The Garden of Magic by Sarah Painter Page B

recompense us for the value,’ Mrs Farrier said brightly. ‘Then we could take it as an honest mistake and write the reference –’
    ‘Sentimental value,’ Mr Farrier broke in, throwing a sharp look at his wife.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Iris said. ‘They belonged to your father, James, I believe.’
    ‘How did you know that?’ Mr Farrier gawped at Iris. ‘How on earth –’
    ‘Because you threw them away,’ Iris said. ‘About twenty years ago, in fact.’
    He opened his mouth and, for moment, no sound came out. Then he rallied with: ‘Why would I do that?’
    ‘Because they reminded you too much of him, I would imagine,’ Iris said. ‘He wasn’t a good man. I’m sorry for that.’
    Farrier had gone red and he was blinking furiously. ‘I don’t know … How –’
    ‘I knew him a long time ago,’ Iris said. ‘He wasn’t very nice then, and I think he only got worse. He was that sort. Mean through to the core. Nasty in his bones.’
    She fixed him with a glare that made Bex shrivel inside. She hated to think how it would feel to have the full beam. ‘Your father was bad deep down in his blood and I wonder, now, whether he passed that on to you? It was very wrong of you to blame Rebecca. Wrong to dismiss her. Wrong to accuse her.’
    ‘Alistair?’ Mrs Farrier was gazing at her husband as if she’d never seen him before. ‘What is she talking about?’
    ‘Get out of my house,’ Farrier said, but his voice was weak.
    ‘Not yet,’ Iris said, opening her bag and pulling out a glass bottle filled with pale liquid and a stack of clear plastic wine glasses. ‘Rebecca, would you do the honours?’
    Bex obeyed automatically, setting the glasses out onto the table and fiddling with the stopper that was like the opening on a Grolsch bottle.
    ‘Don’t worry about putting the kettle on,’ Iris said to Mrs Farrier. ‘We brought you a gift. A toast to friendship and to better times and to sorting this out in a civilised manner.’ She looked at Mr Farrier. ‘A discreet manner. Bex has no intention of causing trouble for you or your family. She is very fond of you all, although I am at a loss to know why.’
    ‘Most of you,’ Bex said, for the sake of honesty.
    Iris nodded. ‘So. We’re going to have some of my famous elderflower wine, and we’re going to have a conversation and come to a mutually beneficial agreement.’
    ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking a little dazed. ‘This is all very odd. People said this town was odd, but I didn’t really listen.’
    Bex poured a small measure of the pale yellow liquid into each glass.
    ‘I’m not drinking that,’ Mr Farrier said.
    ‘It’s a gift,’ Iris said.
    Mrs Farrier put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Alistair, please.’
    ‘One drink and we’ll leave,’ Iris said, putting a glass into his hand.
    Mr Farrier’s frown deepened. ‘How did you know my father?’
    ‘We were engaged. A very long time ago.’ Iris smiled at the sudden stunned silence. ‘Needless to say, it didn’t work out.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’ Mrs Farrier looked bewildered.
    ‘I wasn’t always eighty-two, you know,’ Iris said, sharply.
    ‘That wasn’t what I meant –’
    Iris raised her plastic glass. ‘A little elderflower makes everything better. It’s summer captured in a glass.’
    As if hypnotised by British politeness, everyone lifted their glasses and drank. The wine was delicious. Fresh and floral with a dry undertone.
    ‘I’m not taking part in this,’ Mr Farrier said, lowering his glass after one sip. ‘I don’t care who you are or what you’re dragging up from the past. It’s ancient history.’
    ‘It isn’t though, is it?’ Iris said. ‘I think he is still influencing you. The fact that you pretended to have lost his cufflinks, something you haven’t possessed for many years, speaks volumes. It’s almost as if he is still influencing you from beyond the grave.’
    ‘Well, that makes more sense,’ Mrs Farrier