Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage

by Milly Johnson

  Could all this be true? She wanted to believe him so much.

  ‘But why do her family hate you?’

  ‘Because I was the one who was married to Sarah. I should have stayed with her, they said. I shouldn’t have encouraged her to act like a slut. The Bernals are a fine, upstanding family, you see, Viv.’ There was a sneer to his lip. ‘They didn’t want it known that their daughter left me for a lover. So it was far better to twist the story. Merlo is a man so bad that he abandoned his dying wife. I could take it. I knew what I’d done was right for her.’

  He felt Viv’s small warm fingers burrow into his hand.

  ‘But it’s so unfair.’

  ‘I think a lot of people now know there’s another version of the truth than the one the Bernals parade. It doesn’t matter to me anyway. What does matter to me is that Sarah died at peace with the only man she’d ever loved at her side.’

  Viv knew he’d told her the truth. She felt it. This is a good man, Viv Blackbird, her heart was shouting inside her, and as he turned to her and her eyes locked onto his, every black doubt she’d had about him was blasted away by the honesty shining there.

  Heath lifted his arm and wrapped it around her, pulling her close.

  ‘Will you stay?’ he asked. ‘I will now be able to supply a decent wage, plus a variety of eggs and unending tales of Isme and her bloody mists courtesy of Geraldine.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Viv sucked in a spaghetti string of air. ‘Tempting. Anything else to add to the mix?’

  ‘I can promise you as much hay and straw as you can shift with a pitchfork and the best compost heap in town.’

  Viv pinched her fingers together. ‘Nearly there.’

  ‘I will never again laugh at names like Dancing Sunshine when you’re mixing your weird oils.’

  She grimaced. ‘So, so close.’

  ‘I can promise you a whole sweep of sky to fly a white owl in,’ said Heath. ‘And me.’ She turned her lovely face to his and grinned.

  ‘Mr Merlo, I think we have a deal.’

  Epilogue

  One month later

  Linda had pushed the boat out on the buffet that Sunday. It was her mother’s eighty-third birthday and all was well in their world. Andy was home on leave, Freddie was still living with them and the Pawson twosome couldn’t pull their strings any more. The boot was well and truly on the other foot. It was a victory for grandparents everywhere. And Iris had met a dapper gentleman called Sid at a recent Golden Surfers mingle. He had whisked her off to the Wetherby Whaler in Wakefield and impressed her with his magic tricks at the table.

  ‘What he can’t do with a serviette and a two-pound coin isn’t worth talking about,’ she said, patting her new hairdo with one hand and proffering fish goujons with the other.

  ‘I’m made up for you, Iris,’ said Gaynor. ‘I really am. I think it’s lovely that you’ve found someone to have a good time with.’

  ‘There’s a lid for every pan, even old ones,’ smiled Iris.

  ‘Well, I’m staying a milk pan for a long, long time,’ replied Gaynor, refilling her teacup. Life as a widow was a huge improvement on life as a rejected wife. It commanded respect and dignity. She wore her status like an OBE. ‘And I’ve booked a three-week Caribbean cruise at Christmas for Leanne and me.’

  ‘You’re talking again then?’ Linda asked.

  ‘As much as Leanne and I ever do.’ Gaynor blew out her cheeks. ‘I was hoping that a few rum punches might help us bond a bit better. I’m not expecting miracles.’

  ‘I don’t know about the rum . . .’ Iris began and Linda butted in. She had a sickening feeling that her mother was going to wade in with something about punching Leanne. Having a boyfriend had done nothing to neutralise her acidic mouth.

  ‘No news from you-know-who, Gaynor?’ She meant Danira, of course. Who turned out to be Caro’s niece. That was a shocker, hearing that Caro was a Bellfield. It was like finding out that Princess Anne was born a Kray. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference to what they all thought about her.

  ‘Not a word and long may that continue,’ said Gaynor. ‘We have no connection, other than a historical one where she seduced away my husband and failed to keep him.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Caro, toasting Gaynor with her teacup. Having thought long and hard about the business with Danira, she was convinced that given time, Mick really would have yearned for his old life back with Gaynor. She hadn’t lost any sleep about her machinations, anyway.

  ‘Talking of nasties,’ said Iris, addressing this to Stel, ‘what’s happening with buggerlugs?’ And she wafted her hand over her shoulder as if that were the direction his prison was in.

