Spring Fever (Tales From Appleyard Book 2)

by Emma Davies

  ‘Fiction and non-fiction?’

  Freya picked up the first book. ‘I can cope with that,’ she said.

  They worked solidly for the next hour or so, steadily decreasing the number of full boxes.

  ‘They look nice don’t they?’ commented Freya. ‘Really homely.’

  Merry stood up, stretching her back out a little. ‘I never really feel at home until all the books are out, and this is going to be such a light and airy room, it’ll be a great reading room cum office.’

  She squinted at the desk in one corner of the room. ‘That’s going to be my next target,’ she added. ‘Getting the computer set up and, with luck, working. I’m so used to being in touch with everything, I feel a bit lost at the minute. Out of the loop.’

  ‘You’re not missing the hotel surely? Think about all that stress you’ve left behind, Merry.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘And I don’t miss it, not really… I know we have a huge amount of work to do here, so we’ll still be very busy, but. . .’

  Freya watched her friend, anxiously biting her lip now. It was an old habit of hers, and Freya knew the sign well.

  She put down the book she was holding. ‘Merry?’ she said gently, ‘what’s wrong?’

  To her surprise, Merry burst into tears.

  Freya was at her side in an instant, pulling her into a hug; no words, just the comfort of another’s warmth. She stroked Merry’s hair, just as Merry had hers countless times in the past.

  ‘What’s this really all about? Come on Merry, tell me.’ She fished a tissue out from up her sleeve. ‘Here, come and sit down.’

  Merry raised her head, her cheeks streaked with tears. She moved to pull away, looking over to the baby who was bouncing in her chair, quite contentedly. ‘Robyn…’ she murmured.

  ‘Is fine,’ said Freya firmly. ‘So no changing the subject. Come on, spill. I won’t leave you alone until you do, so you might as well get it over with.’

  Merry wiped away a stream of snot, sniffing loudly, before hiccupping a little.

  ‘I don’t think I can do this, Freya,’ she started. ‘It’s all my fault, and I…’ she sniffed again.

  ‘What is Merry, what’s your fault?’

  ‘Robyn… I can’t even feed her properly… I’m so hopeless, and all the other mums have no trouble at all, and I know I shouldn’t say it, but I hate it.’ She broke down into choking sobs once more. ‘It’s my fault she’s so tiny.’

  ‘That’s utter bollocks!’ exclaimed Freya. ‘I’m sorry, but it is. You’re an amazing mum. Look at her, Merry. She’s gorgeous… happy… and she will adore you whether you continue to breast feed her or not. She’s pretty much reached the right weight now; you said so yourself. So what if it took her a wee bit longer than some of the other babies, they’re all different, even I know that much.’ She gave Merry’s arm a rub. ‘Give yourself some slack. You’ve just moved, which is one of the most stressful things on the planet, your hormones are probably still all over the place, and now you’ve had mastitis as well.’

  ‘But I shouldn’t give up, it’s not fair on Robyn.’

  ‘Says who? Robyn probably won’t even notice. And, excuse me, but you’re not giving up. That makes it sound like you’ve failed in some way, which you haven’t. You have already breastfed her for three months, don’t forget! If you do decide to bottle feed her, all you’re doing is finding a solution to a problem. That’s what you’re good at Merry, you do it all day, every day. Don’t make this any different, just because you feel pressured into behaving a certain way.’

  The sobs had subsided a little now, and only small sniffing sounds remained. ‘Have you spoken to Tom about this?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said it was daft to carry on when it’s making me this unhappy.’ She wiped her nose again. ‘And I think he’d quite like to be able to feed her actually…’

  ‘There now, see? Why are you giving yourself such a hard time over this?’

  Freya watched Merry fidgeting uncomfortably. ‘Ahh, I get it…. If it’s not one thing it’s your mother, right?’ Her lips curled upwards into a smile, as she repeated what had become a stock phrase between the two of them in their younger years.

  Merry looked up, and then away to Robyn. ‘She gave me such a lecture. . . How I was utterly irresponsible for moving here and taking on such a big project when I should be thinking only of Robyn. How she could understand such selfishness in Tom, but not from me. How I’m a mother now and it’s about time I started behaving like one. How the younger generation don’t know what hardship is, and how we’re all so ready to take the easy way out these days. You know how it goes.’

  ‘Yes I do. And so do you, so why do you listen to her? All she ever had to do was keep house, and get your dad’s dinner on the table at half past six. You’ve had to keep house, run a thirty-two-bedroom hotel and a florist shop, and still have Tom’s dinner on the table.’ She held up her hand. ‘And yes, I know he does his fair share, I’m not saying that. All I am saying is that you have a wonderful, supportive marriage, a beautiful daughter, and now the opportunity to take on a new and exciting challenge. Whatever your mum wants to believe, things are different for our generation, and the truth of the matter is she would probably have given her eye teeth to have the chance to fulfil her dreams the way you have. So don’t let her bitterness and jealousy sow doubts in your mind about what you’re doing here. Put your energy where it’s needed Merry, not into fretting over something like this.’

  Merry was quiet for a moment, plucking at the tissue in her hands.

