Read Online The Love Letter by Fiona Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona Walker
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stepson,’ Legs laughed, pocketing her phone and climbing out of the car to hug her.
Pregnant, top-heavy, small and curvy, Daisy was the opposite of Legs, a full-blossoming myrtle alongside a pear-shaped baobab tree. She was dressed in a deep pink smock over black leggings, hercheeks glowing and her dark fringe as always a little too long, making her tilt her head back to look beneath it as though wearing a peaked baseball cap.
‘Not at all – you look as gorgeous as ever, so you’d add value to any property.’ Daisy gave her a squeeze before leaning past her to look into the car. ‘Are you feeling sick, Nico, poor darling?’
‘Legs drives much faster than Dad,’ he groaned.
‘Oh, I know – she nearly killed us both loads of times as students,’ Daisy sympathised, hoofing around to the passenger side to help him out and give him a bolstering hug. ‘Let’s walk and have some fresh air. Daddy will be back any minute – I’ve just called him to say the coast is clear. Is that the new away strip?’
She hooked her arm easily around Nico and steered him towards the orchard, letting him chatter happily about the Gunners and forget his nausea. Legs followed them, allowing the sun to warm her face as she admired how natural Daisy was with her stepson. It was a far cry from Poppy Protheroe’s relationship with the young Francis, she remembered. Legs still recalled the cool cruelty, her deliberate exclusion of her husband’s son from family gatherings and outings, her determination that he would be packed away to boarding school, out of sight and mind.
She was dying to talk to Daisy about her trip to Farcombe, but certain rituals had to be respected first, such as the tour around the farm which looked just as idyllically run down as she remembered, the rusting vintage tractor still covered in ivy, the ‘office studios’ still derelict old stone barns with no roofs, the vegetable patch bursting with spring cabbages long gone to seed and soft fruit beds which remained overgrown nettle patches.
‘Doesn’t it look gorgeous at this time of year?’ Daisy sighed as they leaned against a wooden fence.
Legs steadied herself as the rail swayed on its rotten uprights. ‘So why are you selling up?’
‘We can’t afford to stay,’ Daisy said without self pity, watching indulgently as Nico plunged through the long grass like a houndpuppy, heading off to examine his beloved camp by the stream, a wobbly construction of nail-spiked planks and tarpaulin which would give Ros a heart attack if she ever saw it. ‘I managed to keep working when I was pregnant with Ava, but we had mum living here then. We’ll never juggle three.’
‘This baby’s due early September?’
Daisy nodded. ‘Will’s determined to get his novel finished in time, but I can’t see it happening if we find ourselves in the middle of moving house.’ She turned to her friend with a rueful smile.
They had been moving every year or two for as long as they’d been together, batting back and forth between practical London and their impractical West Country dream, unable to settle to either. Each move had cost them dearly, and far from climbing the property ladder, they’d now firmly landed at the bottom with no equity left.
‘Are you coming back to London this time?’
‘We’ll go back to Spycove.’ Daisy grimaced at the irony. When first together they’d holed up in the Foulkeses’ family holiday cottage in Farcombe. ‘Full circle. We should never have left, really. None of my family uses the place any more, and it’s big enough for us all to live. The Spies are so magical. We all love it there.’ The Foulkeses’ holiday house was just along the track from the Norths’ cottage Spywood, the two dwellings separated only by a clifftop coppice.
‘I love it too.’ Legs looked at her excitedly, unable to hold back a moment longer as she pressed her hands together, fingertips to her nose, bursting with anticipation. ‘I’m en route
Pregnant, top-heavy, small and curvy, Daisy was the opposite of Legs, a full-blossoming myrtle alongside a pear-shaped baobab tree. She was dressed in a deep pink smock over black leggings, hercheeks glowing and her dark fringe as always a little too long, making her tilt her head back to look beneath it as though wearing a peaked baseball cap.
‘Not at all – you look as gorgeous as ever, so you’d add value to any property.’ Daisy gave her a squeeze before leaning past her to look into the car. ‘Are you feeling sick, Nico, poor darling?’
‘Legs drives much faster than Dad,’ he groaned.
‘Oh, I know – she nearly killed us both loads of times as students,’ Daisy sympathised, hoofing around to the passenger side to help him out and give him a bolstering hug. ‘Let’s walk and have some fresh air. Daddy will be back any minute – I’ve just called him to say the coast is clear. Is that the new away strip?’
She hooked her arm easily around Nico and steered him towards the orchard, letting him chatter happily about the Gunners and forget his nausea. Legs followed them, allowing the sun to warm her face as she admired how natural Daisy was with her stepson. It was a far cry from Poppy Protheroe’s relationship with the young Francis, she remembered. Legs still recalled the cool cruelty, her deliberate exclusion of her husband’s son from family gatherings and outings, her determination that he would be packed away to boarding school, out of sight and mind.
She was dying to talk to Daisy about her trip to Farcombe, but certain rituals had to be respected first, such as the tour around the farm which looked just as idyllically run down as she remembered, the rusting vintage tractor still covered in ivy, the ‘office studios’ still derelict old stone barns with no roofs, the vegetable patch bursting with spring cabbages long gone to seed and soft fruit beds which remained overgrown nettle patches.
‘Doesn’t it look gorgeous at this time of year?’ Daisy sighed as they leaned against a wooden fence.
Legs steadied herself as the rail swayed on its rotten uprights. ‘So why are you selling up?’
‘We can’t afford to stay,’ Daisy said without self pity, watching indulgently as Nico plunged through the long grass like a houndpuppy, heading off to examine his beloved camp by the stream, a wobbly construction of nail-spiked planks and tarpaulin which would give Ros a heart attack if she ever saw it. ‘I managed to keep working when I was pregnant with Ava, but we had mum living here then. We’ll never juggle three.’
‘This baby’s due early September?’
Daisy nodded. ‘Will’s determined to get his novel finished in time, but I can’t see it happening if we find ourselves in the middle of moving house.’ She turned to her friend with a rueful smile.
They had been moving every year or two for as long as they’d been together, batting back and forth between practical London and their impractical West Country dream, unable to settle to either. Each move had cost them dearly, and far from climbing the property ladder, they’d now firmly landed at the bottom with no equity left.
‘Are you coming back to London this time?’
‘We’ll go back to Spycove.’ Daisy grimaced at the irony. When first together they’d holed up in the Foulkeses’ family holiday cottage in Farcombe. ‘Full circle. We should never have left, really. None of my family uses the place any more, and it’s big enough for us all to live. The Spies are so magical. We all love it there.’ The Foulkeses’ holiday house was just along the track from the Norths’ cottage Spywood, the two dwellings separated only by a clifftop coppice.
‘I love it too.’ Legs looked at her excitedly, unable to hold back a moment longer as she pressed her hands together, fingertips to her nose, bursting with anticipation. ‘I’m en route
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