Sunshine at Daisy’s Guesthouse: A heartwarming summer romance to escape with in 2018!. Lottie Phillips

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      ‘Nigel.’ He had proffered a limp handshake. ‘Oh, you’re another friend of Tom’s, are you?’ he had said, his voice so far back, it was probably being wired over from a previous era. ‘Well, any friend of Tom’s is no friend of mine.’

      ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she had said, resisting the urge to slap him across the face.

      His mangy mutt stood at his owner’s feet, baring his teeth and looking like he wanted to eat Daisy for his breakfast.

      ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘Don’t you and…’ She indicated the dog.

      ‘Bitsy.’

      ‘Ah.’ She forced a smile and looked him the eye. ‘Don’t you and Bitsy look so alike.’

      Nigel nodded and then pulled a face. ‘Yah, I suppose we do.’

      Her phone buzzed in her pocket: James. He too was already halfway to London, apparently to collect more belongings. He had been very happy to stay on the sofa last night until rooms were sorted. Daisy had already decided he could have the one next to hers. It would make her feel safe knowing he was near. He was to keep his apartment back in London; he owned it outright and Daisy was grateful. That was one less person to entirely financially support. She loved Tom and Lisa to bits – they were as much family to her as her own had ever been – but to think they would quit their jobs, albeit jobs in a restaurant and bar, and now they were giving up their shared home too. It didn’t bear thinking about and she had to remind herself that if it didn’t work out, which she suspected it might not, they could all go back to how they were. She was sure the restaurant would want them back. On the other hand, she was positive the landlord wouldn’t want them back polluting his Cirencester house but there were other rented houses out there. She nodded; yes, they were grown-ups and really, they could make their own decisions.

      Her phone beeped again. Tom.

      ‘Daisy, darling, have dropped credit card down the outside drain trying to break into house. Could be longer than expected.’

      They still only had one key between them, she realised, and shook her head in disbelief.

      ‘Don’t worry, taking tour of my own house. Scared.’

      Moments later: ‘Don’t be scared. We love you.’

      She smiled and felt a surge of strength. Now, standing at the top of the stairs, she bypassed her and Hugh’s bedroom and walked to the first unused bedroom. She drew a deep breath and pushed the door open. It squeaked loudly on its hinges and a rush of stale air hit her square on. Tiptoeing, as if not to disturb its dormancy, she made her way to the window and pulled open the internal shutters letting the light flood in. She turned and looked back at the room, her eyes immediately stopping at the fireplace. How they had argued over that fireplace! The thought sent a shock of pain through her and her breath caught.

      ‘I think we should rip it out,’ Hugh had said adamantly. ‘I mean, it’s not functional.’

      ‘No!’ She crossed her arms. ‘We are not ripping it out, that would be like ripping out someone’s heart. It is part of the fabric of this house. We just clean it up and it becomes a feature.’ She had closed her eyes, wishing that Hugh had some sort of mind that didn’t involve maths. He would not be subtracting this one from the room, not whilst she lived in the house.

      Then she had felt a kiss, ever so gentle, on her nose. ‘You funny thing. If it means that much to you, we keep it. You know best, after all…’

      Daisy returned to the present, her eyes smarting with these fresh memories. She supposed that would keep happening. The remembering stuff.

      The question now was could she do this? Was she strong enough? Maybe Tom, Lisa and James were wrong; maybe she was herein meant to be a sombre widow who would grow old in the quiet pattern of the life she had adopted since Hugh’s death. But then, a movement at the window caught her eye. It was Mr Robin: a gardener’s best friend and, to her mind, Hugh’s best friend. As Hugh gardened, no matter the time of year, Mr Robin would appear. She felt for the latch on the window and gently pushed it open. Mr Robin stayed put.

      ‘What do you think, Mr Robin? Can I do this?’

      As if to answer he bobbed closer and to her utter amazement, he entered the room and sat delicately on the wrought iron radiator. He cocked his head and even when she put his hand closer, he didn’t move. Then, moments later, he moved back out onto the windowsill.

      ‘Extraordinary,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe you’re Hugh?’

      With that, she felt once again lifted, and a bit like peeling a plaster off, she moved quickly from room to room, opening the shutters both inside and outside, letting the light flood once more into Atworth Manor. With each window she opened, the robin flew nearby and she grew almost exhilarated at how liberating the whole process was. Dust clouds danced through the air with her quick and determined movement and with each window she opened, the spring air outside appeared to smell sweeter and fresher.

      When she had opened up every single room in the house, she took the catalogues Tom had given her and a pen and made notes on each room and the feel she wanted. Atworth Manor, she realised, was turning into a very calm and beautiful French chateau as she chose white, pale grey and dusky pink linens, white metal frame bedsteads and, she sighed happily, she would put flowers everywhere. Flowers in every room. People would arrive and feel alive. She wanted that. She needed that. Who knew, maybe other widows would arrive and they too could benefit from the energy?

      Just as she had written the last item down to be ordered and wiped her brow at her morning’s efforts, she heard the familiar clunkety-clunk of her mother’s Land Rover (the kind, Daisy thought, that proper farmers kept with no heating, appalling steering and barely a roof). She looked out of the windows on the final floor’s landing and yes, it was as she had thought; Jenny, her mother, dressed in wellies and overalls, just come from her own morning of hard work.

      Daisy moved quickly down the flights of stairs and arrived at the bottom as her mother knocked, somewhat aggressively, on the heavy front door.

      Daisy clutched the catalogues and notes to her chest like a comfort blanket and pulled open the door with her free hand.

      ‘Mum,’ she breathed. ‘So good to see you.’ She went in for a hug but when her mother didn’t reciprocate, she pulled away quickly.

      ‘Not sure why we couldn’t have met down Hilda’s Coffee Shop on the edge of town or, even better, your old family home?’

      ‘I thought you might like me to make you lunch here.’ Daisy pulled the door further open and nodded for her to come inside.

      ‘Well, Daisy, you know full well neither you or me belong in houses like this.’ She had never lost her broad Gloucestershire accent even with the influx of ‘yuppies’, as Jenny called them, to the area. Though Daisy was glad of it because on the odd occasion when her mother was in a softer mood, it sounded glorious to her ear and reminded her of days out in the fields together tending to the animals or, on the rare day off, her mother making a huge picnic for them all, including her father who was still alive then.

      Daisy often tried to recall when her mother had become quite so bitter; she reckoned it must have been after her father died. He had a heart attack one day, out on the farm, and that was it. So sudden. He had been fine that morning eating his two rashers of bacon and two poached eggs with a wedge of buttered toast. In СКАЧАТЬ