Christmas at Fox Farm

by Helen Pollard

Genres: Women's Fiction; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Daisy is preparing to spend her first Christmas in the only place she's ever really felt at home: beautiful Fox Farm. But when tragedy strikes, she will need all her festive cheer, and all the mulled wine, to keep Christmas from being cancelled...Living at Fox Farm, with its cosy café and charming pottery workshop, is a dream come true for thirty-one-year-old Daisy. The kindly owner, Jean, and the close-knit village feel like the family Daisy has never had. She's been looking forward to finally having people to buy gifts for and to share cookies with in front of the fire after too much Christmas dinner.When Jean suddenly falls ill, Daisy is the first to lend a hand in organising the holiday celebrations. She ropes in Alex – Jean's handsome Scrooge of a nephew – to help her. From the get-go Daisy and Alex cannot agree on anything, butting heads through decorating disasters and tripping over each other at the holiday barn dance. Alex hates Christmas, and Daisy is feeling so festive she might as well be the fairy on top of the ten-foot tree. Can Daisy melt Alex's icy exterior and prove to him just how magical Christmas can be?But then Alex discovers Fox Farm is almost bankrupt, and suddenly its whole future is in jeopardy. They need a plan, and quickly, if Jean is to have a place to come back to this Christmas. Will Daisy be able to save the only real home she's ever had? And might this Christmas be the beginning of something special?Grab a mug of hot chocolate and a mince pie (or two!) and lose yourself in this utterly charming and romantic holiday tale that proves home is where the heart is. Perfect for fans of RaeAnne Thayne, Sarah Morgan and Heidi Swain, this is the book that will make your Christmas! Readers adore Helen Pollard: 'I couldn't turn the pages fast enough... Uplifting, witty, moving and romantic... sure to make you giggle, sigh and keep you hooked.' Bookish Jottings'I just couldn't put it down. It could warm you even on the coldest day of the year.' Books By My Bedside'I loved every single page of this book and didn't want the story to end... Had me hooked from start to finish, had me giggling on the bus... One of those warm, cosy books.' The Reading Shed'A heartwarming and funny rom-com... kept me hooked... I loved the twists and turns.' Scrapping and Playing, 'A bewitching, fun read... a delightful setting and an added mystery, too.' Splashes Into Books, Her La Cour des Roses series has sold over 200,000 copiesFor fans of Sarah Morgan, Nicola May, Phillipa Ashley and Cathy Bramley-

Release date: September 29, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘I hope you brought your sharpest knives,’ Jean said as everyone arrived at her little cottage.

Now there’s something you don’t hear every day, Daisy thought. But tonight was pumpkin-carving night, so it was a case of all hands – and knives – on deck.

Jean greeted them all with a cheerful smile, and her kitchen greeted them with the delicious smell of cinnamon toast and spiced tea.

‘Sorry about the lack of alcohol,’ Jean said as she handed them mugs. ‘I didn’t think it mixed with sharp implements!’

Daisy stared at the pumpkins of all sizes lined up on the long, scarred table. ‘Are you sure you have enough, Jean?’

Her wry comment was met with Jean’s customary twinkle from pale-blue eyes, her face wrinkling along with her smile. ‘You can never have enough pumpkins. Halloween wasn’t a thing when I was a girl, back in the Dark Ages.’ Her broad Yorkshire accent was friendly and down-to-earth. ‘Reckon I missed out, so I’m making up for it now. Besides, think how big the yard is.’ She swept her grey hair up and tied it with a band. ‘How are your carving skills? As good as your art?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never carved a pumpkin.’

‘Sorry, Daisy. Me and my big mouth. Well, there’s a first time for everything, and simple designs can be effective. Leave the fancy stuff to the café crew, eh?’ She jerked a thumb at Angie and Sue, who were already getting started.

As the kitchen filled with chatter and laughter and pumpkin pulp and advice-giving, Daisy watched how everyone set about their task and tried her best with hers.

