club she volunteered at on weekends, rather than a cosy retreat from the daily grind to six o’clock.
Whilst Josh went off to find Angus and talk about the relative merits of Norwegian spruce versus Nordmann fir, she took her time wandering through the avenues of bookshelves crammed with ancient leather-bound books on subjects no one could possibly be interested in. She ran her fingertips along their jutting spines, like keys on a grand piano. She and Olivia had done exactly the same thing when they were children and had been let loose in the cathedral of treasure while their parents focused their attention on bidding for the next shipment of junk.
She meandered along a narrow passageway, its whitewashed walls bedecked with a cornucopia of artwork, from garish contemporary to nicotine-tinged oils and pencils sketches of nudes. She wondered which image her mother would have favoured had she been standing next to her. A surge of melancholy washed over her. Her mother had been fifty-five when she died. She should have enjoyed many more years to amass her collections of ceramics, Dutch china, and porcelain dolls dressed in national costume.
Life was so unfair. Who knew when a random metaphorical grenade would explode in their face?
Emma was right. You had to squeeze every ounce of enjoyment from each and every moment that was given to you whilst you could. Perhaps she would take her friend up on the offer to make up a foursome with Barnie. It was time to move on with her life, to look forward to the future and not back to the past, or dwell on the things in the present that couldn’t be changed. She should start dating again and join her sister in producing the next generation of Harrisons.
Kirstie decided that the first step in her challenge to make changes was to invest in a piece of art to brighten up her bedroom back in Hammersmith. She would turn the house into a home, just as her mother would have advised.
She retraced her steps and unhooked a gaudy canvas from the wall. It looked like something a toddler would produce during an art lesson at nursery. Huge splodges of primary colours had been dispersed randomly on a white background. It would never be a contender for the Turner Prize, but it would break up the expanse of magnolia in her apartment.
‘Having fun?’ asked Josh.
‘I am, thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I’m going to ask Angus if I can put in a commission bid for this. What do you think?’
‘Honest opinion?’
‘Sure.’
‘Hideous. I prefer the Joseph L. Farmer back at The Duck.’
‘But that’s so old-fashioned. This is modern and colourful and contemporary and uplifting. That’s more the sort of look I’m going for.’
‘Did you find anything for Emma and Rachel?’
‘Ah, knew I’d forgotten something.’
Kirstie shoved the canvas into Josh’s arms and stalked off to the glass cabinets that housed the jewellery.
‘I love this amber necklace.’ Kirstie held the string of beads up to the light. ‘Oh, and this Whitby jet bracelet is gorgeous. I can so see Emma wearing this. Or she could turn it into a pair of fabulous earrings.’
‘Hang on,’ said Josh, dashing down an aisle of bulky sideboards and grabbing a set of silver blancmange moulds. ‘What about these for Rachel?’
‘Perfect!’
‘Ah, Kirstie. The Winchester Wanderer returns!’ boomed the unmistakable voice of Angus Anderson, his gravelly tone testament to the twenty-a-day smoking habit he had been trying to kick for the last ten years. ‘Good to see you still remember us plain old country folk occasionally now that fame has come calling.’
Angus enveloped Kirstie in a bear hug and held her tight to his barrelled chest. The fragrance of woody cologne mingled with dusty books and beeswax invaded her nostrils and took her on a brief excursion of nostalgia to happier times. Neither of her parents had any siblings, so Angus had performed the role of surrogate uncle to her and Olivia with wonderful panache. He would always have a finger of fudge secreted somewhere in his voluminous sports jackets to keep them going whilst their parents disappeared into the labyrinthine avenues of furniture on their antique scouting missions.
‘Hello, Angus. Yes, I’m spending a couple of weeks at the Dancing Duck, helping out Livie while she’s in Ireland with Harry.’ Kirstie didn’t dare look at Josh whom she knew would be itching to correct her explanation with a more accurate report of the truth.
‘Yes, I heard they’d rushed off to Dublin. All well, I hope?’
‘I had a text from Livie this morning. George is still in intensive care but they say his condition is stable.’
‘Send them my regards, won’t you?’ Angus shoved his fat thumbs into the pockets of his tweed waistcoat, causing the buttons to strain dangerously across his belly. He narrowed his silver eyes at Kirstie and contemplated her for a couple of seconds. Her stomach lurched. She knew she was in for a lecture.
‘So, you’re selling up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bit of a bombshell, I don’t mind admitting. Not sure what Don and Sue would have made of it.’
Kirstie glanced across at Josh who was hugging the silver moulds to his chest, but he clearly had no intention of coming to her rescue. He simply raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He was in Angus’s corner.
‘Angus, I’m sure you’ve had this conversation with Livie and Harry already. The only reason we are selling the pub is financial. You must understand that. Harry has combed through the accounts, taken all sorts of professional advice, and if we don’t sell soon we’ll be bankrupt by May. We can’t allow that to happen.’
‘I could offer you an injection of cash …’
‘Angus, that is a very kind offer, but that’s not the point. The pub is no longer a viable business. Livie and Harry have tried everything. The summer fayre, the Hallowe’en dance, the Big Christmas Baking Bash. Leon’s brasserie is breaking even but that’s not enough to keep the pub afloat. It’s a tragedy. I’m as devastated at losing the Dancing Duck as you are, but it’s the only way.’
Kirstie heard a humph from Josh when she said she was devastated, but she ignored him.
‘Sold it to some Hooray Henry type from the City, I hear?’ Disgust flitted across Angus’s ruddy expression. It was no secret what he thought of the moneymen from London.
‘Yes, Miles Morgan. He’s a litigation lawyer with one of the big City firms, I’m told. But his family does have a weekend cottage over in Maltby.’
‘Those vultures are responsible for the demise of our local economy and the destruction of our communities. They buy up all the “cute little cottages” at inflated prices so there’s nothing left for the people who actually want to make a life here: all those who work in the area and send their kids to the local schools, use the local shops, put something back.’
It was a familiar rant. One which Angus rehearsed regularly when he stopped by the Dancing Duck for his pint of Guinness after a long day at the auction house and managing his farm. He wasn’t the only one, though. It was a consistent refrain from many of Cranbury’s residents.
‘He’s offered the asking price …’
‘You do know he will change the place beyond all recognition. Just another yuppie drinking establishment, I don’t doubt. Already heard on the grapevine that he’s applied for planning permission to convert the Old Barn into a pair of dwellings. Change the whole nature of the village that will.’
Kirstie was about to shoot back a retort, but she didn’t want to upset Angus any further by pointing out to him that what Miles wanted to do was no different from what Angus himself had already done with the two disused barns on his own land. Only twelve months before, he had sold them for conversion, one of which Josh had snapped up.
‘Sorry, Angus. I know it’s hard,