by Emma Davies
As she scrolled down the page, a flicker of excitement began to run down her spine. She gave Tom a nudge.
‘Look at this, I think I’ve just found our mystery painter.’ Her lips twitched as she carried on reading.
‘It must be him, see? It says here that he lived in Herefordshire and in his early career was a portrait painter, but his love of bold design and colour led him to experiment with patterns and textiles, until eventually in his forties he gained renown as a textile and print artist, until the… Oh…’ Merry’s hand flew unbidden to her mouth.
‘What is it?’ asked Tom, leaning over to see.
Merry’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh no, that’s horrible.’ She pointed her finger to a place on the screen. ‘…Until the death of his wife and child within a year of each other forced him to abandon his career.’
Tom sat looking, first at his wife, and then back to the screen, not knowing what to say. It would seem that Christopher’s career had been over just as soon as it had begun.
Merry shoved the laptop into Tom’s hands. There was something she needed to see. She rushed into the dining room, where for now the canvases and other items they had salvaged were laid on the table. At first she couldn’t find it, until she remembered she had placed it under a heavy book to help flatten it out. She lifted up the sketch that she had found on the first day, and held it to the light. She had left it to dry out in the store room hoping that as it dried more detail might appear. She was right, and as she gazed at it now, the sweep of hair, the bright eyes, and the hint of a mouth, she knew with upmost certainty that she was staring at a sketch of Christopher’s dead daughter, Catherine Marchmont.
April
Chapter 8
Well at least it wasn’t raining, thought Freya, as she forked another load of mulch onto the ground. After the horrible wet March they’d endured, there had been a week of beautiful spring days, and the blue skies had lifted her spirits like no other. Today was mild, but overcast, and she hoped for a return of the sunshine as she worked. It was as if the orchard held its breath. In another couple of weeks, with an exuberant release, it would lift its riot of blooms to the skies, gently filling the air with their perfume, a whispered enticement for the bees, like a lover’s caress. She eyed the delicate buds above her and prayed for the sun.
From the other end of the line, Sam waved to her, as he too moved among the trees. It wasn’t a race because it was important to do the job properly, but as Freya looked up from time to time, she knew that she would make sure they arrived roughly in the middle, and not at some sixty/forty split down the line. She had never dreamed she’d be working alongside Sam, and it was important to her that she held her own. After the death of her father last year, she had barely had time to accomplish all the tasks in the orchard by herself, and at times it had seemed overwhelming, but she had got through it. She was stronger because of it, and this year she was determined that Appleyard would be the very best it could be.
It was hard physical work, but the rhythm of it soothed her, gave her mind time to wander, and dream a little. It was the time when she came up with her best ideas, and as Merry and Tom’s shop was coming on a pace, it wouldn’t be long before they started to think about what products they might stock. Freya was anxious that this year, she would not dwell on where she had been, but only where she was going. Inevitably her mind turned to her neighbouring farm, Braeburn, and its now sole occupant: Sam’s brother, Stephen.
She had only seen him a couple of times since Christmas and, despite her previous opinion of him, the help that he had given her in her hour of need was not something she would forget. Gone had been the cocky irritating manner on that occasion with, in its place, a rather more thoughtful, grown up version of Stephen. She hoped it was a change he could maintain; she didn’t like to think ill of anyone and it was time Stephen found some real happiness of his own, and not one fuelled by booze or a succession of women. Something told her that the transition wasn’t necessarily going to be an easy one though; a leopard doesn’t change its spots that quickly.
Sam was still working away, and Freya watched the steady rise and fall as his body bent and straightened in his task. She wondered how he was feeling, putting in the hours here, rather than at the house he had called home for all of his life. Everybody knew it was he who had kept the Henderson’s orchard going, and he must feel odd being so distant from it now, leaving his brother to do all the work. On the surface he seemed okay with it all, but she would make sure she asked him about it soon.
As it happened Sam must have been thinking the same thing. As soon as they were close enough to hear one another, he called across to her. ‘So how do you reckon Braeburn’s trees are faring at the moment then?’
Freya squinted in the general direction of their neighbouring farm. ‘I don’t know; I’d like to think they’re doing well, but—’ She broke off as she noticed Sam’s rather forced nonchalance. ‘Would it hurt to go round? Not to check up or anything, I can’t imagine Stephen being chuffed with that, but just as a “how are you” sort of a visit. You might be able to glean how things are going.’
‘I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but you know… old habits and all that.’
‘Sam,’ said Freya, sternly, ‘it was your home, and it’s natural to care about what happens to it; in fact it would be unnatural if you didn’t. You invested a lot of your life and hard work into making it a success, it would be impossible just to turn your back on it and pretend it didn’t happen.’
‘I know, but I don’t want you to think—’
This time she silenced him with a kiss. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort you numpty. I know how committed you are to me, and to Appleyard. In fact it only makes me love you more knowing that after all that happened with Stephen you still care.’