Angie, Fox Farm’s café manager, wielded her knife with remarkable capability as she created a complicated design involving bats swooping from a tree branch.

How does she do that without the whole thing collapsing? Daisy wondered.

‘The Halloween Trail’s looking great,’ Jamie enthused. Only eighteen, he’d joined as a summer sales assistant in the gallery, but he was so personable that Jean had kept him on for his gap year. This week, he’d put an orange streak in his hair, and his nails were painted alternate black and purple.

Daisy thought about the bright scarecrows they had spent Fox Farm’s closing day setting up; and then there were the witches in black cloaks and hats, the ghosts (white sheets over balloons, suspended from trees), and the large rubber spiders and bats they had hung.

‘The pumpkins will make the trail even better. Except mine.’ Daisy turned her pumpkin’s wonky frown and angry eyes to face the others. ‘Can’t believe I call myself an artist.’

‘Every skill’s different,’ Jean said. ‘I may be a good potter, but I couldn’t paint a beautiful picture like you do in a million years. Anyway, practice makes perfect. Plenty more to do. Would a slice of carrot cake keep you all going?’

‘Mmmm, Jean, this is the best,’ Sue, Angie’s café assistant, mumbled as she ate.

‘Thank you, but flattery won’t get you out of more work,’ Jean said, laughing. ‘One more pumpkin each.’

‘I hope I won’t get too many small children in the gallery this week, all sugared up and with sticky fingers,’ Lisa said as she concentrated, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. ‘What specials have you got on at the café, Angie?’

‘White-iced ghost ginger biscuits, black-iced bat shortbread, orange and purple cupcakes, and healthy pumpkin soup to offset the sugar rush.’ Angie winked at them all.

Daisy smiled at the chatter. Good food, good company, friendly noise… Daisy had been used to plenty of noise in the past, but this was a different kind. A good kind.

By the end of the evening, her arm ached as she waved goodbye to everyone.

‘I’ll pop round early in the morning, Jean, to place the pumpkins around the trail for you,’ she offered. ‘Seven thirty?’

‘That’s grand, Daisy. You know me – I’ll be up long before then.’

Daisy shivered against the night chill as she crossed the cobbled farmyard to her studio and hurried inside, straight through to her living space… if you could call it that. Situated at one end of the long, low building, there was only room enough for a bed, an armchair, a cupboard and a tiny kitchenette, with a small shower room attached.

Previous artists-in-residence had only used the studio as somewhere to work, display and sell. Nobody had actually lived there before. But since the only place Daisy could call home when Jean offered the residency to her last spring was a dilapidated caravan on a local farm, Daisy had been happy to spruce it up. Seven months on, she was perfectly content in her cosy little den. It was yet another temporary living arrangement, but then, Daisy’s whole life had been defined by temporary arrangements. Fox Farm was a particularly nice one.

Daisy wasn’t one to lie in. During her childhood, getting up early was often the only peace she might get in the day.

With a mug of tea in hand, she entered her studio, switched on the lights and checked that everything was ready for Fox Farm’s Halloween week. She’d put a few decorations up – mock cobwebs and strings of cardboard pumpkins – but she hadn’t gone mad. She didn’t want them to detract from her work.

Daisy had chosen the prints and canvases currently on display for their autumn colours – greens, purples, oranges, browns – in anticipation of this week’s extra footfall, although she suspected that harassed parents trying to corral their offspring around the Halloween Trail would be more interested in bribery at the café than purchasing art.

Ah well. Time to sort the pumpkins out.

Scraping her hair into an untidy ponytail, she pulled on jeans, an old sweatshirt, wellies and a cagoule, then stepped outside, enjoying the stillness for a moment.

Oh, Fox Farm is so perfect!

