dark and cold when she set off up the path and she was always alone. By the time she had reached the top of the hill she was short of breath and hot, and the sun was a glowing coal rising slowly out of the eastern horizon. If she had known how magical that time of the morning was, up there by herself, she would have come sooner. The air was crisp and clean, the weedy smell of the ocean ripe and uplifting, the sound of seabirds waking to a new day enchanting. It was as if she had sneaked backstage and was witnessing the world preparing for the daily show. There was a stillness in spite of the motion of the waves and the gulls in flight, of the wind blowing off the water and the rising sun; a deep, eternal stillness that, in those moments of contemplation, Marigold felt inside herself. She took deep breaths. She filled her lungs and she felt her chest expand with gratitude for her life, for that is what beauty did to Marigold, it made her feel grateful.
She walked briskly along the path where she had walked so many times over the years. She wistfully recalled those times as the dawn broke and turned the sea pink and the light caught the edges of the clouds and turned them pink also, like candyfloss. And the candyfloss reminded her of the summer fair where her parents had taken her and her younger brother Patrick, as a treat. How sweet it had been on her tongue. Marigold relived the delight of those happy childhood outings, taking the time to dwell on each one because she had the time up there on the cliff path, as much as she wanted.
She relished this hour alone, without anyone making demands on her. She loved looking after her family, and yet she treasured the sense of freedom that being alone in nature gave her. She listened to the wind and the cries of seabirds, the roaring of the ocean and her own deep breaths, and it was as if she was being refilled, for when she returned home she was buoyant and bursting with energy and enthusiasm. She had even forgotten about her forgetfulness.
A week before Christmas she was in the shop listening to Eileen sharing the village gossip, when a ruggedly handsome man walked in. Marigold knew she’d seen him before, but she couldn’t place him. Eileen stopped mid-sentence and stared. The young man walked up to the counter and smiled. It was the kind of smile that could launch a thousand ships, Marigold thought, even though she did not like the fashion for long hair and unshaven faces.
Eileen smiled up at him with all the charm she could muster. She barely reached his waist. ‘Taran Sherwood,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you grown up. I remember you when you were a boy,’ she said. ‘I’m Eileen Utley. And this is Marigold.’
Then Marigold remembered him as well. She also remembered what an obnoxious little boy he had been. ‘Home for Christmas?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s been a year since I was last home,’ Taran replied and the slight intonation in his voice suggested a glamorous life across the Atlantic. He looked at her with eyes as green as aventurine and she was embarrassed that a woman like her could find a man of his age attractive.
‘Your parents must be happy to see you,’ said Eileen and her gaze intensified, searching for any sign of discord.
‘I think so,’ he replied.
Marigold sensed he did not want to be scrutinized. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘I’ve come to pick up the Christmas puddings for my mother.’
Marigold searched for any memory of a Christmas pudding but found nothing. Just a blank. A great big cavernous blank.
The door opened, the little bell tinkled, and their attention was diverted to Daisy in a scarlet coat and purple bobble hat, coming in with a happy smile on her face. She noticed Taran at once, but she was used to good-looking men, having lived in Italy, and simply acknowledged him with a breezy ‘Hello’.
Taran turned back to Marigold. Daisy sensed her mother’s anxiety. Her smile faltered. ‘Mum, can I help?’ she asked.
‘I’m just trying to recall a pair of Christmas puddings that were ordered,’ she said, beginning to search through papers beneath the counter with a trembling hand.
‘You wrote it in your red book,’ said Eileen helpfully.
‘Did I?’ said Marigold. She felt the ground spinning away from