Thirty
Four months later
Wearing a dress with one of her mother’s aprons tied over it, Clare scattered chopped basil leaves over her homemade tapenade. She sliced a baguette, and heaped pieces round the bowl, dropping the crusty ends onto the floor, where Stop-it efficiently cleared them up. She heard a tooting car horn, Hilts crowed in response, and as his squawking tailed off, an engine replaced the sound. Her guest. The engine died and she wiped her hands on her apron, reaching round to untie it.
She felt a gust of wind and smiled. ‘Doesn’t anyone ever ring the bell in Brambleton?’ she asked, spinning round to the open door.
Sam beamed at her. ‘Didn’t want to waste the time. Quite opinionated that cockerel of yours.’
‘Remind you of anyone?’
‘Yes,’ he said, taking her in his arms. She laughed. ‘Who?’ she asked. But he didn’t answer, instead closing his mouth over hers. She pulled away and repeated her question.
‘You,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. He’s as feisty and opinionated as his owner.’ He released her and stooped to stroke Stop-it. She slipped off the apron and tossed it over the back of a chair.
‘I’ve brought something for you,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
He tapped the side of his nose.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she said.
He disappeared, returning with a large cardboard box. There were no markings on it. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, wanting to claw her way inside. She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
He was grinning at her. ‘Why not take a look?’
She peeled back the folds, revealing twelve bottles. There were no labels, but she guessed what was inside. ‘The four corner ones are chilled,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s try it.’ He pulled two bottles free. Clare rummaged in a drawer, found a bottle opener and took it into the sitting room along with the tapenade and a bowl of kibble. There was a log fire burning and the room smelt of apple wood. In front of the hearth, Stop-it was stretched out, with his belly facing the warmth. She popped the bowl of food beside his muzzle. He gave it a desultory look.
Clare’s eyes flickered to the corner where her mother’s Georgian writing desk used to sit. Ivy had collected it a month ago, along with the furniture stored in the old milking parlour. Yesterday, her mother’s best friend had returned to Orchard Farm clutching an envelope. Written on the front, in her mother’s spidery handwriting were two words: For Clare .
‘Wh— What’s this?’ stammered Clare fingering the envelope.
‘It was in the secret drawer of the writing desk,’ said Ivy. She pursed her lips. ‘Do you want me to leave you alone?’
Clare shook her head, sat down and ripped at the seal. With twitchy fingers she removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope, took a deep breath and read.
Dearest Clare,
I have wanted to write to you so many times but honouring your request to leave you alone, I have resisted. I hope one day Ivy will persuade you to read this letter.
I wish I had explained why I said what I did in the orchard so many years ago. There was a reason, a person I thought you would be so much happier with than the man you chose, but it was wrong of me to try and inflict my choice on you. It’s your life and I wish with all my heart I had accepted your decision and supported you in your brief marriage. I hope I was wrong, and Guy did make you happy and didn’t break your heart.
I have missed you so much and have never stopped loving you. I only hope in time you may be able to forgive my foolish words which were said in love but in haste.
With all my love
Mum.
Clare had burst into tears. She felt Ivy’s arms around her shoulders and, still sobbing, had passed her the letter. She hadn’t realized how much she had needed to hear those words. All that compartmentalizing, all those task lists had been a distraction, a sticking plaster for the gaping wound of believing her mother had died feeling out of love with her daughter. She felt revitalised, knowing that Cindy had wanted to heal their rift as much as Clare did, and although cruelly robbed of the opportunity to do so, had never stopped loving her.
Now, watching Sam pour two glasses of cider, she felt her mother’s love wrap around her. Sam passed her a glass. If he noticed she seemed happier, more carefree since they last met, he didn’t mention it but knowing her mother would approve of their relationship made it feel even more special, as if they were truly meant to be together.
