Читать книгу Sunshine at Daisy’s Guesthouse: A heartwarming summer romance to escape with in 2018! - Lottie Phillips - Страница 12

Daisy looked at each of them in turn over the rim of her glass and inhaled her wine. Tom had gone to town over supper. He had remembered that the B&B idea stemmed from a reality show set in France and so red, white and blue bunting fluttered across the ceiling, the table was laden with salami and casserole and some sort of terrine with actual animal hair poking out of it (rustic she had been told), beset on top of a paper red gingham tablecloth and, of course, there were carafes of red wine. It looked glorious and simply perfect. Her eyes flitted towards the ceiling and she was glad Hugh (who, to her mind, was now a permanent fixture of the ceiling or sky) could feel a part of it with the bunting. She discreetly held her glass up to him.

‘Salut, dear Hugh,’ she thought and fearing another onslaught of tears, said, ‘Gosh, it must be hot in here,’ and offered her glass to Tom for a refill. ‘Fill her up, please.’

She was trying to get drunk because she could see where the conversation was going; they wanted her to set up the B&B. But, she thought, what about her quiet, controlled world where she just about coped: what would happen to that? The thought alone of losing the tranquillity was awful and she snorted inadvertently into her glass, wine escaping in all directions.

James eyed her kindly. ‘You OK?’ he whispered from stage left, his voice barely perceptible above Tom’s booming laugh, and his hand briefly touched her own. ‘You know, it is your house, you can always say no.’

However, she might have known that nothing got past her friends and Tom stopped talking as both he and Lisa turned to her.

‘Oh, come on, obviously it’s your decision, but we’re sure you can do it. Of all people!’ Lisa pouted. ‘I can help out and quit my job, and Tom can quit his. There’s a reason they call us casual labour.’

‘I know but it’s so rash, so sudden…’ Daisy’s voice trailed off.

She studied Tom’s hazel eyes dancing with happiness, Lisa, who was positively glowing, and finally James, who had somehow in the last few hours lost some of the grey pallor that comes from months of heartache. Why couldn’t she be so positive?

‘I’m not saying no as such,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m just scared.’

‘Listen.’ Tom stood up, cleared his throat and pushed his chair backwards causing it to scrape loudly over the flagstones. ‘I’d like to propose a toast to Daisy for being such a gem and, I know she doesn’t feel it right now, but we only want what’s best for you.’ He looked at her. ‘This could be the making of you, of us.’ He puffed his chest out in an almost Napoleonic fashion and started to sing, quietly at first. Daisy could see his mind whirring as he adapted the lyrics and it took her only moments to figure out the song, her finger already tapping out the drumbeat.

‘Do you hear your friends sing? Singing the songs of… Atworth Manor?’ Then his smile grew wider as the next line fit into place. ‘It is the music of the Daisy crew who will laugh and smile again!’

Daisy grinned. They all knew Les Miserables was her favourite musical and Hugh had taken them all, everyone sat at her table tonight, to see it at the Bristol Hippodrome the Christmas before last, a month before Hugh died.

‘When the beating of your heart, echoes the beating of the manor, there is a life about to start!’ He lifted his hands. ‘Come on! Again!’ He ripped his second Hawaiian shirt of the day (this one even louder with a giant palm tree enveloping his back) open, shooting James a look of ‘look at me, I’m a god’ and held his wine glass way up high, the liquid sloshing over the side. ‘Let’s do it again, people, and let out your inner campness!’

Lisa stood, her hand struck across her chest, followed by James and then Daisy, giggling, also rose to her feet. They swayed in time repeating each line Tom boomed at them as if they were in fact revolutionaries. Daisy’s giggles manifested itself in side-splitting laughter and within minutes she was swaying and drinking along. Daisy realised, for the first time in months, maybe years, she felt lighter and somehow different.

After a few minutes, Tom collapsed in a chair. ‘Christ almighty, I’m out of practice.’ He wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. ‘But, you see compadres, we will win this. We will win back laughter!’

