and the gardens at the back, although not very large, gave onto rolling fields. Fields that belonged to the wealthy landowner Sir Owen Sherwood, so there was no danger of them being developed to expand the village. There was always talk of the need for more houses, but that land prevented them from being built there, in Dennis and Marigold’s view. The farm was so big, with woodland and fields, that the whole eastern side of the village was protected from developers, while the western side was protected by the sea. It was an idyllic place to live. The only complaint, if Marigold had one, which she didn’t like to admit to because it went against her nature to moan, was that the big supermarket, built in the 1980s a few miles outside the village, had stolen much of her business. Still, she took care to stock essential items as well as gifts, and the post office, of course, was useful to the locals. She made a decent living. So did Dennis. They were comfortable and happy.
Tasha was already in the shop when Marigold appeared. A single mother with two children under ten and the unfortunate disposition of being a little delicate, Tasha was not someone who could be relied upon. Her children were often sick, too, or she needed to stay home for an electrician or a delivery, or she was overtired and run-down and required the odd day at home to rest. Marigold was indulgent. She didn’t like confrontation and she didn’t like hard feelings. And she reasoned that, although Tasha wasn’t very dependable, she was a nice, smiley presence to have around the shop, and that counted for a lot. The customers liked her because she was polite and charming, and when she was there, she did the job well. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, Marigold figured.
‘You’re here,’ said Marigold, pleasantly surprised.
‘Well, I was wondering if I could leave a little early today. Milly’s in a play and I promised I’d help with the make-up.’
Marigold could hardly deny her that. ‘Of course you can. What play is it?’ And Tasha told her about it as she began a stocktake of the shelves. ‘Did you remember to order baked beans, Marigold?’ she asked. ‘We’re totally out of them and they’re very popular.’
‘Baked beans? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I asked you last week. Remember?’
Marigold didn’t remember. She couldn’t even recall having had the conversation. ‘How odd. I’ll do it right away.’
At nine Eileen Utley came in. She bought some milk, then spent the next hour chatting to the locals, who filed in one after the other to buy a newspaper, a pint of milk or to post a parcel. Eileen enjoyed watching the bustle of village life. It made her feel part of the place, rather than on the periphery, which was what staying at home with the telly did.
The shop was quite busy when Lady Sherwood came in. Elegant in a loden coat and matching green hat, she smiled at Marigold. Although the two women were of similar age, Lady Sherwood looked a decade younger. Her skin was smooth, her make-up carefully applied and her shoulder-length blonde hair had no sign of grey. It was obvious to Marigold that she had it dyed, but it appeared natural nonetheless. Marigold wondered whether her effortless glamour was due to her being Canadian. She imagined women from that part of the world were naturally glamorous, like film stars. Marigold had never crossed the Atlantic and Lady Sherwood’s Canadian accent gave her a thrilling sense of the exotic.
‘Good morning, Marigold,’ said Lady Sherwood agreeably. However, as friendly as her manner was she still succeeded in maintaining a certain distance, due to their very different stations in life, she the wife of a squire and Marigold the wife of a carpenter. Though, as Nan liked to point out, ‘There was once a simple carpenter . . .’
‘Good morning, Lady Sherwood,’ said Marigold from behind the counter. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Are you making Christmas puddings again this year?’
‘Yes, I am. Would you like one?’
‘Yes, I’d like two, please. My son’s coming over from Toronto and we’re going to be a lot of people. They went down very well last year.’
‘Oh good. I’m happy to hear that.’ Marigold pictured the
Sherwoods’ grand dining room filled with elegant people eating her Christmas puddings and felt a rush of pride.