Her studio, converted from a cattle byre, lined the side of the square opposite the entranceway to Fox Farm. To her left was the half-converted barn, never completed and currently used for storage. To her right stood the large grey-stone building that housed the café and gallery, once the main farmhouse, with Jean’s little cottage and garden at its side. Jean’s was the original farmhouse, dating back to the late 1700s, around the same time Daisy’s cattle byre was built. The larger farmhouse had been built later, in the mid-1800s, as the farm prospered. All the buildings were of wonderful old Yorkshire stone, their history steeped into their frontages.

It’s such a shame that Jean changes her studio artist every year. Only five months left for me. What I’d give to stay… Still, I’m a part of it for now, and that’s all that matters.

Daisy crossed the still-dark yard to Jean’s cottage, frowning as she noticed there was no light on downstairs; no clattering coming from the kitchen. Her gaze drifted upwards. No smoke from the chimney, either, although there was a light on in the bedroom.

A sense of unease unfurled in her belly.

She’s had a lie-in, Daisy. It was a long, busy evening, and the woman’s in her seventies, for goodness’ sake.

Daisy tried Jean’s door. It wasn’t locked. Typical Jean. Old country ways.

She stepped into the familiar kitchen with its pinewood table and dresser, cream walls and pleasant clutter, dominated by the large cooking range. Daisy had enjoyed many mugs of strong tea sitting in this kitchen these past few months, chatting with Jean.

But there was no sign of morning activity. The kettle was cold; no smell of toast. The carved pumpkins sat waiting on the table.

She could get on with placing them along the trail. But she didn’t like this quiet. If Jean were getting dressed, she would hear something, surely?

Daisy almost called out, but she didn’t want to wake Jean. Instead, she kicked off her wellies and crept upstairs. If Jean was still asleep, Daisy would creep right back down again and feel awful for intruding, but her gut demanded that she should check. She pushed open the door to Jean’s bedroom, wincing as it creaked.

Jean was in her armchair, fully clothed, slumped and unresponsive.

Daisy rushed to her side. ‘Jean?’

Jean didn’t seem to be unconscious… but she didn’t seem to see Daisy, either. Her face looked lopsided.

‘Oh, no. Please, no.’ Grabbing the phone from Jean’s bedside, Daisy dialled with shaking fingers. ‘Ambulance, please. I think someone’s had a stroke.’

Daisy gripped Jean’s hand. The downside of being so far out in the countryside meant the paramedics would take some time. Fox Farm was only a mile from the nearest village, Winterbridge, but the nearest ambulance station was much further.

Daisy’s mind raced. None of the staff were due for at least an hour. She should phone someone. Angie? Lisa?

Jean’s nephew. Alex.

Jean never had children of her own, but Alex was her favourite nephew. He lived in Winterbridge, though Daisy barely knew him. He came to Fox Farm every Tuesday on its closing day to help Jean with jobs that needed doing, but that was when Daisy was out and about, taking a breather and seeking inspiration, or painting in her studio. They occasionally crossed paths, nodding hello or exchanging a polite comment about the weather, both too preoccupied with their days for anything more. Once, he’d come to fix the heater in her studio and taken time to study her art. Another occasion, they had coincided over a cuppa at Jean’s, but he’d seemed intent on getting back to his chores rather than idling away the time in gossip and chatter. Even so, he was pleasant enough, and attractive in an outdoorsy way.

Daisy didn’t know his phone number, though. Glancing at the bedside table, she spotted Jean’s mobile. Was it passworded? Of course not. Jean didn’t bother with such things. With relief, Daisy got into the contacts list and clicked on the first entry.

‘Aunt Jean. This is early. What’s up?’ Alex’s deep voice sounded puzzled but upbeat.

Daisy took a breath. ‘This isn’t Jean. It’s Daisy.’ When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘At Fox Farm. I live in the cattle byre.’

That hadn’t come out right, but it hardly mattered.

‘Daisy. Yes. Hi. And you’re using Aunt Jean’s phone because…?’ His tone changed. ‘Is something wrong? Is she okay?’

