Page 86 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Willow waved a nonchalant hand as a bee passed a little too close to her drink for comfort.
Merry giggled. ‘See, it’s so good, even the bees want it back,’ she said, raising her own glass as if in a toast. ‘May the bees always pollinate your flowers, Willow,’ she added.
‘I might have to start giving them a bit as a thank-you present,’ she replied. ‘Especially if we do decide to start making honey and ginger ice cream. Got to keep ’em sweet,’ she said, laughing at her own joke. She looked at Merry’s happy face for a moment, knowing that she was just as contented.
Beside her, Jude cleared his throat, topping up her glass.
‘I think it’s time for a toast,’ he said, raising his voice above the general hubbub. ‘What do you all say?’
Sam pulled Freya from where she was lounging against him into a more upright position. ‘I think that’s a fine idea,’ he agreed. ‘Come on, Freya, what shall we drink to?’
‘Only one thing we can drink to, I reckon.’ She giggled. ‘To all of us, to the future!’ she cried.
‘To the future!’ they chorused.
Willow looked at her husband over the rim of her glass. His skin was golden from days spent outside, his lithe body relaxed, and his beautiful face so often turned towards her that she found herself blushing. Far from causing a rift between them the events of the last few months had brought them closer together than ever. To have him by her side day by day was more than she could ever have wished for.
* * *
Jude took a sip of his drink as he watched his two daughters playing a little distance away. He took Willow’s hand as he looked out across the fields and watched the sun sink lower in the sky, feeling nothing but relief at the knowledge that he had been saved.
Jude Middleton was a very lucky man. He may have been afraid of being poor once upon a time, and he may have been afraid of not being loved, but for the first time in his life, Jude Middleton was no longer afraid, of anything.
IV
Autumn
46
From her vantage point just beyond the war memorial, Laura was able to watch Freya come and go with interest. Laura had seen her several times over the past few weeks and, at first, Freya had been completely oblivious of anyone’s presence; but on a couple of occasions now, Laura had been caught unawares and Freya had seen her, giving her a beaming smile. She was only glad that today she had chosen to leave Boris behind. The dog had a habit of drawing attention, purely down to his enormous size, whereas Laura was tiny enough to lose herself behind a gravestone or in the shadow of a hedge. His absence gave Laura the opportunity to observe Freya unnoticed.
She’d only ever met Freya’s father once or twice, but she knew the family – everyone did hereabouts – and a quick check of the headstone that Freya visited had confirmed what she already knew. She didn’t exactly remember him dying, but she had seen the freshly dug grave well over a year ago and had felt for Freya. Death was never an easy thing, especially for one so young and alone, and although Laura didn’t know Freya at all, she knew of her, and in Laura’s world that was generally enough. The family were well liked locally; they had a history and a tradition in the town which Laura approved of.
In all the time since his death, the grave had been well tended and yet she hadn’t seen Freya in the churchyard until these last few weeks. People were creatures of habit and, as with most regular occurrences in their lives, like shopping, or going for a walk, visiting the grave of a loved one was most often undertaken on the same day or days and at roughly the same time. It was one of the things that made Laura feel safe; that way she knew what to expect. Something must have changed for Freya to alter her pattern of visits, and it wasn’t until a few days ago when Laura had both arms plunged deep into a hedgerow, rooting out the juiciest blackberries that she realised how busy Freya must be with the apple harvest. Since then she had kept a wary eye.
* * *
Freya smiled as she pushed open the gate to the churchyard. The slanting early-morning sun had risen just high enough to touch the cobweb that hung from the lichen-covered wood and light up the dew-drop-covered strands like a diamond choker.
She took a deep breath in the damp air. She loved mornings like this when the mist swirled about her feet as she walked, knowing that in an hour or so it would lift to reveal a beautiful day, full of the colours she liked best. For now, the churchyard held a muted beauty and, as she made her way between the graves, she let her thoughts wander towards the coming day.
October was when the hard work really began at Appleyard. The orchards had been quietly soaking up the sun and the rain all year, and now the apples were so ripe the trees were ready to offer them up like a gift; a reward for Freya’s continued care and patience. Only this year had been different of course. This year her father no longer walked the rows of trees, but instead her beloved Sam. Her heart lifted at the thought that in a few short weeks she would be visiting this church again, but by the time she left, it would be as Sam’s wife.
One short year ago, it had all been so different. She had come to the churchyard then, alone and frightened for her future, trying to cope with the all-consuming grief of losing her dad, and the threat of losing Appleyard, the house she had lived in all her life; her livelihood, and her stronghold. It had taken the wisdom of a curly-haired stranger to change all that, not only to bring Sam back to her, but life back to the orchards too. It was at about this time of year that Amos had arrived, walking up her drive to offer help with the harvest in return for food and a bed in her barn. He’d stayed until Christmas, until the wind had blown him on his way again, but there wasn’t a day when Freya didn’t long to see him one more time, to thank him for all that he had brought her.
She stopped in front of a small, neat headstone, tucked into the corner of the cemetery, and bent to her knees.
‘Morning, Dad,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘And how are you this morning? It’s going to be another beautiful day.’
She put down the bag she was carrying, her fingers automatically moving to collect the wilted blooms that filled the vases in front of the headstone. She lifted them to one side ready to dispose of. Then she rummaged in her bag for a pair of secateurs and began to gently clip away the faded heads of the bedding plants that she had planted in the late spring.
‘I’ve brought you some Cyclamen today, Dad. I know you’ll look after them much better than I can. I still can’t manage to keep them alive, but I liked the colours.’
Freya’s fingers were a little cold, but she worked quickly, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as she did so. Sometimes, she had the place to herself and sometimes not, but it never bothered her that others might be able to hear what she was saying. This was her time with her dad, and that was that.
‘You should see the fields, Dad; they look amazing. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t start harvesting a couple of weeks early. The late burst of sunny weather we’ve been having is more than we could have wished for, and the juice presses are working overtime at the moment. That’s why I’ve come so early today, so I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to get back to give Sam a hand. Right, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She gathered up the clippings and brown petals into a couple of sheets of newspaper and rose to take them to the small composting heap at the rear of the church. A trail of footprints through the dewy grass lay off to one side, and she followed their direction, trying to catch a glimpse of their owner.
