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To my Great Aunt Nancy, whose letters inspired this story. And to Auntie Pauline, who saved them for me.
Part One Spring Fever
Chapter One
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
It was a question Daisy Moon had heard approximately every twenty minutes of the three-hour journey from Milton Keynes and she was sure she’d hear it at least once more before they reached their destination. Drawing on her dwindling supply of patience, she glanced in the rear-view mirror to meet the bored expression of her youngest son, Finn, and did her best to smile. ‘Really not long now.’
A groan of impatience issued from the other side of the back seat. ‘If you bothered to read the road signs, you wouldn’t have to ask,’ his brother, Campbell, pointed out, peering over the top of his glasses as though he was a white-haired professor rather than a ten-year-old. ‘Look, that one says “Mistlethorpe – one mile”. Big clue, don’t you think?’
Finn rolled his eyes. ‘But we’re not going to Mistlethorpe. We’re going to Half Moon Farm and who knows how far that is away?’ He screwed his freckled face up in a mocking grin. ‘Haven’t seen any signs for that, have you, Big Brain?’
The conversation descended into good-natured bickering, as it usually did. Daisy returned her gaze to the road and wondered, not for the first time, how she’d managed to give birth to twins who were absolute polar opposites. Finn was a rough-and-tumble, sport-loving, permanently grubby child – his blond hair never sat flat against his head, his blue eyes rarely stayed focused on one thing for long and his clothes spontaneously developed holes, particularly on the knees. Campbell, by contrast, seemed to have been born middle-aged, despite only being six minutes older; his hair was meticulously combed against his skull, his blue-eyed gaze missed nothing behind the glasses he wore to correct a slight astigmatism and he would not be caught dead playing any kind of sport, not even on a games console. Reading was his passion, along with a somewhat intense fascination with all things historical, and he was often to be found with his nose between the pages of anything from an encyclopaedia to a rip-roaring steampunk adventure. Daisy was surprised he’d even spotted the sign for Mistlethorpe village – she’d barely seen him look up from the book nestled on his lap. But she’d been concentrating on the twisting, too-narrow country roads that were a world away from the sensible grid system of Milton Keynes, while simultaneously grappling with an odd sense of unreality at finding herself travelling along them after almost twenty years away. Then again, Campbell had been curious and excited about their new home from the moment she’d broken the news about the move so she should have known he’d be paying keen attention now they were near. Finn’s reaction had been, and continued to be, noticeably less enthusiastic, which hadn’t soothed Daisy’s guilt. Both boys’ lives were being uprooted but Finn was definitely losing the most and it didn’t help one bit that she’d had no real choice. She could only hope he would come round once they arrived at Half Moon Farm, and fall in love with it the way she had all those years ago.
The sign welcoming them to Mistlethorpe appeared a few minutes later, dealing Daisy another jolt of incongruity. It was the oddest feeling – so much time had passed since she’d last seen that sign and yet it somehow felt as though she’d never been away. Her memory conjured up an image of the village green, the grass a yellow-brown carpet dotted by oak and horse chestnut trees, the church steeple poking above their lush green canopy at one end, reaching for the occasional cotton wool puff in an otherwise cloudless blue sky. A heat haze shimmered, blurring the shops that lined the high street and scorching the soil so that the scent of burnt earth hung pungent in the still, heavy air. Nothing moved save a broad-winged bird wheeling high above. And then a sudden spatter of raindrops hit the car windscreen, causing Daisy to blink as she steered into the long bend that hid the village from view. It would probably all be different now, she thought – apart from anything else, it was April, not August, and spring would undoubtedly bring a different vibe, even if the fabric of the village hadn’t changed much. It was a funny trick of nostalgia that she only remembered sunshine and heat during those endless summer holidays. There must have been rainy days, times when she’d been cooped up in the farmhouse with a jigsaw puzzle or a book, but she couldn’t recall them.
A plaintive meow issued from the basket on the passenger seat as a furry, marmalade paw batted at the wire door. ‘Not long, Atticus,’ Daisy soothed. ‘Just another mile or so.’
He’d coped with the journey well, barely uttering a sound, and she assumed he’d slept for most of it. What he’d make of their new home was anyone’s guess – the rolling fields and ancient hedgerows were a far cry from the neatness of his Milton Keynes domain but she felt a glum certainty he was going to embrace his inner wildcat. There wasn’t much she could do about that either, apart from hope the birds and animals of Half Moon Farm were ready for their new feline overlord.