‘You try it first,’ she said, sniffing her own. There was a strong apple scent, making her think of spring and summer in the orchard, and then of her mother in her blue overalls, arms threaded through the blossom, busy thinning apples. Sam swirled the contents round his glass, held it up to the light, then wafted it under his nose. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose – Clare couldn’t decide if that was in approval or jest – then he took a long swallow. Clare held her breath. He wasn’t wincing, nor were his eyes screwed up, but he wasn’t smiling either.
‘Drinkable?’ she asked.
He took another gulp and flushed it round his cheeks.
‘I can improve on the flavour, if you’ll let me, but not bad for a maiden vintage. Go on. Try it yourself.’
She let out a long, noisy breath, unable to speak. Nothing could convey her relief. She took a sip herself. Not bad!
Her sabbatical had finished months ago, and it had been a huge gamble to stay in Devon. She had an image of that day in the Managing Partner’s book-lined office, with its framed Punch cartoons and a view of the open-plan office. ‘I love this job,’ she’d said, and she really meant those words, ‘but I love Devon life more.’
The senior partner spoke in a soft Welsh purring voice that Clare would miss. ‘Can’t we explore you working flexitime, so we can still keep you?’
Clare shook her head. An image of the apple orchard popped into her mind, the grass cut short, the swards’ neat brown circles of mulch, every branch covered with tiny fruit. ‘Farming is a way of life, and it’s the life I want.’
‘What a waste – you are such a brilliant lawyer.’
Smiling, Clare replied, ‘That’s kind. Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning the law entirely, I’ll still take on a few pro bono cases.’
She’d only been back to London once since, to pack up her flat when it sold. Severing her past life was tough, but selling the property was a simple decision. She couldn’t become a landlord. She accepted they weren’t all as bad as Richard, but she preferred to leave it to the professionals.
Feeling Sam’s arms wrap around her waist, she leaned into him. ‘If the Devon man wants to help me do a proper job,’ she said, enunciating the last two words in a North-Devonian accent, ‘I think I could accept.’
For a few minutes they sat eating the homemade tapenade, listening to the crackling logs, Sam teasing Stop-it with hunks of baguette. She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes close to the fire, thinking how often her mother used to do this, how often the pair of them used to do this when Clare was a child. She realized this is what her mother had wanted for her; she’d known it was what would make her daughter happy. Her mother had always hoped Clare’s law career would be a stepping stone to returning to the farm. Sadly, Clare had left it too late. There wasn’t much of the farm to return to, but if she planted the remaining acres of fallow land with the right apple trees, she could have a viable cider business.
‘I’ve been thinking, and I’ve got an idea for you,’ said Sam. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘We could merge the two farms, plant trees on the fields between us.’
She had an image of a farm that stretched from her farmhouse to his. Two orchards joined by her mother’s former fields. ‘Would apples grow on those fields between us? They face the sea.’
‘You’re not thinking big enough. You’ve got the wrong farmhouse. I meant join up with Brambleton Hall.’
‘The fields where Richard wanted the shed?’
‘It would give the tenants in the almshouses a marvellous view.’
All the tenants thought Clare. Ivy and Fred were still living in Rose and Jasmine Cottages respectively, and new families had moved into their former, now refurbished, houses. Everyone had a new landlord – Sam – and they all had five-year leases. Although it was a wrench, Sam was planning to move out of his house and into Brambleton Hall explaining that was what his father would have wanted him to do.
‘I’ve been thinking ... isn’t it a bit selfish us living in two big houses?’ said Sam.
‘I come with my animals.’
‘Stop-it and I get on well, don’t we, boy,’ he said.
‘What about Captain Hilts and the Veras?’
Sam laughed. ‘I suppose they can come too, but only provided the flock doesn’t grow too large – I don’t want to become a chicken farmer.’
Clare laughed and laid her head on his shoulder. As her laughter died, she realized there was a strange crunching noise. She gasped. Over by the fire, Stop-it was contentedly munching his kibble.