  ‘He’s safely tucked away in a cell until his trial,’ croaked Stel.

  Linda put her hand on Stel’s arm and gave it an affectionate shimmy. Ian Robson had damaged her throat and cracked her cheekbone which seemed to have taken forever to heal, but now she was well on the mend, mentally as well as physically. And even though they’d all hoped she would have a decent gap between fellas, Al Thackray was an exception. They collectively welcomed him into their friend’s life.

  ‘Al okay? Has he got his house sorted?’

  Everyone smiled when his name came up in conversation. He would never have believed that he had that effect on people.

  ‘He’s good and his house is gorgeous,’ Stel replied. ‘Bless him, did I tell you that he moved all the furniture round in my bedroom for me so it feels like a totally different space.’ She bent forward as if imparting an important secret. ‘He can lift wardrobes by himself. He’s like Britain’s Strongest Man.’

  ‘Well, he’d have to be if he carried you from the attic to his car,’ said Caro with a wink.

  ‘Cheeky,’ replied Stel with mock affront. That day felt so long ago now.

  ‘Well, he wants someone to look after because he’s good at it, you need someone to look after you because you’re bloody useless and you’ve known each other forty-odd years. There are worse starts to a relationship,’ quipped Iris, making them all laugh.

  Gaynor wiped her forehead. ‘Got any more of those fans, Linda?’

  ‘Sodding hundreds,’ smiled Linda, reaching into a drawer and throwing one over.

  ‘I went to see Geraldine again at Viv’s,’ said Stel. ‘She’s such a lovely woman.’

  When they first met, Stel and Geraldine fell on each other like sisters who’d shared a terrible experience and emerged battered but alive from the other end of it. No therapy session could have been more valuable. And they’d both learned things. Geraldine had first got together with Ian when he had found her little missing dog. Until she heard how Ian had found Stel’s cat, she didn’t realise he must have taken him in the first place. And Stel learned that she must have been drugged, that horrible night of the photos. He’d done the same to Geraldine, and a lot more besides. Stel had been lucky to escape his clutches so early on.

  ‘Did the police manage to hack into his phone in the end?’ asked Caro, crossing her fingers in hope as she said it.

  ‘They did. He hadn’t sent those photos anywhere. He’d been too concerned with getting to Geraldine,’ said Stel. ‘She broke his nose with that frying pan, you know. And gave him a right bash on his skull.’

  ‘Good,’ huffed Gaynor. ‘I hope it cracked like a bloody egg.’

  Stel sighed. ‘If only I’d not been so stupid . . . ’

  Linda wasn’t having that. ‘You’re not stupid, Stel. You’re kind and open and people like Robson prey on good nature.’

  ‘But I—’

  Iris cut her off. ‘If ifs and buts were cakes and nuts, we’d have ourselves a party. That’s what my mum always used to say.’

  ‘Yes, and if ifs and buts were cocks and nuts, we’d have ourselves an orgy,’ giggled Caro.

  ‘How old are you again?’ Linda gave her a look of jokey disapproval. She’d only been saying to her mum the other day that once upon a time she imagined all women over fifty wore bedjackets
and had false teeth. She never expected to feel eternally seventeen, whatever contrary evidence the mirror displayed.

  ‘Do you think your Viv will stay over there?’ asked Iris, reaching for a lobster bite. Linda had gone mad in Tesco. She had visions of Freddie diving head first into what was left of that chocolate birthday cake when they took it through to the kitchen later.

  Stel smiled, thinking about her girl in that lovely place. And the handsome vet with the dark beard and big green eyes. Viv looked happy in her setting of countryside and animals like a precious stone in the right piece of jewellery. And Stel never thought she’d see the day when Viv walked towards her with a big white owl perched on her arm. So long as Viv was happy, Stel was too.

  Stel always knew – no evidence, only mother’s intuition on which to base her suspicions – that Viv had gone looking for her real parents when she took the job in Ironmist. They’d shared only the briefest conversation about it, the last time they’d met up, because she had to know if she’d been right.

  ‘Did you find them then?’ Stel had dared to ask.

  ‘You’re the only parent I’ve got,’ said Viv. ‘Or want.’

  And that had been the end to it.

  Linda walked over to the fridge in the corner.

