams.’
‘Do I need my seams loosened?’
‘We all do. We all need to get out of our heads. We all think too much.’
‘What do you think about, Taran?’ she asked.
He looked down at her and smiled. ‘That’s my secret,’ he said.
‘You’re not going to share it?’
‘Maybe later.’
‘With a little alcohol.’
His green eyes twinkled with the humour that Mr Darcy lacked. ‘Like I said, it loosens the seams!’
When they reached the house Lady Sherwood was in the kitchen reading the papers at the island. She raised her eyes over her glasses and smiled. ‘Ah, you found her,’ she said. The dogs trotted in, panting, and flopped into their baskets. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Daisy?’
‘Well, I should really get back to my easel,’ she replied.
‘Basil can wait,’ said Taran. ‘I make very good coffee. How do you like it?’
‘Strong,’ Daisy replied, taking the stool beside Lady Sherwood. ‘I’ve lived in Italy, the home of the best coffee in the world, so no pressure.’
‘Italians are no match for me,’ said Taran, taking a cup out of the cupboard. ‘Just you wait and see. We make a mean coffee in Toronto, I can tell you.’
Daisy laughed.
A little while later Taran brought over two cups and placed one in front of Daisy. ‘Go on, tell me it’s the best coffee you’ve ever had.’
She grinned at him and lifted the cup to her lips.
He raised his eyebrows.
She nodded. ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘For a Canadian.’
Lady Sherwood feigned horror. ‘Taran’s not all Canadian, you know. He’s half English. He just doesn’t want to acknowledge it.’
‘I’m beginning to,’ he said, taking a sip of his, and as he said it Lady Sherwood notice
d he was looking directly at Daisy.
Dennis had finished the church for his model village and was at the kitchen table, painting the village hall, when Daisy came home. ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked, putting her bag on a chair.
‘Having tea with Beryl.’
‘Oh good. That’s nice,’ she said, pleased to hear her mother was getting about.
‘Nan’s at bridge. She was grumbling about not wanting to go anymore because apparently one of the ladies is a cheat. I can’t remember which one. She says the others turn a blind eye, but as Nan’s a woman of integrity, she can’t sit back and let it happen. I fear there’s going to be a fight. Just preparing you.’
‘Nothing would surprise me,’ said Daisy.
‘I’m glad I’ve got you on my own, though. I’ve been thinking,’ Dennis began, putting down his paintbrush.
Daisy took the chair opposite her father. ‘I like it when you’re thinking, Dad. It means something creative is afoot.’
‘You’re not wrong, Daisy.’ He paused and two small red stains flourished on the apples of his cheeks. ‘I want to make Marigold a puzzle,’ he said.
‘She still hasn’t managed to finish the last one you made her,’ said Daisy sadly.
‘No, I mean a different kind of puzzle, Daisy. A puzzle of her memories.’
Daisy felt a stab of pain in her chest. She put a hand there and rubbed it, but rubbing it didn’t make it better. ‘Oh Dad, that’s such a lovely idea,’ she managed. ‘It really is.’
‘You see, what worries her is who she’ll be without her memories. But I’ve reassured her that she doesn’t need them, because we’ve got them, and we’ll keep them safe for her. You see, we know her, don’t we? She’ll always be Goldie to me and Mum to you and Suze, and Marigold to Nan. She might not remember things about her life, but we will. I thought you and I could do a memory board, but make it into a puzzle. We could all do it together,’ he said softly. ‘We could choose the memories, as a family, and you could paint them.’
‘I’d love to!’ Daisy exclaimed.
‘It would be a big puzzle in scale, with large pieces, but not too many of them. You know, something she could cope with. Something to remind her of the good things in her life.’
‘So she doesn’t forget,’ Daisy added quietly.
‘So she knows she’s loved.’ Dennis looked down at his hands and Daisy thought how forlorn he looked suddenly. Like a boy; like a lost boy. ‘She’s not going to get better, Daisy,’ he croaked.
‘I know.’
‘We have to keep her with us for as long as possible.’ She nodded.
‘I thought the puzzle would be a good way to get her back whenever we feel we’re losing her,’ he added.
‘And once she’s completed it, she can do it again and again. It will exercise her mind as well as jog her memory and remind her of who she is,’ said Daisy. ‘She can do it as many times as she likes.’
‘I thought we could write the memories on the back of the pieces, to go with the pictures. I want her to know that what we’ve had, as a family, is very special.’
‘I love that idea, Dad,’ said Daisy, gazing lovingly at her father through the mist that had blurred her vision. ‘It’s the best idea you’ve ever had.’
‘I think it is,’ he agreed bashfully.
She reached across the table and took his hand. It was big and rough and somehow terribly vulnerable. ‘She’ll love it,’ she said.
‘I know she will,’ he replied, picking up his paintbrush. His old eyes shone with emotion as he looked at her. ‘I think, the picture in the middle of the puzzle—’
‘Should be a cup of tea,’ Daisy interrupted with a smile.
Dennis’s face lit up. ‘Just what I was thinking,’ he said. ‘All of us at the table with a pot of tea.’