James did laugh. ‘You’ve got a very good voice.’

Tom looked at him. ‘Some say good voice when they mean fine body.’

Daisy punched Tom playfully on the arm. ‘No, I think he actually meant your voice.’

‘Daisy, darling, you read things so literally.’

Lisa poured out more generous glasses of wine. ‘It’ll be like being back at uni.’

‘But no Hugh,’ Daisy whispered.

James shifted next to her. She realised she must stop doing that: making others feel uncomfortable, like they were unwanted replacements. James was very much wanted and she glanced at him and smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

Daisy felt eyes on her and looked up sharply. Lisa winked, and she flushed, guilt washing over her. Then seconds later, Tom was pushing catalogues on her.

‘What are these for?’

‘I picked them up earlier when I was in Cirencester.’

Daisy eyed them gingerly, not liking where this was going. ‘And…?’

‘And I think some of your rooms need a bit of a spruce up if we’re going to have guests staying.’ Tom drank deeply from his glass.

‘No, I haven’t said yes yet.’ She stood, her heart fluttering. ‘This is my house, this is the house I did up with Hugh, I’m not just going to redecorate and erase all that.’ She saw James nod briefly out the corner of her eye, perhaps even gesture to Tom to take it easy.

‘Daisy, darling, I am not trying to upset you. It’s just an idea. I know how much you love interior décor.’

She knew he was right: ten of the sixteen rooms remained starkly furnished, as they simply hadn’t got around to doing them. Perhaps, in her heart, she hadn’t thrown herself into the house over the last couple of years because she knew she would end up living alone in the depths of its corridors and shuttered windows. Shutters she had closed the day Hugh had been diagnosed. She had wanted to shut the world out: just Daisy and Hugh. It was safer that way. Only now she was being forced to confront those dark crevices and she wasn’t sure she could do it.

‘Listen,’ Lisa said, more gently now, ‘Dais, if you want to go ahead, how about you choose what you would like. You have the best taste after all.’ Daisy gave a small smile at this compliment because she knew it to be true but also she had seen the state of Tom and Lisa’s rented accommodation.

‘Are you trying to tell me, Lisa, that after all these years you haven’t come to love the leopard print, velveteen cushions and the life-size framed photo of The Nude Man?’ Tom grinned broadly. ‘I even bought you zebra print under sheets for your birthday, you ungrateful cow.’

Daisy snorted with laughter and she looked at James who sat there wide-eyed.

‘Is that all true?’ he asked Daisy.

She nodded. ‘Yes, all true. Every single word. But, most importantly, Tom has forgotten to tell you about his love of an artist who paints… um, man parts.’

‘Lucky you!’ James furrowed his brow. ‘Man parts, huh?’

Daisy laughed, her mind returning to the idea of the B&B. It was true, she did love a project and if it involved anything to do with interior décor and was moving in the direction of being the next Kelly Hoppen… maybe this was what she needed, otherwise, as Tom so often bluntly pointed out, what else did she have?

‘OK, just say I was to say yes…’ Lisa squealed and Daisy smiled. ‘I get to choose the décor and there’s one rule: no one goes into Hugh’s office or our bedroom.’

They nodded solemnly.

‘That’s the one place I can be with Hugh, it means the world to me.’ Her eyes glassed over. ‘OK? It really would mean so much to me if I can trust you to stay out of his office.’

The gathering nodded in unison.

‘In which case…’ She grinned broadly. ‘OK, what have we got to lose?’ She frowned as everyone jumped up to hug her. ‘Well, probably a lot but it is exciting.’

‘First thing tomorrow morning before Mum comes for lunch I will go into Cirencester and start ordering furniture and curtain material.’ She paused. ‘Then I can tell her our plans.’ Daisy visibly flinched. ‘That’s going to be a treat.’

James looked confused. ‘I thought she loved Hugh.’

