Page 100 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
‘Jesus, Stephen, are you completely thick? Who’s going to listen to me? Giles Drummond is the son of the man who killed my husband. He ruined my life once, there’s no way I’m going to let him do it again.’
She glared at Stephen across the table, bile rising in her throat as tortured memories of the past few years came flooding back.
‘I think you’d better leave,’ she said coldly.
Stephen blinked in surprise. ‘What, that’s it? You’re not even going to consider it? How can you be so callous, Laura? She could die.’
‘I might as well have, for what that man did to me.’
‘But we’re not talking about Francis now, we’re talking about his son. Someone who has, in all probability, committed a horrific crime. You can’t just sit here and do nothing.’
‘Watch me,’ Laura spat. ‘And if you’re so holier than thou, you go to the police. You can still tell them what you know.’
Stephen shook his head several times. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘We all wanted to help you, but I never thought for one minute you weren’t worth helping.’
‘Get out of my house!’ she shouted, launching herself out of her chair and pushing at his arm.
Stephen strode from the room, his long legs taking him to the door in seconds. He yanked it open and was about to slam it shut behind him when he suddenly turned and grabbed both Laura’s arms.
‘And you got it wrong, for what it’s worth. I did come to see how you were, but I won’t bother you again.’ And he signed the word goodbye.
Laura stared after him, tears pouring down her cheeks before she slowly closed the door and sank to the floor.
53
Not even the sight of squirrels playing on the lawn the next morning could lift Laura’s spirits. She had moved through the rest of the day before like an automaton, making chocolates, steeping more blue-black damsons in brandy, and as the golden afternoon sun had dipped behind the hedgerows, she tore up the list she was making for Freya’s wedding and cried some more.
She should have known it would come to nothing, but she’d so wanted to believe that things could change. She had seen something in Freya that spoke to her, awoke a spark in her that she hadn’t felt for a long time; but now all the hopes she’d had were like scalded sugar in the bottom of a saucepan, turned bitter and fit only for the bin.
Her head was full of jagged images from the past: David’s coffin, impossibly small to contain a whole life, and Francis Drummond standing over her, laughing, a gobbet of spit clinging to the end of his chin as he told her she would never win. She hadn’t, and though time had done its best to ease her failure, with one fell swoop she was right back where she had started; except this time it was worse, because now she had nothing to fight for, not even David’s name.
How could she possibly go to the police when all they would think – all anyone would ever think – was that she was trying to settle old scores? The thought of helping Freya with her flowers had been enough to completely unnerve her, it meant coming face to face with the people who had mocked her so cruelly; but she had allowed herself to dream, to think that things could be different and that with Freya’s help, she might finally escape the past. How foolish she had been. Her bed last night had been cold and unforgiving, but she had lain in it anyway, wishing for sleep to steal her misery.
She poured a cold cup of tea down the sink, watching the brown liquid swirl across the white porcelain of the big butler’s sink. As usual, it gathered in the corners, but this morning she didn’t even have the energy to wash it away. She would just have to put one foot in front of the other today and count off the hours. The graves still needed tending, and there among the undemanding dead, she might at least find some peace. She lifted her eyes to the notebook which still lay on the table, a stark blank sheet waiting to be filled. She had no idea what she was going to say to Freya later.
Stan’s chocolates were in the fridge, and after Laura had collected these, together with a Dutch apple cake for Millie and Blanche’s gin, there was no further reason to hide in the house, and pulling on her jacket, she crept from the house.
She half expected Stephen to be lying in wait for her, ready with a barrage of reasons why she should change her mind, but the lane was quiet as she reached her gate. It was a beautiful autumn morning; the sky tinged pale pink and purple as the sun crested the rise of the fields beside the house. The bright orange ball hung in the still air, its golden rays filtering through the swirls of mist which clung to the grass. Within an hour the sky would be the clearest blue.
It would be a perfect day for foraging, for seeking out scarlet haws in the hedgerows, or the dusky medlars which grew in the garden of a house behind the church. A day for hurrying home to make rowan jelly and damson ketchup, but Laura knew she would do none of those things, not today.
The smile was pasted on her face as she walked up the path to Stan’s cottage, but his eyesight was not what it used to be, and she doubted he would notice. She could claim a busy day, and both deliver her chocolates and collect whatever he had to offer her in a matter of minutes. No one would be any the wiser.
Her knock at the door went unanswered, and Laura automatically made her way along the path to the side of the cottage and into the back garden. It was quite usual to find Stan there, even this early in the morning, crouched beside one of his precious vegetables, or sitting in his greenhouse, letting the sun warm his bones through the glass, but she was surprised to see Millie this morning too, and Laura felt her mood sink even further. Millie’s presence could only mean one thing, and Laura was in no mood for a gossip this morning, but she gave her customary wave and went to join them.
‘Beautiful morning,’ she called, remembering to smile.
Millie’s face fell immediately. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, twisting a hanky around her fingers. ‘You haven’t heard, have you? I didn’t think you had. I did call around, but perhaps you were out…’
‘What haven’t I heard, Millie?’ she asked, thinking back to yesterday evening when she had studiously ignored whoever had come to her door.
Millie looked hesitantly at Stan. ‘Perhaps you should tell her,’ she said.
Now that she was nearer, Laura could see that both of her neighbours were not their usual selves this morning. Millie looked quite upset, and Stan wore a distracted air; fidgety, not the calm, relaxed persona she was used to.
‘It’s Blanche,’ Stan began, for some reason over emphasising the words. He had probably intended to make sure she understood them, but instead the reverse was true, and for Laura it was like listening to a transatlantic call with a lag on the line. Her brain took much longer than normal to relay the message so that she nearly missed what came next altogether. She held up a hand.
‘Say again, Stan. I missed that.’