‘No.’ Daisy fought back tears. ‘I’ve called an ambulance. I found her in the cottage. She looks as if she hasn’t been to bed all night.’ A sob escaped. ‘I think she might have had a stroke.’

‘I’m on my way. I’m on my way. You’ll stay with her?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ But he had already ended the call.

Alex stared at the phone in his shaking hand, trying but failing to control the adrenalin rush.

Aunt Jean. The one stable, stalwart influence in his life since… Since forever.

‘Don’t you do this to me, Aunt Jean! You’d better be alright, do you hear me?’

It was early, but he was already at Riverside, resealing a pane of glass in one of the greenhouses that had felt draughty the day before. Mornings were the best time of day, Alex reckoned. Peace and quiet before the rest of the world intruded.

Yanking his keys from his pocket, he weaved through the maze of outbuildings and greenhouses to his truck, dialling Jules, his manager, on the way. It went to voicemail.

‘Jules, there’s an emergency at Fox Farm. Don’t expect to see me today. Sorry.’

Starting the truck’s engine, he glanced over at the plant nursery, his pride and joy, forlorn in the early-morning light. ‘Sorry, guys. This comes first.’

And then the tyres ground into the gravel as he backed out and pulled onto the road that ran alongside the river towards Winterbridge.

Narrow country lanes lined with solid drystone walls were not ideal for a rushed journey, but Alex knew them like the back of his hand, so he took risks. Anyone else out and about at this time was probably local. Tourists, day trippers and hikers wouldn’t get started till it was properly light.

As he drove, he panicked about his aunt and mulled over Daisy. He hoped he hadn’t been too curt with her on the phone, but surely she would understand. He didn’t know her well, but Aunt Jean spoke fondly of her, and Alex got the impression the two of them had become close since Daisy had moved into the studio.

Thank goodness for that, he thought as he reached Winterbridge and turned up the hill for the mile to Fox Farm, swerving to avoid a rabbit taking its own sweet time to cross the road. For whatever reason, Daisy had been up early, found Aunt Jean and called for help. Otherwise, it might have been another couple of hours before Fox Farm’s staff noticed his aunt wasn’t around and decided to find out if there was a problem.

And so it was with a sense of deep gratitude towards this near-stranger that Alex ignored the parking spaces along the roadside and drove all the way into the farmyard, screeching to a halt outside the cottage. He stormed up the stairs to the bedroom where his beloved aunt was slumped in her chair, dazed and oddly lopsided.

She looked at him, but he wasn’t sure she saw him.

Daisy was kneeling on the floor beside Aunt Jean’s chair, patting her hand and murmuring reassurances.

Alex briefly took in the younger woman’s bedraggled early-morning appearance. It touched him that she had concentrated solely on his aunt and not worried about that.

‘Daisy. Thanks for calling me.’ He bent to kiss his aunt’s cheek and squeezed her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, he fought back a tear. ‘Any idea how long the paramedics will be?’

‘They were out on another call. They said maybe thirty minutes. Anytime now, I reckon.’

Daisy tried a wobbly smile, her brown eyes troubled, and Alex’s heart went out to her. This must have been an awful ordeal for her.

‘I’m sorry for not finding her sooner,’ Daisy mumbled.

‘Please don’t be sorry. If it wasn’t for you, it could’ve been much longer.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you and the others manage today? It’ll be busy, with it being half-term and Halloween week.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Daisy reassured him. ‘Don’t worry.’

The sound of a siren cut in, and they both sighed with relief.

‘I’ll show them upstairs,’ Daisy offered, leaving him to take her place.

Alex watched her go, her oversized wellie socks flapping, her shapeless sweatshirt doing her no favours at all, and wasn’t at all surprised that Aunt Jean liked her so much.

Daisy made tea for Alex, adding two spoons of sugar for shock. He took it gratefully. While the paramedics attended his aunt, she helped him pack a bag with a few of Jean’s things. Once the paramedics were ready to carry their patient downstairs, Daisy took her leave.

