Page 90 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
‘And say what? I didn’t see the car well enough to make an identification. I’m fine, our mystery girl is fine, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.’
Freya thought for a minute. ‘Yes, I suppose. There ought to be something we can do, though. It doesn’t seem right that something so potentially serious is just ignored.’
Stephen stared through the windscreen at the road ahead, lost in his own thoughts for a moment. When he eventually answered, his voice had a soft almost wistful tone to it. ‘Well, there is one thing I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘And that’s find her…whoever she is.’
49
Laura was up early the next morning. She had checked her diary before she went to bed the previous evening and would have to be out early if she was to get all her deliveries made before she visited the churchyard. In the dark days immediately after David’s death, her neighbours, Stan, Millie and Blanche had been her lifeline. They were just as cantankerous as she was in many ways and her grief-stricken protestations that she didn’t need to eat or drink had fallen on deaf ears. She had been practically force-fed chicken soup, beef stew and shepherd’s pie, and although Laura had fought them almost every step of the way, in the end she had been grateful for their kindly ministrations and their present arrangements had grown from there.
All three of her neighbours were somewhere between the ages of sixty-five and eighty, with Blanche, Laura suspected, being the eldest. She had never liked to ask their ages, as all three were fiercely independent and as sprightly as someone half their age and, unlikely though the friendships were, they were firm.
Stan lived the closest to her, although still a good half mile away; a keen vegetable grower with a very sweet tooth and an intense fondness for her chocolate-coated boozy damsons. Three doors down from him was where Millie lived. She was the youngest of the trio and a stalwart member of the WI. Her cakes were to die for, although alas her jam was not, and so in return for her sweet treats, Laura left Millie with plain labelled jars of apple and ginger or raspberry jam. So what if on occasion she passed them off as her own; Millie’s secrets were safe with her. Blanche lived in the next house, with her motley collection of chickens that had all been rescued from some place or another. With Blanche’s tender care, they laid the biggest eggs Laura had ever seen, and as Blanche liked nothing more than a drop of sloe gin each evening, purely for medicinal purposes of course, the trade was a steady one.
Laura was well aware that these arrangements allowed her to stay outside the real world for much of the time, but she was also able to keep a watchful eye over her friends and, in an age that often felt unkind and uncaring to Laura, it helped to assuage her guilt over the darker aspects of her own character. Hiding from the world was not the answer of course, but life was certainly much easier this way.
It took Laura nearly an hour-and-a-half to make the round trip this morning despite the fact that Blanche wasn’t in. Her friends were early risers like her, and it was nice to share a cup of tea with them, talking about their plans for the day and their love of the coming season. She returned home laden with runner beans, some courgettes, and a honey cake. With her bounty deposited safely in the kitchen, Laura was finally ready to set out for the churchyard. She slipped down the path to one of the sheds at the end of her garden to collect her tools and a garland she had made a couple of days earlier. The conkers in it were gleaming like newly polished mahogany, and she smiled to see them. Mr and Mrs Roberts were going to love them too.
* * *
‘Morning, Dad,’ called Freya. ‘I hope you don’t mind me visiting two days in a row, although actually…’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘…it isn’t you I’ve come to see at all, sorry.’
She perched on the little stool she had brought with her for the days when the grave didn’t need tending and she just wanted to sit and chat.
‘Sam thinks I’m barmy of course, but then, no offense Dad, he’s a bloke, so what does he know? To be fair, he’s been pretty good with all the other wedding arrangements, but you know him as well as I do, and he hasn’t got a creative bone in his body, has he? I know exactly how I want my bouquet and the other arrangements to look and, as I was leaving here yesterday, I saw the most beautiful wreath.’ She sighed, looking around her once more. ‘Even though it pains me to say it, it was much better than anything I could make, and I know that whoever did would be the perfect person to help with the wedding. Unfortunately, I don’t know who that is.’
She cocked her head to one side as if listening. ‘So you need to help me out here, Dad, because I’m pretty much lying in wait to see if I can spot whoever made the wreath, and if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to look a complete loon.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, I know. Thanks for the obvious witty response.’ Her head whipped around as she heard the lychgate creak open, but it was only the wind; she probably hadn’t fastened it properly.
