Page 42 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Christopher Marchmont, she typed, waiting for the search engine to spring to life. Immediately, the page was covered in text, most of it relating to a firm of architects, but there, almost at the bottom, was an entry from some art journal, with Christopher’s name, and one word that caught her eye: designer.
She clicked open the link and the page was filled with images, some of them startlingly similar to the canvases they had found today. One, in particular, caught her eye and, as she peered at the screen, she suddenly realised that she was looking at the design on the orange canvas that she had liked so much. Here, it was interspersed with another pattern, and repeated over and over. It was a wallpaper design. She sat up a little straighter.
As she scrolled down the page, a flicker of excitement began to run down her spine. She gave Tom a nudge.
‘Look at this, I think I’ve just found our mystery painter.’ Her lips twitched as she carried on reading.
‘It must be him, see? It says here that he lived in Herefordshire and in his early career was a portrait painter, but his love of bold design and colour led him to experiment with patterns and textiles, until eventually in his forties, he gained renown as a textile and print artist, until the…Oh…’ Merry’s hand flew unbidden to her mouth.
‘What is it?’ asked Tom, leaning over to see.
Merry’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh no, that’s horrible.’ She pointed her finger to a place on the screen. ‘…Until the death of his wife and child within a year of each other forced him to abandon his career.’
Tom sat looking, first at his wife, and then back to the screen, not knowing what to say. It would seem that Christopher’s career had been over just as soon as it had begun.
Merry shoved the laptop into Tom’s hands. There was something she needed to see. She rushed into the dining room, where for now the canvases and other items they had salvaged were laid on the table. At first, she couldn’t find it, until she remembered she had placed it under a heavy book to help flatten it out. She lifted up the sketch that she had found on the first day, and held it to the light. She had left it to dry out in the storeroom hoping that as it dried more detail might appear. She was right, and as she gazed at it now, the sweep of hair, the bright eyes, and the hint of a mouth, she knew with upmost certainty that she was staring at a sketch of Christopher’s dead daughter, Catherine Marchmont.
19
April
Well, at least it wasn’t raining, thought Freya, as she forked another load of mulch onto the ground. After the horrible wet March they’d endured, there had been a week of beautiful spring days, and the blue skies had lifted her spirits like no other. Today was mild, but overcast, and she hoped for a return of the sunshine as she worked. It was as if the orchard held its breath. In another couple of weeks, with an exuberant release, it would lift its riot of blooms to the skies, gently filling the air with their perfume, a whispered enticement for the bees, like a lover’s caress. She eyed the delicate buds above her and prayed for the sun.
From the other end of the line, Sam waved to her, as he too moved among the trees. It wasn’t a race because it was important to do the job properly, but as Freya looked up from time to time, she knew that she would make sure they arrived roughly in the middle, and not at some sixty/forty split down the line. She had never dreamed she’d be working alongside Sam, and it was important to her that she held her own. After the death of her father last year, she had barely had time to accomplish all the tasks in the orchard by herself, and at times it had seemed overwhelming, but she had got through it. She was stronger because of it, and this year she was determined that Appleyard would be the very best it could be.
It was hard physical work, but the rhythm of it soothed her, gave her mind time to wander, and dream a little. It was the time when she came up with her best ideas, and as Merry and Tom’s shop was coming on a pace, it wouldn’t be long before they started to think about what products they might stock. Freya was anxious that this year, she would not dwell on where she had been, but only where she was going. Inevitably, her mind turned to her neighbouring farm, Braeburn, and its now sole occupant: Sam’s brother, Stephen.
She had only seen him a couple of times since Christmas and, despite her previous opinion of him, the help that he had given her in her hour of need was not something she would forget. Gone had been the cocky irritating manner on that occasion with, in its place, a rather more thoughtful, grown-up version of Stephen. She hoped it was a change he could maintain; she didn’t like to think ill of anyone, and it was time Stephen found some real happiness of his own, and not one fuelled by booze or a succession of women. Something told her that the transition wasn’t necessarily going to be an easy one, though; a leopard doesn’t change its spots that quickly.
Sam was still working away, and Freya watched the steady rise and fall as his body bent and straightened in his task. She wondered how he was feeling, putting in the hours here, rather than at the house he had called home for all of his life. Everybody knew it was he who had kept the Henderson’s orchard going, and he must feel odd being so distant from it now, leaving his brother to do all the work. On the surface he seemed okay with it all, but she would make sure she asked him about it soon.
As it happened, Sam must have been thinking the same thing. As soon as they were close enough to hear one another, he called across to her. ‘So how do you reckon Braeburn’s trees are faring at the moment then?’
Freya squinted in the general direction of their neighbouring farm. ‘I don’t know; I’d like to think they’re doing well, but—’ She broke off as she noticed Sam’s rather forced nonchalance. ‘Would it hurt to go round? Not to check up or anything, I can’t imagine Stephen being chuffed with that, but just as a “how are you” sort of a visit. You might be able to glean how things are going.’
‘I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but you know…old habits and all that.’
‘Sam,’ said Freya sternly, ‘it was your home, and it’s natural to care about what happens to it; in fact, it would be unnatural if you didn’t. You invested a lot of your life and hard work into making it a success, it would be impossible just to turn your back on it and pretend it didn’t happen.’
‘I know, but I don’t want you to think—’
This time she silenced him with a kiss. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort, you numpty. I know how committed you are to me, and to Appleyard. In fact, it only makes me love you more knowing that after all that happened with Stephen you still care.’
Sam smiled, knowing that, as usual Freya had summed up the situation pretty accurately. He pulled her closer. ‘So if you love me even more now, I’m, er, wondering how much that is exactly…’
Freya skipped backwards, raising her pitchfork slightly. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ She laughed. ‘We’ve still got far too much to do yet. Besides if we finish up here earlier than planned, you could use the time to pop over to Braeburn, couldn’t you?’
There was a loud groan. ‘Sometimes, Freya Sherborne, you can be far too practical for your own good.’
She stuck out her tongue. ‘I’ll meet you back here in the middle in about an hour then, yes?’
The pork was sizzling nicely as the kitchen door opened later that day. Freya poured in a healthy glug of cider and watched contentedly as it bubbled away, before turning around, the welcoming smile on her face dying in an instant.
‘Well, that went well,’ muttered Sam, kicking the door closed. ‘I hate to say it, Freya, but your dreams of us all living happily ever after might be a little premature. The bastard all but threw me out.’
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Sam cut across her.
‘And before you say anything, no, I did not go in there playing the arrogant I-told-you-so card. I was as nice as I could be, but his opening line was still, “Come here to gloat, have you?” There wasn’t an awful lot I could do.’