At last the car rounded the bend and Mistlethorpe bloomed before Daisy’s tired eyes. It looked exactly as she remembered – the humped bridge rising to cross the River Mistle as it meandered through the village, the fork in the road where it split around the triangular green, the little row of shops dominated by the red-bricked elegance of the Dragon Inn and peeking above all that, at the furthest end of Mistle Lane, was the water mill and its gigantic wheel, perched somewhat precariously on top of its own sturdy stone bridge. Daisy felt something shift within her as she slowed the car to absorb the view, a settling in her bones that radiated a gentle warmth to every other part of her, a sense of gladness that she was here again. Some things were new: the clusters of daffodils that dotted the green, plus the bright and cheerful bunting zigzagging between the lamp posts over the lane. There were few people out and even fewer cars – hardly a surprise given it was late afternoon on a rainy Easter Monday – but the essence of the place seemed unchanged. A glance in the mirror revealed Campbell and Finn gazing around like meerkats, taking in their surroundings with undisguised curiosity.
‘Holy Messi and Ronaldo, is that an actual castle?’ Finn was craning his neck to the left, peering almost behind them to where the unmistakeable grey turrets of Winterbourne Castle rose above the treeline.
‘It is,’ Daisy said, smiling. ‘It’s mentioned in the Domesday Book, no less, although I think the current buildings only date back to the fourteenth century.’
‘I told you there was a castle,’ Campbell said, sounding simultaneously resigned and aggrieved. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Finn snorted. ‘No. Does it have a moat and a portcullis?’ His face lit up. ‘Does it have those holes in the ceiling so soldiers could pour boiling oil on the heads of invaders?’
Daisy shook her head. Trust Finn to absorb only the most gruesome details from Horrible Histories. ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘It used to be open to the public so maybe we can go and take a look round, once we’ve settled in a bit.’
Their instant, enthusiastic nods reminded Daisy, just for a moment, that they were not always chalk and cheese. Perhaps it was something they could do before starting their new school after the Easter break was over, a way to ease them into village life, although a lot depended on what Daisy found at Half Moon Farm. Until she could gauge the extent of her mother’s ill health it was probably best not to make promises she couldn’t keep.
‘The village shops are over there,’ she said, waving a hand towards the terraced row of red-bricked buildings that lined the high street. ‘There’s a butcher, a baker—’
‘A Match Attax trader?’ Finn suggested hopefully, referring to his never-ending obsession with the thin packets of football cards that drained his pocket money each week.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Daisy replied, privately thinking it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he saved his pocket money rather than splurged it. ‘But I’m sure they’ll sell them in Canterbury if not here.’
Campbell’s attention had been caught by the large wooden wheel of the mill, which was beginning to loom as they progressed through the village. ‘Look at that monster,’ he breathed, eyes widening again. ‘Does it still work?’
‘As far as I know,’ Daisy replied. ‘The mill produces organic flour so I assume they still use the river to power the wheel and
‘It probably runs on electricity now,’ Campbell said, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Or maybe a combination of hydro power and electric for maximum efficiency.’
Beside him, Finn yawned. ‘You are such a nerd. Who cares how they make the stupid flour? What I want to know is whether we can swim in the river – can we, Mum? Please say yes.’
Daisy pictured the crystal-clear water of the River Mistle as it babbled beneath bridges and meandered alongside the high road. It twisted through the woodland to the south of the farm and she remembered chasing iridescent dragonflies through the shallows, her sandals crunching on the gravel bed as she splashed around. Had the water really been as pristine as she remembered or was that recollection rose-tinted too? ‘It’s not really deep enough, I’m afraid,’ she told Finn, who slumped back into the seat. ‘We’ll have to find a pool instead.’
Campbell was still transfixed by the water wheel and its adjoining mill. He leaned into his brother to get a better view. ‘Stay over your side,’ Finn grumbled.
‘But I can’t see properly from there,’ Campbell shot back.
Finn scowled. ‘It’s just a stupid old mill, on a stupid old bridge.’
‘The only stupid thing I can see right now is you!’
‘Boys,’ Daisy cut in, a warning note in her voice.
‘It’s him,’ Finn protested, sounding injured. ‘Why is he so obsessed with old buildings, anyway? They’re boring.’
Campbell launched into a spirited defence and Daisy ran a weary hand across her face. The journey had been less fraught with arguments than it could have been and she supposed it was only natural for them to be growing restless. ‘Look, here’s Thieves Lane,’ she said, hitting the indicator and turning down the single-track road that led to Half Moon Farm. ‘We’re almost there.’
Now that there was less than a mile to go, Daisy turned her thoughts to the farm itself and she felt a tiny flutter of anxiety stir in her stomach as she considered what she might find. Would it still exude the quaint, old-world charm her grandparents had worked so hard to preserve? Daisy’s mother hadn’t necessarily shared their passion for the hop farm’s heritage and history – she’d run away to Brighton at the age of sixteen, after all – but surely she wouldn’t have made sweeping changes once it became her own. And then Daisy felt a frown crease her forehead, because there had been a bigger influence in Rose Moon’s life than the wishes of her late parents. Daisy’s stepfather was a cold man with no sentimental attachment to anything, let alone the place she’d held closest to her heart for years. He’d caused catastrophic damage to his wife’s relationship with her only daughter and who knew what harm he might have wrought elsewhere? And while Daisy drew the line at wishing anyone dead, she was nevertheless relieved he was gone. She would not be returning to Half Moon Farm otherwise.