‘Will you call me later?’ she asked Alex. ‘My number’s on Jean’s mobile.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll explain to everyone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, Daisy. For everything.’

Back at the byre, Daisy only had time to take a quick shower and pull on smarter jeans and her knitted pumpkin sweater before the others began to arrive.

‘I passed an ambulance near the village,’ Angie announced as she unlocked the café. ‘Hope it’s nobody around here.’

And so it began – Daisy catching each person as they arrived, explaining about Jean and watching their upset, then soothing and reassuring, even though she had no idea whether there was any reassurance to be had. Jean wasn’t just an employer to them – she was much loved.

‘What’ll happen?’ Lisa wondered. ‘Who’ll run Fox Farm now?’

‘I’ve been managing that café for donkey’s years,’ Angie said decisively. ‘We’ll manage for now, won’t we, Sue? And you’ve been at the gallery a long time, Lisa. We all need to muck in, that’s all. Alex is a capable lad. When he’s got over the shock, he’ll sort it out, I’m sure.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Nearly nine. We’d better get a shift on.’

‘The pumpkins!’ Daisy remembered. ‘They’re still in Jean’s kitchen.’

‘I’ll do them,’ Jamie offered. ‘Surely nobody’ll be here dead on nine.’

Fox Farm was barely organised when the first visitors arrived.

It was a busy day for midweek, with local parents happy to have somewhere to keep their children occupied for an hour or so. Daisy could see from her studio that the café was packed. Besides the Halloween revellers, there would be the usual walkers, day trippers and people bringing an elderly relative out for lunch and a mooch around the gallery.

Fox Farm’s situation, on a crossroads where three country lanes joined, meant there was always trade. Tourists might spot it on a drive and be tempted to stop. The surrounding countryside, criss-crossed with public footpaths, provided a ready supply of ramblers, keen to refuel with a hot drink and cake or lunch. Locals loved it as a place to meet up, too.

As she’d expected, Daisy’s studio was only moderately busy, although her distinctive style – acrylics in gentle colours, based on the Yorkshire Dales countryside and villages, with quirky additions like crooked barns and farmhouses, comical sheep, cheeky sheepdogs – generally did well here. For Halloween, she had painted a couple of new pieces – one of a ramshackle farmhouse with a ghost hovering over the rooftop and a cauldron bubbling in the kitchen window, and the other of a herd of sheep chasing a scarecrow across a field. Guessing they might have limited appeal, she had only had a few prints made for now, but she’d enjoyed creating something fun and different, and both were admired by her browsing customers.

In an effort to distract herself from thinking about Jean, Daisy got on with painting at the work end of her studio. That was another reason she’d snapped up Jean’s offer for the year – a space to create. Potential customers loved to watch her work and ask questions, although that sometimes meant she didn’t get as much done as she’d like.

It was midday before her mobile rang.

‘How is she?’ she asked as soon as she heard Alex’s voice.

‘Stable, but she’s in intensive care.’

Daisy’s heart sank. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘It’ll take a while to tell,’ Alex said, his voice breaking a little. ‘They’ve been doing tests. If the stroke happened late last night like we think, then she didn’t get the immediate treatment they’d usually give. That’s detrimental, apparently.’

When a sob escaped from Daisy’s throat, Alex said gently, ‘Don’t feel guilty about that, Daisy. Jean lives alone. It’s lucky that you live on site and found her when you did.’

‘How long will she be in hospital?’

‘That depends on how much damage was done and what treatment she’ll need. But it is serious, so she’ll be in for a good long while.’ He sighed. ‘Look, I know this is a hectic week for Fox Farm…’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Daisy said immediately. ‘Angie and Lisa can cope. It won’t be the same without Jean around to step in where she’s needed, cover at busy times and so on, but they’ll manage.’ It occurred to her that Alex was neglecting his own business. ‘What about Riverside?’

