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She said quietly, ‘I’ve made a note of what we need to re-order from the printers, Mrs Wilding. Shall I leave it with the library list?’
‘You may as well.’ Mrs Wilding paused. ‘I shan’t need you again today, Octavia. You can go home.’
Faced with an afternoon of freedom at any other time, Tavy would have turned an inner cartwheel. But this felt like being sent away in some kind of disgrace—as if she’d been caught prying—when she was simply doing her job. Because if any of the school’s stationery had run out, she knew who’d have been blamed.
She managed a polite, ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilding,’ then collected her jacket and her bag, and went to find her bicycle.
She was halfway down the drive, when she heard the sound of a powerful engine approaching, and drew in to the verge, just as a big Land Rover came round the corner, with ‘White Gables Stud’ blazoned on its sides, and Norton Culham at the wheel.
Tavy couldn’t remember him ever calling at the school before, so it was truly turning into a day of surprises, although Mr Culham driving past without appearing to notice her was certainly not one of them.
Everything normal there, she thought, giving a mental shrug and continuing on her way. Passing the church, she saw an unfamiliar car parked outside, and remembered the diocesan surveyor was expected.
Damn, she thought. I meant to wish Dad luck.
As she wheeled her bike up the Vicarage drive, she saw there was something in the porch, leaning against the front door, only to realise as she got closer that it was a large florists’ bouquet—two dozen crimson roses beautifully wrapped and beribboned.
She picked them up carefully, inhaling their delicate exquisite fragrance, then detached the little envelope from the outer layer of silver-starred cellophane, and took out the card.
There were just two words. ‘Peace offering.’
No sender’s name, but she knew exactly who needed to make this kind of atonement and whispered, ‘Patrick.’
This wonderful, extravagant, passionate gesture more than made up for the apologetic phone call that she’d expected but never received.
Smiling, she let herself into the house, and took the flowers through to the kitchen. She’d need at least two if not three vases for them. And wasn’t there something about cutting the stems and bruising them in order to prolong the blooming? Because she wanted to keep them fresh not just for days but weeks.
She took out her mobile and, for once, because she wanted to reassure him that peace had indeed broken out, she called him at work.
He answered immediately. ‘Tavy?’ He sounded surprised and none too pleased. ‘What is it? This isn’t a good time. I have a client waiting.’
‘But you must have known I’d ring,’ she said. ‘To thank you, and say how truly beautiful they are, and how thrilled I am.’
There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t follow you,’ he said. ‘What’s “truly beautiful”? What are you talking about?’
‘Your peace offering,’ she said, her voice lilting. ‘The lovely flowers you just sent me.’
‘Flowers?’ Patrick’s tone was impatient. ‘I never sent any flowers. Why would I? It must be a mistake by the florist—or someone’s playing a joke on you. I suggest you get it sorted. Now I really have to go. I’ll call you later.’
He disconnected, leaving Tavy standing motionless, clutching the phone, and staring at the bouquet lying on the kitchen table, as if each long-stemmed blossom had suddenly turned into a live snake.
‘No,’ she said aloud, her voice clipped and harsh in the silence. ‘It’s not true. They can’t be from—him. I don’t—I won’t believe it.’
Peace offering...
She was trembling, her stomach churning in a mix of incredulity, confusion and disappointment. She brought her fist up to her mouth, biting down hard on the knuckle, trying to distract one pain with another.
She’d believed Patrick had sent the flowers because he’d spoiled the previous evening by getting stupidly and aggressively drunk, and she’d expected him to show a measure of remorse. But his attitude on the phone indicated quite clearly that was the last thing on his mind.
She didn’t want to speculate what Jago Marsh’s motivation might be. She only knew that to receive flowers—and red roses, the symbol of love at that—from someone as cynically amoral as he was, had to be a kind of degradation.
Suggesting to her where they really belonged. She snatched the bouquet from the table and marched out of the house, down the drive to where the bins were awaiting the weekly refuse collection, thrusting the flowers on top of the kitchen waste.