Sam smiled, knowing that, as usual Freya had summed up the situation pretty accurately. He pulled her closer. ‘So if you love me even more now, I’m, er, wondering how much that is exactly…’
Freya skipped backwards, raising her pitchfork slightly. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ She laughed. ‘We’ve still got far too much to do yet. Besides if we finish up here earlier than planned, you could use the time to pop over to Braeburn, couldn’t you?’
There was a loud groan. ‘Sometimes, Freya Sherborne, you can be far too practical for your own good.’
She stuck out her tongue. ‘I’ll meet you back here in the middle in about an hour then, yes?’
The pork was sizzling nicely as the kitchen door opened later that day. Freya poured in a healthy glug of cider and watched contentedly as it bubbled away, before turning around, the welcoming smile on her face dying in an instant.
‘Well that went well,’ muttered Sam, kicking the door closed. ‘I hate to say it, Freya, but your dreams of us all living happily ever after might be a little premature. The bastard all but threw me out.’
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Sam cut across her.
‘And before you say anything, no, I did not go in there playing the arrogant I-told-you-so card. I was as nice as I could be, but his opening line was still, “Come here to gloat have you?” There wasn’t an awful lot I could do.’
‘Oh dear.’ Freya turned the gas out from under the pan. ‘That good, eh? Listen, maybe Stephen’s just had an off day.’
‘I can hardly remember when he had an ‘on’ day, it’s been so long. Don’t make excuses for him, Freya.’ He sat down wearily at the table, hunched, and still in his jacket.
Freya went over and knelt beside him, leaning forwards to kiss his cheek. ‘Don’t give up on him, Sam. His pride’s hurt that’s all. He’ll come round as soon as he realises that we’re not out to make fun of him. Our two orchards have co-existed side by side, more or less happily for decades. There’s no reason why that should change now.’
Sam stared at her. ‘You know, I really wanted things to be better between us, but actually I’m not sure that Stephen has i
t in him. I think he’s an arrogant prick, and deserves all that comes to him, end of.’
‘I know you don’t really mean that, Sam Henderson, so you can drop the big tough guy routine. His attitude is disappointing, admittedly, but I still think it’s a touch of bravado.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not so sure,’ he replied glumly. ‘You know, the longer I’m away from Braeburn, the more I realise how much I put up with over the years. I was happy to give Stephen a hand, only if he needed it mind, but I don’t think he’ll ever change. If he wants to make a competition out of it, then he can have one. Right now, as far as I’m concerned, it’s every man for himself.’
Freya watched sadly as Sam took off his jacket and went to hang it up. Stephen was such a fool at times, and he made her mad enough she could slap him. It pained her to see Sam so defeated, but a sliver of unease also crept into her thoughts. She knew better than to press things now, but she would not let Appleyard become a battlefield.
Chapter 9
Merry had found it hard to sleep the night before. The discovery that it was Christopher Marchmont’s daughter in the sketches she had found unnerved her for some reason. She had stood staring at the sheet of paper in her hand for so long, that eventually Tom had come to find her, still carrying the laptop she had shoved at him.
Together they sat at the dining room table trying to discover more about the man who had lost his family so young; but although there were plenty of descriptions of his early work – and photos too – it was as if time had stood still for him after the tragedy. There was not a single description of his life after their deaths and yet it was clear that he had been hugely successful and his work much sought after. It was almost as though he had died himself.
This morning, standing in the cold, dim storeroom once more it seemed so sad that his work had been left to rot here, and Merry thought back to the boxes of papers she had already discarded. There were hundreds of pieces of paper in some of those boxes, and whilst many of them were obviously paperwork, with hindsight she knew that a good many of them had been sketches like the one she had salvaged. She could hardly bear the thought that all of it was gone, and wondered when he had drawn them. An image came into her head of a bearded man, sitting deranged by grief, desperately trying to capture the image of a daughter whose face was fading from his memory day by day. A shiver ran the length of her spine and she had go outside for a few minutes to clear her head.
Just as she had thought he would, Tom had dragged the last bits of furniture out of the store room, and left them in the main shop. He had even given one of the table tops a cursory clean, and she smiled as she saw which way her husband’s thoughts had been headed. She could hear him banging now from the other storeroom and went through to investigate.
Surprisingly, the door to this room had been locked and, having tried all the keys they had been given, Tom’s only recourse had been to remove the door to gain access. It was a smaller room than the first store, lying immediately to its left. As a room on its own it would not be of much use other than as a store, but with the wall between the two rooms knocked down, the space would become a more attractive proposition. As Merry joined her husband she could see he was trying to weigh things up.
‘Will it work do you think?’
Tom was standing in the middle of the room, sandwiched between an old desk and what looked like a very distressed sideboard. His hands were on his hips and he waggled his head from side to side, looking through the open doorway into the room beyond and trying to gauge the overall size.
‘Well, it’s wider than I thought, but maybe not quite so long. What do you reckon?’
Merry adopted her husband’s stance. ‘It’s deceptive isn’t it, but the width is good. I think you’d get a fair number of units in here. Maybe even some low island ones in the middle if there’s space to move either side of them.’ She looked back to her husband. ‘I think we should go for it. I know it means more work initially, but better to get it all done at the start than change our minds after we’re open and have to put up with the upheaval then.’
