robin remained, with its fluffy red breast, along with various blackbirds and thrushes, and the pesky pigeons and seagulls of course, because the village was a couple of miles inland from the sea. ‘Don’t listen to Nan. You’re not going to die,’ she added. ‘As long as I feed you, you’ll see out the winter and soon it will be spring again.’
Marigold walked away and the robin flew onto the feeder. It warmed her heart to see it eating. Soon others would join in. It was amazing how quickly word got around – a bit like the village grapevine, she thought with amusement. As she pulled open the back door, her mind turned to church. She’d have to go upstairs and change. She’d clear the breakfast away once she was dressed. Dennis liked to get there a little early to chat to people. She did not like to keep him waiting. He worked hard during the week, toiling in his shed, making exquisite things out of wood as his father had done before him; it was nice for him to have a rest on a Sunday and spend time with his friends. For Marigold and Dennis church wasn’t just about God, it was a social event too, with tea and biscuits afterwards in the church hall. They always looked forward to that.
In the old days Dennis would go to the pub every evening, play darts, drink a couple of pints of bitter and catch up with friends that way. Now he preferred to stay at home and indulge in his hobby of making figurines, which he created himself with his big but steady hands, and displayed on shelves he’d put up all around the house. There were knights of old, soldiers from the Great War and fantasy characters he fished out of his imagination. His latest project was a church – well, it had started as a church but was fast becoming a cathedral and Marigold thought it might very well develop into an entire village with all the people to go in it. It kept him quiet for hours while he carefully cut the plastic and moulded the putty and painted with the flair of a natural artist. It reminded her of the doll’s house he had made for the girls when they were little. That was a labour of love, complete with furniture, oak floorboards, fireplaces and wallpaper. A beautifully crafted miniature more exquisite than anything one could buy in a toy shop.
Suze was on her phone talking to her boyfriend Batty when Marigold went upstairs to get ready. The difference in her daughter’s tone was remarkable. It was as if she were two people. One sulky and silent, the other animated and chatty. Atticus Buckley, known as Batty, and Suze had been going out for three years. Marigold wondered whether they’d ever get married. People seemed in no rush to marry these days. When she and Dennis had met, they’d walked down the aisle in less than six months. Batty was a good boy, she thought, despite his silly nickname. His parents were both teachers and he still lived with them, in their large house in town. Marigold wondered why he didn’t move out and rent a place of his own; after all, his garden-design business seemed to be doing well from what Suze told them. Young people, she thought with a shake of the head. Perhaps they were on to something, she mused. After all, why spend hard-earned cash on rent when they could live with their parents for free?
Just as Marigold was about to go downstairs to clear away breakfast, the telephone by the bed rang. She frowned, wondering with a spike of irritation who would bother them on a Sunday morning. She picked it up.
‘Mum?’
Her irritation evaporated at the distressed sound of her elder daughter’s voice. ‘Daisy, are you all right, dear?’
‘I’m coming home.’
Marigold realized she did not mean just for Christmas. Her heart stopped. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s over.’ Daisy’s voice sounded strained, as if she was trying very hard not to cry. ‘I’m leaving as soon as I can get a flight.’ There was a moment’s silence as Marigold sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to digest what her daughter was telling her. Marigold liked Luca. She liked him a lot. He was eleven years older than Daisy, which had concerned Marigold at the beginning, but then his charm had won her over, and the tender way he had looked