A tiny robin swooped in front of her, a small worm in its mouth, and she followed the path of its flight, watching as it disappeared behind a rather ornate memorial at the far end of the churchyard. She smiled, turning back to speak to her father once more, before looking up again to where the robin had flown.I wonder, she thought.
‘Excuse me for a minute, Dad.’
Freya had done a circuit of the graveyard as soon as she had entered it this morning, but there had been no one else there, and she had wandered among the graves looking for more evidence of the wreath-maker’s work. It was a large cemetery, with a newer area off to the right of the church, where Freya’s dad was buried, and with the original, older graves dotted around the rear of the church and along a low boundary wall to the left. At the far end of the wall however, an arch led through into a separate much older space where there were larger memorials and family plots; even a small crypt for one of the most notable village families. It was obvious that some of these plots were still being well cared for, and even though Freya had not seen any other wreaths, it set her thinking.
Since her arrival she had seen no one else enter the churchyard, even though her view of the gate from her father’s grave was uninterrupted. Now she wondered whether anyone would come into the grounds from the footpath through the fields that ran alongside this older area. There was still an old stile at one end and, although it was now partially hidden in the yew hedge, it was possible that people still used it. After all, robins were known for being friendly little birds, especially if the person they were keeping company was digging…
She followed the tiny bird as it darted to and fro between two of the larger memorials, and immediately she could see the source of the robin’s excitement. Between two of the graves a triangular flower bed had been freshly dug and planted with winter flowering pansies. A small fork and trowel lay close by, along with a green canvas bag. Of their owner she could see no trace, but as Freya grew closer, a gentle voice floated up from behind one of the headstones.
‘Hello, little one,’ it said.
Freya smiled, knowing instantly who the voice was talking to. It was exactly how she addressed robins herself whenever they perched close by. Judging by the tilt of their heads, they always seemed to know they were being spoken to, and she loved the gleam in their intelligent black eyes.
She moved forward a little hesitantly. Freya didn’t hold with whispers and tiptoes in the graveyard; to her, the place was as much about the living as the dead, but she did respect other people’s need for privacy. She didn’t want to blunder into someone’s precious time with a relative, but neither did she want to creep up on them without announcing her presence. Of course, the person behind the gravestone might well not be the one she was looking for, and then a rather awkward conversation would ensue.
Freya sauntered past the flower bed, stopping to look at it in admiration before moving beyond the grave and on towards the memorials as if she wanted to study their inscriptions. As she turned, she was now able to see the figure who had previously been hidden from view. Her back was towards her, but Freya instantly recognised the woman she had seen here before. She was tending the grave, arranging the stems of some bright orange and purple dahlias in a vase, and at her side lay the most beautiful foliage wreath.
Freya cleared her throat, but there was no response. Instead, the woman began to speak herself.
‘There you are now, Mrs Roberts. Didn’t I tell you he would bring you your favourite flowers next time? The most beautiful colours they are too. A deep burnt orange and purple the exact same colour as a red cabbage.’ She paused for a moment to adjust a stem. ‘He’s definitely a keeper,’ she said. ‘Any man who goes to the trouble of finding you your favourite flowers is worth hanging on to I reckon. What do you say?’
The flowers were certainly beautiful, and Freya smiled at the words. They were just the sort of daft thing she would say to her dad. The voice continued.
‘And you look absolutely beautiful, Ethel, doesn’t she Ted? That must be the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen. Brings out the colour of your eyes too. Speaking of which…’ She reached down to lift up the wreath from beside her. ‘I made this for you. After all it’s not every day you get to celebrate an anniversary, is it? I hope you like it.’
Freya couldn’t help herself. ‘I think it’s perfect,’ she said, realising too late that she had intruded into a private conversation. She expected to receive a withering glare, but the woman moved only to lay the wreath in front of the headstone.
‘Now you two have the most magical day, won’t you?’ she said, as she began to rise. ‘And remember…don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’
The smile was still on her lips as she stood and turned, dying the instant she saw Freya. A hand rose to her chest.