  ‘Have I won you over yet?’ smiled Freya, giving her friend a playful nudge. She could see the beginnings of a smile on Merry’s face too, as she nudged her back.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘What for? There’s no need to apologise, but let’s be honest. How much of this was down to feeling guilty about not wanting to breastfeed Robyn anymore, and how much was you feeling a teeny bit anxious about what you’re taking on here, which your mother has now magnified tenfold?’ She gave Merry a stern look. ‘Because, you’re not fooling me one little bit. Since when have you been afraid of tackling anything…? Right, have a good blow. I’m going to put the kettle on and find some biscuits, and then I’ll help you make up some bottles for Robyn – that is if you’ve got any milk?’

  Merry smiled wryly. ‘Actually I bought some with my shopping this week, and then hid it in the back of the cupboard. It’s still there.’

  Freya burst out laughing. ‘You daft bat!’ she said, shaking her head in amusement.

  Chapter 7

  Merry pushed open the door to the store room and took a deep breath. A tingle of excitement rippled through her.

  After her release of yesterday she had slept like a log, as had Robyn who, just as Freya had said, seemed to notice no difference to her feeds and suckled contentedly on a bottle. Tom had even given her the last feed of the evening, and the sight of the pair of them snuggled into the armchair almost brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t believe she had become quite so worked up about something, which now, in the cold light of another (albeit rainy) day, seemed so trivial.

  Freya had ended her visit by offering to have Robyn for the whole day today, so that Merry could have a bit of a rest, and do whatever she liked. After the hard days’ graft of late winter, pruning their trees, things were quieter at Appleyard at the moment, and Sam was more than happy to carry on without Freya for a day or two. Merry had wanted to refuse her offer at first, but as she thought about the possibilities of what a day to herself might bring, she practically bit her friend’s arm off.

  Now though, of all the relaxing, peaceful things she could have chosen, the minute she’d opened her eyes this morning, she’d had a yearning to carry on clearing out the store room, and was now full of energy.

  There were more boxes of sodden papers, old cans of hideously coloured paint, and an assortment of paint brushes, the bristles stif
f with age and their handles pitted where the varnish had blistered. It was unlikely they would ever be of any use again, and Merry discarded them without a thought. Then she peeled open a box and picked up a few, much smaller brushes and, as she lifted them, she could see that these were quite different. They were finer, with a longer handle and, although obviously well used, the brushes had been meticulously cleaned. The bristles had been carefully wrapped and were still soft and pliable.

  It would seem such a shame to throw these away when they were in such good condition, and a long-buried yearning made itself known to Merry. She put them to one side on the floor beside the barrow and carried on with her task.

  There really was no semblance of order to the room, and for the next half hour or so, she threw away box after box of sodden papers. She had worked her way towards an old trestle table and, although the table itself had been damaged, she realised that it had protected what was underneath it from the rain. These boxes were different from the others too: they had been sealed with care. Merry peeled back the tape holding them closed, and peered inside. There were more brushes, again wrapped with care, nestling in some newspaper, and under that something more solid, square.

  It was the colour that leapt out at her first as she held the small canvas in front of her. Although a little marked and faded, the square was covered with bold blocks of colour in lime green, orange and bright blue. She immediately thought of the walls in the house, and wondered whether the painter was one and the same. She turned the canvas over, but the back was entirely plain. The painting was completely abstract, but had a certain symmetry about it and reminded Merry of the pieces she had seen recently in a local interiors shop.

  Her excitement mounting, she pulled another square from the box. This time the whole thing was painted an eye popping red with a single white flower in the middle of the canvas, a bright green centre to it. On the reverse she could just make out two initials, CM, and a date: 1973. She scrabbled about in the box, fishing out three more canvases, and then sat back on her haunches for a moment staring at them in surprise. They were not what she had expected to find when she came in here this morning.

  The box empty, she hurriedly grabbed another, ripping the tape off it and pulling open the lid. She could see straight away that there were no more canvases here, and her stomach sank in disappointment. There was however tube after tube of paint, and palettes too, along with various bottles of what looked like some sort of solvent.

  Merry tucked her thick hair behind her ears impatiently and began to gather up her finds, cradling them in the folds of her old sweatshirt. She went back through to the main house, entering the kitchen and laying the canvases down carefully on the table. She shouted for Tom, flicking on the kettle at the same time.

  By the time Tom wandered into the kitchen, Merry had laid all five pictures out in a row, and was standing back admiring them, cocking her head from side to side. Apart from the first one she had looked at, which was right at the top of the box, they were in very good condition, considering that they were now over forty years old.

  ‘Good God,’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Where on earth did you find those?’

  ‘In a box, in the store room… what do you think?’

  ‘That I understand why the walls in this house are such shocking colours.’ He picked up a canvas, peering at it for a better look. ‘They remind me of something actually, although I can’t quite put my finger on what.’

  ‘I thought that too, but I’ve just remembered. That orange one there reminds me of the wallpaper we had in our kitchen when I was little. It was outdated then, and I used to think it was hideous, but now I’d probably think it was very cool.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Classic seventies design.’ He too was looking at the back of the canvases. ‘Have you seen the dates on the back of these? They’re bloody well authentic. I actually really like them.’