Daisy nodded. ‘Don’t you remember me telling you? Hugh wasn’t the problem. Mum never agreed with me marrying Hugh. She said that I’d grow too big for my boots living in a house like this. I was a farmer’s daughter and farmers’ daughters don’t marry men like Hugh.’ She grimaced. ‘To this day I can’t tell if it’s because she genuinely believes that or almost doesn’t want me to be happy.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘Who knows? She’s a complicated thing, dear Mum. Anyway, here’s to Atworth Manor and our plans.’ Daisy clinked everyone’s glasses in turn and looked at the ceiling.

‘I hope you’re happy, Hugh, you silly sod,’ she whispered.

The next morning, nursing a boisterous hangover in which it felt as if the drums behind Tom’s song were still going strong, she geared herself up to face her demons: the tour of her own house. Tom and Lisa who had already claimed their rooms at the top of the house, where they always stayed anyway when nights socialising rolled into morning, had returned to their flat to officially hand in their notice; the landlord wouldn’t care. He had wanted rid of Tom and his leopard print many moons ago. She had met the landlord once; a gentleman dressed head to toe in tweed, even his brogues possessed tweed fabric inserts, and the owner of the most horrid Jack Russell on planet Earth.

‘Nigel.’ He had proffered a limp handshake. ‘Oh, you’re another friend of Tom’s, are you?’ he had said, his voice so far back, it was probably being wired over from a previous era. ‘Well, any friend of Tom’s is no friend of mine.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she had said, resisting the urge to slap him across the face.

His mangy mutt stood at his owner’s feet, baring his teeth and looking like he wanted to eat Daisy for his breakfast.

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘Don’t you and…’ She indicated the dog.

‘Bitsy.’

‘Ah.’ She forced a smile and looked him the eye. ‘Don’t you and Bitsy look so alike.’

Nigel nodded and then pulled a face. ‘Yah, I suppose we do.’

Her phone buzzed in her pocket: James. He too was already halfway to London, apparently to collect more belongings. He had been very happy to stay on the sofa last night until rooms were sorted. Daisy had already decided he could have the one next to hers. It would make her feel safe knowing he was near. He was to keep his apartment back in London; he owned it outright and Daisy was grateful. That was one less person to entirely financially support. She loved Tom and Lisa to bits – they were as much family to her as her own had ever been – but to think they would quit their jobs, albeit jobs in a restaurant and bar, and now they were giving up their shared home too. It didn’t bear thinking about and she had to remind herself that if it didn’t work out, which she suspected it might not, they could all go back to how they were. She was sure the restaurant would want them back. On the other hand, she was positive the landlord wouldn’t want them back polluting his Cirencester house but there were other rented houses out there. She nodded; yes, they were grown-ups and really, they could make their own decisions.

Her phone beeped again. Tom.

‘Daisy, darling, have dropped credit card down the outside drain trying to break into house. Could be longer than expected.’

They still only had one key between them, she realised, and shook her head in disbelief.

‘Don’t worry, taking tour of my own house. Scared.’

Moments later: ‘Don’t be scared. We love you.’

She smiled and felt a surge of strength. Now, standing at the top of the stairs, she bypassed her and Hugh’s bedroom and walked to the first unused bedroom. She drew a deep breath and pushed the door open. It squeaked loudly on its hinges and a rush of stale air hit her square on. Tiptoeing, as if not to disturb its dormancy, she made her way to the window and pulled open the internal shutters letting the light flood in. She turned and looked back at the room, her eyes immediately stopping at the fireplace. How they had argued over that fireplace! The thought sent a shock of pain through her and her breath caught.

‘I think we should rip it out,’ Hugh had said adamantly. ‘I mean, it’s not functional.’

‘No!’ She crossed her arms. ‘We are not ripping it out, that would be like ripping out someone’s heart. It is part of the fabric of this house. We just clean it up and it becomes a feature.’ She had closed her eyes, wishing that Hugh had some sort of mind that didn’t involve maths. He would not be subtracting this one from the room, not whilst she lived in the house.