‘They’ll get by without me. My manager, Jules, is the most capable woman I know.’ He chuckled. ‘Apart from Aunt Jean, that is. Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Give my regards to everyone and update them, will you? I haven’t time to call them, too.’

‘No problem.’ Daisy clicked off and stared through her window, oblivious to the sound of excitable children in the cobbled yard. Jean’s stroke sounded serious. If only Daisy had realised yesterday evening when she’d left Jean that something like this would happen.

You’re not psychic, Daisy. Like Alex said, she’s lucky you were around when you were.

Alex had sounded so upset, and his love for his aunt was plain. The fact that he spent Riverside’s closing days helping out at Fox Farm, doing everything from fixing fencing to caring for Jean’s cottage garden, showed how much he cared. Jean had told Daisy that Alex had spent most of his school holidays with her and her late husband, William, hinting that he’d had an unhappy childhood. She’d often said how proud she was of him for making a success of his business, but she hadn’t mentioned a wife or partner. Daisy assumed she would have, if there was anyone. Beyond that, Daisy knew very little about him.

What she did know was that Alex was more attractive than she’d realised. Their occasional, brief encounters hadn’t given her time to assess, although she had to confess to noticing broad shoulders and a muscled physique in the summer months when he wore a T-shirt. But the time they had spent waiting for the ambulance together that morning had given her the opportunity to take in his hazel eyes, and the overlong brown hair and day-old stubble that gave him an appealingly dishevelled look.

Daisy winced. Goodness knew what he’d thought of her this morning! She could only hope he’d been too intent on his aunt to notice. She had dressed for dragging a load of pumpkins around the Halloween Trail, not attending a fashion parade.

Not that it made much difference. Daisy never dressed fancy. When she was working, she was bound to get paint somewhere, so she favoured jeans or dungarees and a jumper or T-shirt. She figured it helped her image in the studio, anyway – people expected artists to look messy and untidy. Today’s knitted pumpkin sweater was an exception, donated for seasonal purposes by Jean, who was a prolific knitter. When she was out hiking, Daisy was no more fashionable, inevitably in jeans or walking trousers and a cagoule. As for her hair, it had always been limited – straight and boring brown. Daisy found it easiest to keep it long so she could tie it up, out of the way.

Even if she wanted to dress up, do her hair, slap on make-up (Make-up? What’s that again?) Daisy doubted it would make much difference. On a day when she was being kind to herself, she knew she wasn’t glamorous. On a less kind day, she reckoned she was verging on plain. She’d decided a long time ago not to let it worry her.

Too distracted to work, Daisy gazed through the window at harassed mothers pulling scarves tighter around children’s necks and hats down over ears against the afternoon cold. She couldn’t bear the idea of Jean lying in hospital, attached to tubes and drips and machines, helpless. Jean was a force of nature; indomitable.

Over one of their many cuppas together, Jean had told Daisy how she and her husband William had inherited the farm from his side of the family, but neither of them were farmers. The little cottage was big enough for the two of them, so over the years, William had converted the other buildings. First, they had opened up a downstairs room of the main house to sell Jean’s pottery, with only a handmade sign to attract customers. Then, recognising the potential for catching passing ramblers, they had started a little café in the room next to it. Local artists and craftspeople began to ask if she would take their work, so they had opened up one of the ‘bedrooms’ upstairs, then the second and third. Jean would only take Yorkshire artists, at a wide range of prices to suit all pockets, and she still stuck to that.

‘This is a Yorkshire farm in the Yorkshire Dales,’ she’d told Daisy. ‘Let others sort themselves out!’

Finally, about ten years ago, Jean had got William to turn the old cattle byre into a studio, her idea being to host a different artist there each year to keep things fresh. Daisy was lucky to have been offered it this year… not least because Jean had made an exception for her and wasn’t charging rent.

Daisy was in awe at what Jean had achieved over the years. Jean was Fox Farm. What on earth would they do without her while she recovered? If she recovered?

