‘Six,’ she repeated as she wrote it down. Then, just to be sure she didn’t forget, after he had gone she wrote it in the little book she kept in her pocket. There, in two places. Foolproof!
Susan Glenn came in to post a parcel just before lunch, then Dolly came in for stamps, the Commodore’s wife Phyllida for bread and Julia Cobbold to tell Marigold that Daisy was now going to draw her terrier, Toby, and was due in this very afternoon to make friends with him. ‘She’s very good with dogs,’ said Julia. ‘Most people get barked at, especially men in those ghastly yellow jackets. You should see them, these big, burly men, being terrorized by Toby. But he doesn’t bark at Daisy.’
A couple came in just after Julia left and greeted Marigold as if they knew her, but Marigold thought they must have made a mistake, because she’d never seen them before. However, she was very polite and friendly, just in case it was her memory playing up again. Nowadays she couldn’t be sure.
Eileen appeared and leaned on the counter, in her usual place, and told Marigold that Sylvia had overheard Taran and his mother talking and it appeared that Sir Owen had left his estate to his son, rather than his wife. ‘Which is strange, considering he knew that his son wasn’t interested in running the farm. Poor Lady Sherwood! Sylvia says she’s much too upset about his death to worry about her future. Poor dear, it probably hasn’t occurred to her that he might sell it.’
‘Sell it?’ Marigold gasped. ‘I’m sure he won’t do that. I’m sure he’ll wait until his mother dies to do that. And she’s young and fit, she’ll go on for another twenty years, at least.’
‘Taran lives and works in Toronto. Lady Sherwood is Canadian so maybe she’ll go back. No point them both being on separate continents now that she’s a widow. She’ll want to be near him, won’t she? And Toronto is home for her, after all.’
‘But the manager can run it for him, can’t he? He’s a good manager is David Pullman.’
Eileen shook her head. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Marigold. But we don’t want Taran selling it. You never know who we’ll get living up there. Up until now we’ve been fortunate with Sir Owen allowing us to walk on his land. Can you imagine if we get an undesirable? It will be out of bounds. What a sadness that would be.’
Marigold frowned. She hoped he didn’t sell it to a developer. She knew how hard Sir Owen had fought off those avaricious people who had no appreciation of green fields for their beauty, only for how much money they could make building on them. ‘I’m sure he won’t turf his mother out of her home,’ said Marigold finally. That thought cheered her up a bit. There was no way, in her view, that a son could be so callous to his mother. Toronto might have been home to her when she was a young woman, but she had lived the greater part of her life in England.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Eileen, screwing up her nose. ‘I don’t think Taran is a very nice man.’
Tasha manned the shop while Marigold went to get something to eat. Nan was having her hair done in town. She had a wash and set once a week and nothing stood in the way of it – her hairstyle hadn’t changed since the 1950s. Marigold made a salad with cold ham and new potatoes in butter and went to ask Dennis if he wanted to share it with her. Dennis was delighted there was lunch on the table and eagerly followed her up the garden to the house. ‘You’re an angel, Goldie,’ he said.
Marigold was pleased to be appreciated. She laid his place and put the food on the table. Then she sat down. ‘Eileen says Taran wants to sell the farm.’
Dennis knitted his eyebrows. ‘I think that’s highly unlikely. He’s not going to tell his mother she can’t live there anymore. And Sir Owen would turn in his grave if he did.’
‘That’s what I think,’ said Marigold. ‘He left the farm to Taran, probably hoping that he’d rise to the challenge and make something of it.’
‘Sir Owen was a shrewd man, Goldie. If he left it to his son, then he did so knowing he would take care of his mother. Taran isn’t the