Page 87 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

‘Ah, but do you love her? There’s a difference.’

Owen debated whether to reply. He hadn’t told Harriet he loved her yet, so surely she should be the first to know.

Oh, what the heck! He was planning on telling her how he felt before he left for Narberth, so it wouldn’t hurt if these three ladies knew in advance, because they would know soon enough anyway.

‘I love her,’ he admitted. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourselves. I want to tell her myself and I don’t want her to hear it second-hand.’

‘I thought you were all for second-hand!’ Mrs Moxley quipped, inclining her head to the other two ladies to accept their cries of ‘nice one!’ and ‘you tell him!’.

‘Does that mean you’re going to settle down?’ Dee asked when the laughter abated.

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Because of Harriet?’

‘Mostly, but also because I feel at home in Foxmore.’

‘Will you buy a house?’

‘I’m not sure I’d want to do that. I love my van. I’ve lived in it, or one similar, for twenty years, give or take.’

‘You need to put down proper roots, my boy,’ Mrs Moxley told him. ‘Ones that go deep into the earth. It’s too easy to up sticks and leave when all you’ve got is a set of wheels.’

Owen didn’t have any intention of upping sticks and leaving, but the old lady did have a point. If he continued to live in a van, would it constantly be in the back of Harriet’s mind that he could leave at any time? The last thing he wanted was for her to feel insecure.

But he didn’t have any other option. Unless… he sold his van.

Camper vans like the one he owned were worth a fair bit of money, and if he sold it, he would probably realise enough to put a deposit on a house. Although he was self-employed, his income was steady, so he hoped he would be able to persuade a building society to give him a mortgage, and after he’d done that – and had those firm roots in Foxmore that Mrs Moxley said he should have – maybe he could ask Harriet to marry him.

Chapter 19

Blast! Harriet’s heart sank when she saw the phone number of Sara’s school flash up on her mobile. Receiving texts from the school was an almost daily occurrence – who knew there was so much information to be imparted to parents – but this was the first time anyone had rung her.

Sara had been reluctant to go to school that morning, but no more than usual for a Monday (or any other day, for that matter), and as far as Harriet could remember, her daughter hadn’t shown any signs of being unwell, although she had complained of feeling sick. But as she claimed to feel sick most mornings before school these days, Harriet had chivvied her along and ignored it. If she kept Sara home every time she said she felt ill, the child would never be in school. She hoped Sara wasn’t faking illness so that Harriet would fetch her home, because she would have stern words with her daughter if that was the case. She had no intention of going down that particular road with her. However, if Sara was genuinely ill, that was a different matter, and a wave of guilt washed over her. If she had sent Sara to school when she was truly unwell, what kind of mother did that make her?

Harriet therefore answered the phone with a considerable degree of sheepishness.

‘Hello, is that Mrs Parry? Sara’s mum?’

‘It is. Has she been sick? I’m so sorry, I thought she was trying it on. You know what kids are like… Silly me, of course you do, you work in a school. Ha ha.’

‘Um, no, Sara hasn’t been sick and she’s not ill.I’m Mrs Cooke, the headteacher, and the reason I’m calling is because Sara has been involved in an altercation.’

‘What? Oh, my God! Is she all right? What happened?’ Fear tore through her, leaving her breathless and trembling.

‘She’s fine. A little shaken, perhaps, but unharmed. We are, however, going to need you to collect her as soon as possible. She has been excluded from school for three days for fighting.’

‘Fighting?I don’t believe it! I thought you said there’s been an altercation?’

‘There has. Sara attacked another child, and as you are probably aware, the school does not tolerate violence.’

‘But Sara’s not like that!’ Harriet was almost in tears. Her daughter might be finding her feet and becoming a little more belligerent, but she had never been aggressive. If anything, she tended to walk away from confrontation – unless it was with Harriet herself, or Bobby. But even then, she had never been violent. They must have it wrong.

‘Are you sure you’re talking aboutmydaughter? I’m Sara Parry’s mam. Sara without an “h”,’ she added, in case there happened to be two Sara Parrys in the school.

‘Wearetalking about your daughter, Mrs Parry.’

‘What about the other child?’

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