  ‘I’ve got some pink Champagne. I thought we’d have a tipple today, to celebrate your birthday, Mum.’ She pulled off the foil, twisted the metal and pulled out the cork with a satisfying thwop.

  Iris’s face wrinkled up as she received her glass. ‘I hope it doesn’t taste of feet,’ she said.

  ‘Oh shut up, Mum, just for once.’

  ‘Happy Twenty-first Birthday, Iris,’ Caro led the toast.

  ‘Thank you, fellow Old Spice Girls,’ said Iris, raising her glass to them.

  ‘Cheers to the bloody lot of us: battle-scarred war horses, fighters, survivors, saucepans, milk pans, frying pans, wives, mothers, daughters and queens of the menopause,’ said Stel, taking a sip of the chilled fizz that bubbled up to her brain, bringing with it a hit of contentment. How she wished she could bottle this happy, wonderful feeling inside her and ask Viv to make her a perfume out of it. It would have a top note of fun and laughter, a middle note of acceptance and warmth, and a long-lasting base note of support and love. She’d have called it simply Friendship.

  In order to be irreplaceable,

  one must always be different

  COCO CHANEL

  Acknowledgements

  What deep joy I had writing this book. Especially because it forced me to do lots of research with fascinating beautiful birds of prey. So I thank Colin, Kerry and Nikki Badgery and David Horseman from Thirsk Birds of Prey Centre (www.falconrycentre.co.uk) for allowing me into their wonderful world – and their extended family, because that’s what the birds are to them. I’ve had an absolute hoot mingling with vultures and eagles, owls and hawks – none of whom are ‘just birds’. They are fabulous, intelligent, amazing creatures and thank goodness there are centres like this around. Trust me, if you haven’t felt the weight of a bald eagle on your glove, watched a snowy owl’s angel-like wings in flight at close quarters, you haven’t lived.

  I also have my wonderful publishing team to thank for their support, kindness and fabulousness: Clare Hey, Sara-Jade Virtue, Suzanne Baboneau, Laura Hough, Sally Wilks, Emma Capron, Ally Grant and Emma Harrow. I love you all and am so glad I’m with you.

  A special mention to Sally Partington, an absolute goddess of a copy editor. If she hasn’t got white hair and nervous tics after this book, she never will have.

  To everyone at my agency David Higham Associates who are top notch but a special huge hug to the divine Ms Lizzy Kremer. Every writer should have someone of her calibre. I feel blessed to have her.

  And, of course, my wonderful TEAM MILLY ladies who are like an army but with fewer Kalashnikovs and less body armour and more lipstick and scones.

  I have so much support from Andrew Harrod and Steph Daly at the Barnsley Chronicle, and the Radio Sheffield Team. And from fellow Barnsley people in general. Thanks, Tykes!

  A huge thank-you to Mike Bowkett at Gardeners and Morrisons and Angela Addington at Morrisons. You can’t buy the level of support I get from them.

  My family are always amazing and put up with so much. It’s not easy living with a writer especially when we’re at final edit stage when we turn into coffee-guzzling grizzly bears. So thank you Mum and Dad, Pete, Tez and George for realising that I don’t have a normal job because I’m not normal. And for being okay with that.

  Special mention to my pal Tracy ‘Traz’ Harwood. She has to deal with my full spectrum of highs and lows whilst we are dog-walking. The fact that she remains my friend and is still (relatively) sane, must show she is either a really strong person or totally daft. Either works for me.

  Thank you to my readers – I wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for you lot. You keep me fed and watered with your smashing reviews and letters. You turn up to support me and my charities and I feel honoured that you love what I do.

  And lastly, a special mention to some brilliant shining stars which the world has lost this year, people who had a great influence on me. Alan Rickman, because every hero I’ve ever written has a little part of his Colonel Brandon in it. David Bowie, whose music was the backdrop to my life. Victoria Wood, a comedic genius who had a massive influence on what I wrote. Frank Finlay, who inspired a few of the real gentlemen in my books, and the fabulous Barry Hines, author extraordinaire and local Barnsley lad whose book A Kestrel for a Knave kicked off my love of birds of prey too many years ago to count. This book was always extra special because it is set in my home town and if you haven’t ever read it, you should. Barry died after a horrible battle with the very cruel Alzheimer’s. I’d like to think his soul was carried up to heaven on the back of the most beautiful hawk.