as that.’
Daisy was excited about her new profession, although a little nervous. It had been a while since she’d done a portrait. Might she have forgotten how to do it? Would her picture be any good? At least Mary wasn’t paying, but still, she’d be very disappointed if it didn’t look anything like Bernie.
That afternoon she borrowed her mother’s car and drove into town to buy supplies. Her mother had told her there was a good art shop on the high street where she could get paint and paper, but when she got there she couldn’t find it. She walked up and down a few times, dwelling occasionally on the happy memories certain parts of the street inspired, until she finally resorted to asking someone. ‘Oh, that shop hasn’t been here for twenty years,’ said the passer-by. ‘I know the one you mean. It used to sell proper stuff for artists. I’d order online if I were you. There’s nothing of that quality here now.’
Daisy was baffled. Her mother was a regular in this town. She must know every inch of the place. It wasn’t very big. How had she not noticed that the art shop had closed down twenty years ago. But then she didn’t paint, Daisy reasoned, so why would she notice it had gone? She’d probably bought some supplies for her when she was a little girl and painting was her passion, and then not noticed when it disappeared. She would tell her when she got home and they would have a laugh about it.
Later she found her mother in the shop, chatting to Eileen. Eileen was leaning on the counter, talking about the Commodore. ‘He’s going to flood the ground with water when it freezes, so that the mole holes block up with ice. It seems a little cruel to me, but I don’t want to speak ill of anyone. I mean, those moles don’t know what a nuisance they are, do they? I bet there’s a perfectly humane way of trapping them. He should look it up on the internet. You can get everything on Amazon these days, you know.’
Marigold turned to Daisy. ‘Hello, dear. What are you up to?’
Daisy was on the point of telling her about the art shop when something stopped her. A strange feeling in the middle of her chest where her intuition was. She noticed her mother looked tired. Perhaps now wasn’t the time. After all, if she was getting forgetful, teasing her about it might not be very kind. She decided to let it go. ‘Nothing,’ she replied breezily. ‘Just popping in to say hello.’
The reason for the strange feeling was confirmed when, later that evening, her mother sat at the kitchen table with her book of Sudoku. ‘This is very taxing,’ she said to Nan, who was good at Sudoku. ‘I can feel my brain aching.’
‘It’s doing it good,’ said Nan. ‘Though nothing stops the ageing process. That’s just life and the only thing we can do is accept it.’
Daisy sat down. ‘Mum, are you seriously worried?’
‘No,’ Marigold replied a little too quickly. ‘Not at all. I’m just getting on a bit as Nan says.’
‘Good, because you don’t need to worry. You’re all there.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘And sixty-six is not old, by the way.’
‘Wait until you’re eighty-six. That’s old. I’ve one foot in the grave and the other on a bar of soap,’ said Nan. ‘One false move and it’s curtains.’
Suze sat in the café in town. It was quiet and warm and she had a large soya milk latte beside her, which made her job more enjoyable. She’d read an interview with an author once who had said that the key to writing a book was to make your work space as pleasant as possible; that way, you’ll always want to get back to it. Suze eyed the flapjacks on the counter and knew that one of those would most definitely enhance the appeal of hers, but do nothing positive for her figure, so she restrained herself. It was too unrestful at home to write there, now that Nan and Daisy had come to live with them. Before Nan had moved in Suze had had the kitchen to herself. It had provided the perfect ambience for her writing. Now she had to share it, and Nan was a real chatterbox. That was the trouble with old people, she thought, they didn’t know how to edit their stories. They went on and on and on. Unimportant details,