‘That’s true.’ He stared at her for a minute as if trying to deduce what she was thinking. ‘Are we completely mad?’
‘Oh, utterly,’ Merry agreed. ‘But when has that ever stopped us? I think it’s absolutely the right thing to do. General groceries is one thing, even newspapers, but I honestly believe that we need to diversify if we’re going to succeed. We need something to give us a bit of an edge… so gourmet goodies through there and gorgeous gifts through here. How does that sound?’
Tom merely smiled back at Merry, years of experience having taught him that she had an unerring eye for spotting the potential in things, and it was futile to try and change her mind. Fortunately most of the time he agreed with her one hundred percent.
He nudged his hip into the desk. ‘And what about this lot?’
Merry peered further into the gloom. ‘It’s hard to see what there is really, but the idea of reclaiming some of it appeals to me.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve probably got about an hour before Robyn wakes up. Shall we try and shift some of it into the main room so we can get a proper look at it?’
There seemed to be an inordinate number of broken chairs, but in among the debris they discovered a corner cabinet, another table, a glass fronted bookcase, several kitchen type units as well as the desk and sideboard. There was also what looked like a whole set of oak balustrades. Merry could only imagine that it had all come from the main house, and although each piece of furniture was different in terms of style, colour and condition, there was something about the motley collection that fired her imagination.
‘We shouldn’t throw these away, Tom,’ said Merry, running a hand along the length of the desk. ‘I know we can’t leave them here, but could we store them in the house for a bit, in one of the spare rooms? I’m thinking thoughts here, but they’re not quite fully formed yet.’
Tom’s response was simply to smile. ‘I can see you’re thinking thoughts, Merry. You’ve got that look on your face again. The one that usually means a lot of hard work.’
Merry stuck out her tongue. ‘Isn’t that why you love me? Life would be so boring otherwise.’
Tom raked a hand through his hair, a wry smile on his face. ‘It’s one of the reasons I love you,’ he said. ‘Come on then, let’s shift what we can before our little bird needs feeding again.’
As it was they only got the desk as far as the end of the hallway before they heard the first indignant squawks.
‘I’ll go and get her,’ replied Tom. ‘It’s probably time for a cup of tea anyway.’
‘I might even have one or two muffins left. I’ll go and see what I can find.’
Robyn was half way through her bottle of milk when there was a small tap at the kitchen door, and a grey head peered around it.
‘Anybody home?’
‘Cora! Come in… How are you?’
The small figure stood on the doorstep, holding a carrier bag. ‘Very well, thank you. And grateful to see some sun for a change.’ She smiled. ‘Now would you look at that, Rupert, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes,’ she said, glancing down at the dog and then back up at Tom, who had Robyn nestled in his arms. ‘What a picture. It does these old bones good to see such a thing.’
‘Come and sit down Cora, and join us in a cup of tea.’
‘Only if you’re not too busy.’
She unclipped Rupert’s lead, and took a seat at the table, the dog immediately taking up a position beside Tom’s chair, where he sat quietly, his blue eyes resting on the baby.
‘I told Rupert that Robyn is only little and that he must look after her when he’s with her. He usually takes me at my word.’
‘So I see,’ laughed Tom. ‘You have him extraordinarily well trained.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cora simply, both at Tom and to the cup of tea that Merry placed beside her. ‘Now, I’ve just been for my weekly visit to the library and I brought this back for you
, I thought it might be of interest.’ She handed the bag across the table to Merry. ‘It’s as old as the hills, and I suspect the library have had it since it was first published so it’s rather dog-eared too, no offence Rupert, but you might find it worth a read.’
Merry removed the book from the bag, a large hardback, with a very dated and faded front cover.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking up at Cora, ‘How brilliant,’ she added, swivelling the book round so that Tom could see the title, Seventies, Design and Style.
‘I thought you might like to have a read about Christopher. There’s quite a large section about him in there. I suspect that’s why the library have hung onto it for so long.’
Merry opened a page at random, the bright red design from one of the canvases they had salvaged leaping out at her. ‘This is amazing,’ she said, her head still bent to the book. ‘We were just looking at some information about him yesterday, weren’t we Tom?’
Cora remained silent, and sipped her tea.
‘It all seems so sad, what happened.’
‘It was a difficult time certainly. And one of the saddest things is that he stopped working completely after it happened. He was a very fine artist, and quite young when they died. I would have liked to see how his new work developed, but it was obviously never meant to be.’
A loud burp suddenly broke the rather sombre mood.
‘Oops, pardon you, young lady,’ grinned Tom, wiping a dribble of milk off his daughter’s chin. ‘I guess that’s you filled up again.’
‘She really is quite adorable isn’t she?’ said Cora, a wistful smile on her face. ‘Just like a little bird. Such bright intelligent eyes.’
A proud look passed between Tom and his wife, which Cora missed entirely.
‘Would she like to come out for a walk do you think? Admittedly it was a long time ago, but I seem to recall that my own daughter liked nothing better than being in her pram in the fresh air.’
‘I didn’t know that you had any children, Cora?’