books of first-class stamps while I’m here. Thank you.’
Marigold gave her the stamps and carefully wrote the Christmas pudding order in her red notebook. She noticed Lady Sherwood’s fine leather gloves and the gracious way she moved her hands and thought her the most stylish woman she’d ever met. When Lady Sherwood departed, leaving a lingering smell of expensive perfume, Eileen leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. ‘As you know, I’m not one to gossip, but I’ve heard that father and son don’t get along at all,’ she said. ‘That’s why the lad went to live in Canada.’
Marigold put the red book beneath the counter. ‘Oh dear, that’s sad. There’s nothing as important as family,’ she said, her heart warming once more at the thought of seeing Daisy. She’d be on her way to the airport, she suspected.
‘I don’t know what will happen to the estate when Sir Owen pops off,’ Eileen continued. ‘I gather Taran makes a lot of money in Canada.’
‘If Sir Owen lives as long as you, Eileen, Taran won’t inherit for another fifty years!’
‘He’s the only child. It will be his duty to come back and run the estate. Sir Owen’s a man who understands the countryside, like his father, Hector, did. Now he was a good and decent person and let my father live in one of his cottages rent free when he lost his job and took months to find a new one. I don’t think Taran is like them. I think he’s one of those banking people who only think about making money.’
‘How do you come to that conclusion, Eileen?’
‘Sylvia’s not a gossip, but she lets the odd thing slip out,’ said Eileen, referring to the Sherwoods’ housekeeper, a good-natured, slow-moving fifty-year-old who had worked for the family for over a decade. ‘When Sir Owen pops off there’ll be trouble.’ And she licked her bottom lip at the thought of such excitement.
Marigold tried to get on with serving people while Eileen shared the village gossip. She had something to say about everyone who came into the shop. John Porter was squabbling with his neighbour Pete Dickens over a magnolia tree which had grown too big, and Mary Hanson’s St Bernard had killed Dolly Nesbit’s cat, causing Dolly to drop into a dead faint in the middle of the green. ‘She’s still in bed recovering,’ said Eileen. ‘Mary has offered to find her a new cat but Dolly says her Precious is irreplaceable. If you ask me that dog should be put down. No one should have a dog the size of a horse running loose about the village.’ Jean Miller, who had recently been widowed, was struggling to cope with living on her own. ‘Poor dear. I can tell her that you get used to it after a while and there’s always the TV for company. I love Bake Off, especially, and Strictly Come Dancing, but there are all sorts of things to watch these days. That nice Cedric Weatherby, you know, the one who’s just moved into Gloria’s old house, made her a cake and took it round. It had enough brandy in it to put her out for a week!’ Then there was the Commodore, who lived in a much-admired Georgian house with his wife Phyllida, and had resorted to shooting moles from his bedroom window. ‘He tried gassing them with a pipe attached to his car exhaust but that backfired and he nearly gassed himself,’ said Eileen gleefully. ‘He says they’re a plague, putting mud hills all over his lawn, but since reading Beatrix Potter as a child I’ve always been rather partial to the furry little friends.’
At midday Nan wandered in, complaining of the cold. ‘It’s Siberian!’ she said as she hurried through the door, bringing snow in on her shoes. ‘Ah, lovely and warm in here.’ She waited for Marigold to finish serving and then reminded her about the digestive biscuits.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mum. I forgot. Eileen’s been distracting me,’ she said.
‘Our Daisy’s coming home today,’ said Nan with a smile. ‘Suze is none too happy about it. They’re going to have to share a room.’
‘She’s home a bit early for Christmas, isn’t she?’ said Eileen.
Before Marigold could make something up, Nan had told the biggest gossip in the village about Daisy and Luca’s split.
‘I’m sure they’ll kiss and make up,’ said Marigold, struggling to do some damage control.
But Nan shook her head. ‘I think over means over, Marigold,’ she said. ‘You don’t break up after