Page 87 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Over the past few weeks as Freya’s days had become busier, and her visits to her dad were earlier in the day, she had noticed another frequent visitor to the churchyard; a young woman, who looked much the same age as she, though tiny in stature. They had exchanged smiles on occasion, or at least Freya had, but they’d never spoken, and for some reason she intrigued Freya. It was her dog that Freya had noticed first: a huge Irish wolfhound that was almost as tall as the woman herself, and after that Freya found herself looking out for the slight figure with the beautiful heart-shaped face and huge almond eyes. She had an air of sadness about her, which was perhaps not unusual given the setting, but in all the times Freya had seen her, she had been in a different part of the churchyard, tending to a different grave, which was perhaps slightly odd. She lay flowers and wreaths, talking all the while just like Freya did, but whether this was to herself or the occupants of the ground beneath her, Freya didn’t know.
Today, apart from the footprints in the grass, Freya could see no sign of her, and placing her wilted flowers and clippings on the compost heap, she returned to finish her own tidying.
Ten minutes or so later, she was done. She couldn’t stay too long; the day was going to be lengthy as it was, and the sooner she got back to Appleyard, the sooner she could give Sam a hand with the myriad tasks that needed attention.
‘I’ll be back on Sunday, Dad, so you make sure you keep out of trouble until then, won’t you?’
She touched her fingers to her lips and placed them on top of the white marble headstone for a moment before getting to her feet.
‘Bye Dad,’ she called.
The sun was fully around the side of the church by the time Freya made her way back down the main path to the lane outside. It lit up the wet grass, setting it sparkling and she stopped for a moment to watch a robin whose beady eye was also on the ground, although for an entirely different reason. As she watched, it flew to perch on a gravestone for a second before swooping to the freshly turned earth in front of it. The little bird darted off again, a prize worm in its mouth, but not before something else had caught Freya’s eye. Aside from the late flowering geraniums planted there, a beautiful wreath had been laid upon the grave, and Freya’s feet moved towards it before she could stop herself.
She had spent the last few weeks endlessly searching through images on the internet and in wedding magazines for something which resembled the idea she had in her head; an idea which was refusing to go away until satisfied. None of the pictures she had seen had quite captured the look she was trying to achieve and, with their wedding at the end of the month, she was getting short on time. All the wedding flowers she’d seen were too ordered, too uniform; she wanted hers to be exuberant, a little unruly even, but above everything else, a celebration of the season and their harvest. The wreath lying in front of her was all these things and more, and Freya’s heart began to beat a little faster. This was exactly what she had been looking for.
With a quick glance around her, she dropped to her knees, reaching out with tentative fingers to trace the outline of the leaves and to touch the vibrant berries and fruits; bright orange hips, the rosy red of crab apples, the deep purple damsons. Freya had never seen anything quite like it. It looked home-made and, although some of the leaves seemed to have been preserved in glycerine, the rest of the wreath looked as if it had been plucked from the hedgerow that morning. Her head darted up again, scanning the churchyard for any sign of life, but whoever had laid this wreath was long gone; Freya was on her own.
She checked her watch, grimacing at the time, and reluctantly stood up. She must get on with her day, but one thing was suddenly very clear in her mind; even if she had to stake out the churchyard, somehow, she would get to know the maker of this beautiful wreath, and she had just over three weeks to do it.
* * *
Laura liked having the churchyard to herself. This early in the morning there were rarely any other visitors, and those that had come, so far, had obeyed the unwritten rules of the churchyard. Grief was such a personal thing. It was private, unobtrusive. It swathed those suffering from it in a cloak of invisibility, made them unapproachable, even among their own kind. People didn’t talk about death. Eyes remained downcast, conversations were muted, and voices kept low; this had always been Laura’s experience, until Freya started coming to visit.
She had never got close enough to Freya to make out what she was saying, but she could see her lips moving and her arms waving, and she knew that during the whole time she visited her dad, the words never stopped. Nothing unusual about that as such; lots of people talked to their loved ones during visits, but what was rare was that Freya didn’t seem to obey the unwritten rules. She laughed, she spoke in a normal voice, her mouth was open and expressive, not closed and tightened as most people’s were when they whispered or spoke softly, embarrassed. She spoke to her father as if he was standing next to her, even cocking her head to one side and listening for his reply. Freya greeted other people in the churchyard too, and not the scurrying polite head nod that most people achieved, but a broad, smiling greeting, and it unnerved Laura a great deal.
Today though, as Laura watched the young woman leave the churchyard, she had seen something else. Something that she recognised in herself, and which intrigued her even more. Freya had stopped by one of the wreaths Laura had made, and in that singular moment it was as if everything else around Freya, save for the wreath, had paled from view. It was a sensation Laura often felt herself, particularly on a day like today when the colour of the landscape, or of a particular leaf transfixed her with wonder. Freya had reached out, almost holding her breath and the reverent look on her face echoed something deep within Laura. In a matter of moments Freya had gone, but she had left behind something that Laura hadn’t felt in a long time, and a tiny, but nonetheless vital spark began to glow.