Then she had felt a kiss, ever so gentle, on her nose. ‘You funny thing. If it means that much to you, we keep it. You know best, after all…’

Daisy returned to the present, her eyes smarting with these fresh memories. She supposed that would keep happening. The remembering stuff.

The question now was could she do this? Was she strong enough? Maybe Tom, Lisa and James were wrong; maybe she was herein meant to be a sombre widow who would grow old in the quiet pattern of the life she had adopted since Hugh’s death. But then, a movement at the window caught her eye. It was Mr Robin: a gardener’s best friend and, to her mind, Hugh’s best friend. As Hugh gardened, no matter the time of year, Mr Robin would appear. She felt for the latch on the window and gently pushed it open. Mr Robin stayed put.

‘What do you think, Mr Robin? Can I do this?’

As if to answer he bobbed closer and to her utter amazement, he entered the room and sat delicately on the wrought iron radiator. He cocked his head and even when she put his hand closer, he didn’t move. Then, moments later, he moved back out onto the windowsill.

‘Extraordinary,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe you’re Hugh?’

With that, she felt once again lifted, and a bit like peeling a plaster off, she moved quickly from room to room, opening the shutters both inside and outside, letting the light flood once more into Atworth Manor. With each window she opened, the robin flew nearby and she grew almost exhilarated at how liberating the whole process was. Dust clouds danced through the air with her quick and determined movement and with each window she opened, the spring air outside appeared to smell sweeter and fresher.

When she had opened up every single room in the house, she took the catalogues Tom had given her and a pen and made notes on each room and the feel she wanted. Atworth Manor, she realised, was turning into a very calm and beautiful French chateau as she chose white, pale grey and dusky pink linens, white metal frame bedsteads and, she sighed happily, she would put flowers everywhere. Flowers in every room. People would arrive and feel alive. She wanted that. She needed that. Who knew, maybe other widows would arrive and they too could benefit from the energy?

Just as she had written the last item down to be ordered and wiped her brow at her morning’s efforts, she heard the familiar clunkety-clunk of her mother’s Land Rover (the kind, Daisy thought, that proper farmers kept with no heating, appalling steering and barely a roof). She looked out of the windows on the final floor’s landing and yes, it was as she had thought; Jenny, her mother, dressed in wellies and overalls, just come from her own morning of hard work.

Daisy moved quickly down the flights of stairs and arrived at the bottom as her mother knocked, somewhat aggressively, on the heavy front door.

Daisy clutched the catalogues and notes to her chest like a comfort blanket and pulled open the door with her free hand.

‘Mum,’ she breathed. ‘So good to see you.’ She went in for a hug but when her mother didn’t reciprocate, she pulled away quickly.

‘Not sure why we couldn’t have met down Hilda’s Coffee Shop on the edge of town or, even better, your old family home?’

‘I thought you might like me to make you lunch here.’ Daisy pulled the door further open and nodded for her to come inside.

‘Well, Daisy, you know full well neither you or me belong in houses like this.’ She had never lost her broad Gloucestershire accent even with the influx of ‘yuppies’, as Jenny called them, to the area. Though Daisy was glad of it because on the odd occasion when her mother was in a softer mood, it sounded glorious to her ear and reminded her of days out in the fields together tending to the animals or, on the rare day off, her mother making a huge picnic for them all, including her father who was still alive then.

Daisy often tried to recall when her mother had become quite so bitter; she reckoned it must have been after her father died. He had a heart attack one day, out on the farm, and that was it. So sudden. He had been fine that morning eating his two rashers of bacon and two poached eggs with a wedge of buttered toast. In fact, she often thought guiltily, how at aged sixteen as she was becoming highly aware of her body she had ribbed her father over his diet and how, if he wasn’t careful, it could be the end of him. Then, one morning, the man she adored with his laughter lines and rough, calloused hands just dropped down dead.