Daisy wiped away the tears with her fingers. ‘When shall we start, Dad?’
‘Right away,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got no time to lose.’
And that was the saddest part of all: they had no time to lose.
No time.
Daisy was feeling emotional when she walked up the lane to the pub. The sun was sinking in the western sky, catching the wisps of cloud and turning them pink. They looked like pretty feathers, floating slowly across the heavens. Marigold had come home in good spirits. She’d had a nice afternoon with Beryl, looking through Beryl’s photograph albums of when they were girls. Marigold had no problem remembering the past. She loved reminiscing. It was a phase of her life she could be sure of. Then Beryl had invited Cedric and Dolly, the Commodore and his wife Phyllida and Eileen for tea. They’d sat in her sitting room, discussing the way things were back in the day, when Reg ran the petrol station and the village hall held tea dances and Brownies. It had warmed Daisy’s heart to see her mother so happy.
Then Nan had come back full of complaints. She had sacked the bridge cheat, apparently, in spite of her protestations of innocence. Nan was having none of it. Now she needed to find another player to complete the four. Dennis had given her a glass of sherry and switched on the television, then he had sat with Marigold and helped her with the puzzle. When Daisy had left they were making real progress. What’s wrong with now? Daisy asked herself as she reached the pub. Nothing. Nothing at all. She couldn’t deny that, right now, everything was positive.
Taran was at the bar. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans and a wide smile. Something in Daisy’s stomach fluttered when she saw him. He was handsome, but there was a deeper connection between them now that rendered his looks superfluous: they were friends.
This time Daisy asked for a glass of wine and she resolved to have only a couple. They moved to a table tucked away in a corner and ordered something to eat. They didn’t notice the coming and going of people, or the passing of time; they had eyes only for each other and neither wanted the evening to end. Taran made Daisy feel good. The way he looked at her made her feel feminine. The tenderness in his gaze made her feel special. Above all, his humour dispelled her anxiety. It was so good to laugh when there was too much to cry about. When they left the pub it was dark and the moon was indeed big and round and shining brazenly upon the fields and woods as they wandered slowly up the farm track. When he took her hand it no longer felt strange.
They sat on the bench and he put his arm around her. ‘You asked what I was thinking,’ he said.
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Are you going to tell me now?’
‘Yes.’
She turned to look at him.
‘I was thinking of this bench and how I’d like to sit beside you again, in the middle of the night, just like this, sober.’ She frowned and he hooked her hair behind her ear. ‘I know you thought I was drunk last time. I wasn’t. I wanted to kiss you then and I want to kiss you now. One drink or six won’t change that. I just want to kiss you, period.’
Daisy caught her breath.
He didn’t say anything else. He wound his hand around her neck, beneath her hair, and touched her nose with his. She didn’t pull away. Then his lips found hers and he kissed her. She closed her eyes. What’s wrong with now?
Chapter 24
Dennis was in his shed, working on the window shutters for Marigold, when there came a knock on the door. Mac lifted his head off his paws and watched suspiciously from his warm place on the windowsill. It was Eileen.
‘Hello, Eileen,’ said Dennis, looking up from his workbench.
Eileen slipped in and closed the door behind her. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you, Dennis,’ she said, clutching her handbag to her chest and looking decidedly guilty.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. He wasn’t used to people coming into his shed.
‘It’s about Marigold.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I hear you’re making a puzzle for her. A puzzle of her memories.’
Dennis was astonished. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked. He had only discussed the puzzle with Daisy.
‘Sylvia.’
‘Sylvia!�
�� Dennis was even more astonished. ‘How does she know?’
‘I suspect Daisy told Taran and Taran told his mother and his mother told Sylvia and Sylvia told me. But I won’t breathe a word, I promise.’ She pressed a finger to her lips.
Dennis suppressed a smile because it was well known that Eileen was incapable of keeping a secret. ‘You know Daisy and Taran are dating,’ she added, cocking her head and hoping she was the first to know.
Dennis raised his eyebrows again. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘They were at the pub last night. I think they make a lovely couple. He’s so tall and handsome and she’s so pretty. I predicted it, you see. I knew from the first time he walked into the shop and they saw each other. They hadn’t seen each other since school and that was decades ago. She barely gave him a second glance. That’s what did it. Men like Taran Sherwood are used to women fawning over them. The fact that Daisy didn’t, did it. I could tell.’
‘It’s always been hard to keep one’s business to oneself in this village,’ said Dennis, scratching his head.
‘The point is. I would like to add a memory to the puzzle, Dennis. I have a nice little story that you could symbolize with a music score.’
‘A music score?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Do you remember when Marigold joined my little church choir? It was a long time ago, but she did enjoy it. She has a lovely voice, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘She loved to sing.’
‘We had such a laugh. Do you remember how Beryl warbled? She warbled so loudly that none of us could keep a straight face. Well, perhaps you could get Daisy to draw the choir, or Beryl warbling, or me at the organ. I’m ninety-three, you know, and I still play like a young girl.’
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