  ‘Me too. As pieces of artwork, I can’t tell whether they’re good, bad or indifferent, but there’s something about them.’ She grinned back at her husband. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Too right I am,’ he flashed back. ‘Sod the bloody paperwork. That can wait until another rainy day.’

  Laying the canvas back on the table, Tom followed his wife back through the door. Behind him, forgotten, the kettle turned itself off with a click.

  It took until lunchtime, with both of them working solidly to empty the remaining boxes. By the time they had finished they had found another seven canvases, making twelve in total, along with more paints and equipment and bizarrely, several tubes of paper, which were printed with similar designs. The rolls were not unlike wallpaper but only about half as wide, and although one was severely water damaged, the others had survived pretty much intact.

  Merry stood back to survey their morning’s handiwork. The room was now virtually cleared with only some larger pieces of furniture remaining. Most of what they had sorted through was utter rubbish, but the few gems they had found had made the work worthwhile. Merry was well aware that most people would have consigned the canvases to the rubbish heap as well, but she had never considered herself and Tom to be most people.

  She wandered back into the main shop, which still required such a huge amount of work. In spite of the debris, and the hanging plaster and sagging ceilings, she could see how the room would look in the future; its huge window transformed and flooding the place with light. They had wanted to sell ordinary everyday things alongside the slightly more unusual, and Merry had always had in her mind a strong theme of some sort to pull it all together; she just hadn’t known what. Today she had found her answer, even if, just for now, she was going to keep it to herself.

  Tom was looking at the pieces of furniture, in particular a couple of old tables which were stacked against one wall. The patterned Formica on their top was chipped in a couple of places and the paint was peeling from them badly, but even from where Merry was standing she could hear the cogs turning. She smiled to herself, knowing exactly what was running through his mind; it was one of the reasons why she loved him so much.

  She slipped an arm around his waist, and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘I need food,’ she murmured. ‘Come on, I think we should stop for a bit.’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll be right there, just give me a minute. I want to check something.’

  And Merry knew exactly what that was too.

  Her stomach gave a ferocious growl as she crossed the courtyard once more, trying to decide which she fancied more, cheese on toast or some lovely warming soup. She didn’t see the figure pass her gate, but she heard the cheery ‘Good afternoon’ from behind her.

  She swung around. ‘Cora! Hello,’ she said, walking to the gate. ‘And hello to you too, Rupert. How are you both today?’

  ‘Wet,’ came a cheery smile. ‘Again. Still, it could be worse. It’s not freezing cold and that’s something.’

  ‘Are you just going, or have you been?’ asked Merry, wondering how many times a day Cora walked the fields.

  ‘Just been. Homeward bound now I’m glad to say.’

  Merry paused for a moment, a little shy, and wondering how much she should say. In the end she decided that less was more. Cora didn’t need to hear about her massive wobble yesterday. ‘I wanted to say thanks for the cabbage by the way, it certainly did the trick, although I’m not really sure how you knew I’d be needing it…’

  Cora said nothing, but simply stood and nodded.

  ‘…Well anyway, I made some cakes yesterday. Nothing special, just a few muffins, but as you’re on your way home I wondered if you might like to take a few, to have with your tea.’

  Cora beamed. ‘Particularly if they’re chocolate ones.’

  Merry gave her a look. ‘They are actually… do you want to wait here and I’ll pop in and get them.’ She hurried back to the kitchen.

  Relieved of her cakes, Merry was just saying goodbye when a thought slipped into her mind. ‘Cora, before
you go, could I ask, do you know if the chap who had the house before us was an artist of some kind?’

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Not really. . .’ She was going to tell Cora about the canvases that they’d found, but something stopped her. ‘We found some boxes of old paints and brushes in the store room, artists materials. I just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you wondered right. Yes, he was an artist, although I’m afraid I don’t know terribly much about his work. Christopher was his name; Christopher Marchmont. I expect you could find out about him, if you wanted to.’

  Christopher Marchmont, CM, thought Merry to herself; so in all likelihood the paintings were made by him. She waved a cheerful goodbye to Cora, and hurried back inside.

  The fire made her feel drowsy, but as Merry sat on the sofa that evening there was just one more thing she wanted to do before she went to bed.

  It was late evening, and Robyn had been returned to them, safe and happy, and was now fast asleep. Beside her, Tom was leafing through a copy of Grocer magazine, but she could feel he was struggling to concentrate. She pulled her laptop over, and waited while it started up.

  Christopher Marchmont, she typed, waiting for the search engine to spring to life. Immediately the page was covered in text, most of it relating to a firm of architects, but there, almost at the bottom, was an entry from some art journal, with Christopher’s name, and one word that caught her eye: designer.

  She clicked open the link and the page was filled with images, some of them startlingly similar to the canvases they had found today. One in particular caught her eye and, as she peered at the screen, she suddenly realised that she was looking at the design on the orange canvas that she had liked so much. Here, it was interspersed with another pattern, and repeated over and over. It was a wallpaper design. She sat up a little straighter.