Daisy and her mother were both widows, only in Daisy’s case, her husband died over the course of a few years. She had never been able to figure out which way out was best. Maybe it didn’t matter; both left gaping holes in lives.

She realised her mother was still stood in the hall and so she herself had to move towards the kitchen, otherwise they might be there all day.

‘I’ve got soup I made a few days ago, your favourite? Tomato. And some bread I put in the bread-maker this morning. Does that sound OK?’ Daisy looked at her mother who was eyeing up the antique French kitchen dresser and the granite work surfaces. She didn’t even need to ask what she was thinking. Granite was for posh people, apparently. What was wrong with a bit of Formica?

‘Sounds fine,’ her mother eventually answered, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the carver chair.

‘Great, perfect,’ Daisy remarked through gritted teeth. As she set to heating up the soup and slicing the bread, she wondered how she was going to tell her mother about their hare-brained idea.

She needn’t have worried.

Her mother’s beady eyes had already clocked the catalogues and list on the table.

‘Tell me you’re not redecorating? You know, you might be quite well off but Hugh’s money isn’t going to last forever.’ She paused. ‘Life is expensive when you’re relying on yourself.’

Daisy continued stirring the soup, turning ever so slightly from the range.

‘Actually—’ she forced a smile ‘—you won’t believe this…’ Her mother flinched as if Daisy were about to inflict pain upon her. She had spent her life relaying her plans and goals with the utmost of care, never expecting a warm reception. Especially after the death of her father, he had been her go-between. ‘So I’m opening a B&B with Tom, Lisa and James.’ She turned quickly back to the soup.

The silence lay heavy and ominous.

‘Well, I suppose it would do you good. Ground you.’

Daisy took that as a seal of her approval.

‘Actually, it was an idea Hugh and I had years ago but not here, not in this house.’

‘Where then?’

Daisy poured the soup into the bowls and placed her finest bone china soup dish in front of her mother. Her mother’s arched brow told her that she would have been happier with Tesco’s own.

‘France.’ Daisy sat down, busied herself with cutting more bread needlessly.

‘Well, that really would have been a stupid idea. You in France? We all know how well French went for you at university.’

Daisy pushed down the lump in her throat. ‘Actually, I had been relearning and I’m almost fluent,’ she lied, pushing the far too hot soup into her mouth. Anything to avoid talking about it any further.

‘I’m amazed,’ her mother started after taking a mouthful of soup, giving an almost imperceptible nod of approval, ‘that James would want to stay here. I mean James is obviously from a house like this so that bit doesn’t surprise me but to stay here with the likes of you and your friends. It doesn’t make sense.’

Daisy lifted her chin defiantly. ‘What does that mean? “The likes of you”? I may not have been born into a house like this but it doesn’t mean I can’t live in one.’

‘Oh, Daisy, don’t be silly. I’ve told you all along you should have stayed with me on the farm. I needed your help and you insisted on going to university, which, frankly, was a total waste of time and money because then you married above your station. You just tried to make me look bad.’

Daisy buttered her bread, pushing the knife this way and that with such force she thought she might break the knife. ‘You’ll never be any different. I don’t know what happened, Mum, but when Dad died you changed and you pushed me away.’ She pouted. ‘Anyway, maybe I can make a success of this. Imagine that. Imagine your own daughter actually running a successful business.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that.’ Her mother spooned the last of her soup into her mouth and stood. ‘Thank you, I think I’d better get back to the lambs that have arrived early.’

‘Oh, have they?’ Daisy’s prickly mood softened. She had adored lambing, watching new life enter the world. ‘Do you want me to come over? Help?’

‘No,’ her mother said stiffly. ‘You stay here and look up cushions. Much more important.’

With that, her mother bustled from the kitchen, her wellies leaving a trail of mud to the front door, and got into her jeep, roaring off down the drive.

Daisy continued to sit, almost numb from the visit, except for one thing. Her mother had left a burning desire somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, a desire to make the business not only work but be a raving success.