A tear ran down her cheek. Don’t think that way, Daisy!

It had been one of the worst days of Alex’s life. Seeing Aunt Jean slumped in her chair; the ambulance ride; the starkness of Accident & Emergency; the blood tests and swallow test and brain scan and drip attachments and oxygen mask; the wait for a bed… All had taken their toll.

Alex knew his aunt wouldn’t live forever, although sometimes he wished she could. But at only seventy-two, bird-like yet strong and wiry, her mind razor-sharp, he had imagined she would remain indestructible for a good while yet. This stroke had come as a complete shock, as had the doctors’ pronouncements that it was in no way a minor one. Aunt Jean would be in hospital for some time, and once they found out she lived alone, he was told she would need a lot of convalescence and rehabilitation before being allowed to return home… if that were possible.

Oh, how Alex hated that ‘if’.

By late afternoon, the doctors had said there was nothing more he could do and to get some rest.

On his way out of the hospital, he phoned Jules at Riverside. Business had been quiet, other than the large number of pumpkins sold, which he always bought in specially for Halloween. After this week, Riverside would match Fox Farm with winter hours, closing an hour early and switching from one closing day a week to two. Alex would normally use that extra time to catch up, but with Aunt Jean so ill, goodness knew what would happen. As he drove back towards Winterbridge, the prospect of colder days and darker nights ahead matched his mood.

Before going home, his mind set on a large glass of whisky, Alex pulled up outside Fox Farm. It was just past five, and all the buildings’ lights were out except for Daisy’s studio.

She opened the door to his knock, dressed in sturdy walking boots and an open cagoule over a pumpkin jumper.

Alex smiled at the motif. Aunt Jean’s work, no doubt.

‘Hi. I came with an update,’ he said. ‘Are you going out?’

‘I need some fresh air. Today’s been hard.’ Hastily, she added, ‘A lot harder for you, obviously.’

Alex hesitated. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘No problem. I’d like to hear about Jean.’

‘I’ll get my boots and jacket from the truck.’

Kitted out, Alex re-joined her. She’d pulled on a bright woollen hat with a Peruvian-type design. It was cute.

Crikey. That’s not a word I normally think of. Must be more tired than I thought.

‘It’s getting dark, so we’ll have to keep it short.’ Daisy led him over the road to a public footpath that would take them down to the river, a route Alex knew well.

As they walked, he filled her in on his day.

‘Do they think she’ll recover fully?’ Daisy asked.

‘She’s strong and determined, so that’s in her favour.’ Touched by the wobble that had been in Daisy’s voice, Alex said, ‘You’re fond of her.’

Daisy smiled – a lovely, natural smile in what his Uncle William might have called a bonnie face.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘She’s been good to me ever since I moved to the Dales, taking my work in the gallery and recommending other places. When she offered me the studio for this year, I jumped at it. Somewhere to display, work and live? It was a no-brainer.’

‘How on earth could you paint in that caravan at old Jack’s?’ Alex asked, curious.

‘He let me use one of his downstairs rooms for working.’

‘Jack lives in that big old farmhouse all alone. Couldn’t he have given you a bedroom, too?’

‘Ha! He said it wouldn’t be proper. Didn’t want everyone thinking he had a young flibbertigibbet in the house, looking after his “needs”.’

Alex choked out a laugh. ‘Jack’s eighty if he’s a day! Why would he imagine people might think that?’

‘It wasn’t just the idea of local disapproval – I’d hope nobody would think that. But he’s loyal to his late wife’s memory, and it would’ve felt wrong to him.’

‘So he put you up in a rusting tin can instead?’

‘I couldn’t pay much, and he didn’t charge much. I think he liked knowing someone was around.’ Daisy winced. ‘I don’t visit him as often as I should.’

Alex was grateful they were talking about something other than the hospital. He needed normality right now. They reached the river, but the path there was muddy and the light almost gone. They turned b. . .