47
Laura was just about to pop another chocolate into her mouth when two hairy feet landed on the work surface beside her as Boris made his presence known. Reluctantly, she returned the chocolate to the tray in front of her, moving it swiftly out of the dog’s reach. Despite the fact that they would do him no good at all, he seemed particularly attracted to these and, whenever she made them, would try every trick in the book to try to pinch one. So far, she had managed to evade his wily ways.
‘Is that my shopping?’ she queried the dog, with a glance at her watch as she moved out into the hallway. Sure enough she could see the outline of someone through the frosted half glass in her door. The figure was too tall to be her usual delivery driver, but she pulled open the door anyway.
A rather nervous-looking young man stood there with a stack of plastic crates on a trolley.
Sometimes, Laura played a little game with them, when she was feeling in a particularly ruthless mood, but today had been a good one, so she smiled benevolently.
‘Can you just pop them here?’ she said, indicating a spot just beyond her door mat. ‘That’ll be fine.’
She gave Boris a stern command to sit while she ferried the bags back and forth to her kitchen, each time returning to give the delivery man a polite smile as he handed her more. When she had finished, she held out her hand to sign for the delivery and bade him a cheerful goodbye. He hadn’t spoken once, but at least he hadn’t shouted.
She realised her mistake as soon as she picked up the last bag. While it contained some breakfast cereal, a bottle of washing up liquid, a bag of rice and some lentils, it did not contain her two loaves of bread. Why on earth had she let the driver go without checking things first like she usually did? It didn’t happen very often admittedly, but, on the few occasions that something had been missing from her order, it had always been discovered, still on the van, in a rogue bag that had somehow become separated from the rest. Now she would have to go and buy more. The making of a delicious leek and potato soup had also been on the day’s agenda and she couldn’t bear the thought of eating it without fresh bread.
Laura picked up a clean tea towel and draped it over the chocolates, snatching up one at the last minute and stuffing it into her mouth. She reached up to the hook on the back door and took down the dog lead that hung there.
‘Come on, Boris,’ she called. ‘Walkies…again!’
It was just over a mile and a half into the village, so by the time she got back she would have lost most of the afternoon, but at least it meant she wouldn’t have to go out again later in the day. A couple of new books had been delivered yesterday, and she was looking forward to an evening of reading. Taking this particular route into the village also meant that she could check to see how the bilberries along the edge of the Williams’ wood were coming along. By her reckoning, they should be pretty much perfect.
* * *
Stephen wasn’t entirely sure he was enjoying exercise yet, but he had stuck at it, and it was getting easier. He was notching up several miles a day on his bike now, and even Long Lane hill didn’t torture him quite as much any more. He was almost at the top now and looking forward to cresting the rise. On a day like today it was easy to see why people enjoyed cycling. The wind was almost non-existent; the air still warmed by the sun but with just enough bite to feel refreshing, and the view from the top of the hill would make everything worthwhile. The road sloped downwards, straight and true before disappearing around a sharp left-hand bend at the bottom. On one side, rich red earth stretched out in glistening furrows as far as he could see, and on the other, the deep blue of the sky was filled with majestic red, orange and yellow leaves from the trees that bordered the road.
He heard the car before he saw it, the engine roaring as it changed up into third and then fourth gear. He didn’t think it was behind him, but as yet Stephen couldn’t see where it was coming from. It was unusual enough to meet cars down this lane; it was narrow and there was a much quicker road away from the village that took most of the traffic, but the vehicles that did use it were never travelling this fast. His bike was building up speed as he travelled downhill, and he braked automatically, trying to retract his feet from the toe clips that held his feet fast on the pedals. One came loose almost immediately, but Stephen had always found the other much harder to disengage. He hadn’t been riding for that long and didn’t quite have the knack yet. Something told him that he would need to stop soon, though, and pretty quickly, judging by the speed the car must be going. With his feet stuck in clips, there was only one possible outcome and Stephen knew from bitter experience that it would be painful.
He was still wrestling with his pedal when the car shot around the bend at the bottom of the road. By now, Stephen was almost halfway down the lane himself and as the car tore into the thick hedge at the side of the road, he could see that the driver had lost control and out of instinct yanked the steering wheel away from hedge, propelling the car onto the other side of the road and straight into his path. As he frantically tried to free his left foot, he leaned on his own brakes, making for the other side of the road. A flash of colour caught his eye as he swerved, an automatic yell leaving his lips in warning as, too late, he registered the slight figure in front of him calmly picking something from the bushes.
* * *