Behind her, the twins had stopped squabbling and adopted an expectant silence. Putting her worries firmly to one side, Daisy slowed the car as they approached the double gates at the entrance of the farm. ‘Here we are,’ she said, turning the steering wheel slowly to the left. ‘Our new home.’
For a heartbeat, Daisy was nine years old again. Her gaze swept across the cobbled courtyard with its ancient wishing well to the comforting sight of the rectangular, two storey oast house that had been the very core of the farm for hundreds of years. Green boughs of wisteria crept around the closed oak door, heavy with unopened buds that would soon burst into lilac glory. At one end of the building sat two circular roundels, home to the kilns that dried the freshly harvested hops. Their red-tiled, conical roofs and white tipped cowls tilted gently in opposite directions as though drunk.
Other buildings were dotted around the yard, forming a horseshoe shape. Most had simply been barns for storage, as far as Daisy remembered, but one or two had been leased by locals and she could see now that all of them had signs advertising the businesses inside. It seemed as though Half Moon Farm was home to more than just hops these days. She was looking forward to finding out more about her new and unexpected neighbours.
‘Is that where we’re going to live?’ Campbell asked and Daisy glanced back to see his saucer-like gaze was fixed on the rounded towers of the oast house.
‘No, we’re going to live with Granny in the farmhouse,’ she said, and pointed to the gated road that wound to the left between the oast house and one of the barns. ‘It’s just through there.’
Finn was more interested in the signs attached to the barns, however. ‘What’s Waggy Mammas?’ he asked, frowning. ‘A restaurant?’
Daisy eyed the image of two stylized dogs leaping at each other around the business name. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘Maybe it’s a grooming salon?’
‘Brilliant,’ Finn said, grinning. ‘You know how Atticus feels about dogs.’
She swallowed a groan. It was fair to say the cat had enjoyed a certain reputation in their old neighbourhood, ever since he’d faced down a husky three times his size, but Daisy had always maintained he was a big softie beneath the snarl and swagger. That belief could be put to the test with a steady stream of pampered pooches on his patch.
Campbell was looking around too. ‘Darling Buds probably sells plants and Dottie’s Pots must be plates and stuff.’
Both were good guesses, Daisy thought, although the names were big clues. ‘And Brew Crew?’ she asked.
‘Beer!’ Finn announced triumphantly.
‘Might not be,’ Campbell argued, although Daisy didn’t feel his heart was really in it. ‘Could be posh tea bags or… or…’
His brother gave him a pitying look as he trailed off, then fixed his gaze on the last building, which was the only one that looked as though it hadn’t been open for a while. ‘What’s Merry Mistletoe?’
‘I have no idea,’ Daisy said, pursing her lips in puzzlement. ‘Maybe it’s a Christmas shop – decorations and things.’
Neither twin looked especially impressed by that prospect. ‘Boring stuff, in other words,’ Finn huffed and, for once, Campbell didn’t disagree.
‘Can we go and see the farmhouse?’ he asked.
Daisy let the question hang for a moment. Now that the time had come, she was aware of a definite tug of reluctance in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t the house itself that was the problem – she could hardly wait to stand on the doorstep and breathe in the familiar scent that had always soothed her spirits and assured her she’d arrived. But there would be no all-enveloping embrace from her grandmother to welcome her this time, no affectionate ruffle of her hair from her grandfather. No overenthusiastic slobbering from their Border Collie, Mitch. There would only be her mother, frail and in need of care, and the ghosts of holidays past.
‘Mum?’ Finn said, in an uncharacteristically subdued tone. ‘Are you okay?’
Squaring her shoulders, Daisy aimed a reassuring smile into the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Come on, let’s go and find your grandmother.’
Chapter Two
The front door of the farmhouse remained shut as the car crunched slowly over the damp gravel to stop beside the woodshed. In years gone by the heavy wooden door would have been open long before the car ground to a halt and Daisy would have been tearing across the gravel the very second the handbrake had been applied. But this was now, Daisy reminded herself yet again, and switched the engine off.
‘Now remember, Granny has been very ill,’ she said, turning to address the boys in her most no-nonsense voice. ‘That means you’ll need to be quiet and considerate – no squabbling with each other, no thundering up and down the stairs and definitely no football in the house.’
This last instruction was aimed at Finn, who scowled. ‘No fun, basically.’
Daisy hesitated, reminded all over again just how much she was asking of them. They’d never met their grandmother, had been born long after the rift between Daisy and her mother had widened into a yawning chasm, and yet her sudden heart attack meant they’d been unceremoniously uprooted and moved to a farm in the middle of nowhere. And while they were good kids, there was also no escaping the fact that they were ten years old, with all the natural exuberance that came with the age. Telling them to curb their behaviour could only pile an extra layer of resentment to this new life they hadn’t wanted.
