Lottie Phillips - Sunshine at Daisy’s Guesthouse

When she had opened up every single room in the house, she took the catalogues Tom had given her and a pen and made notes on each room and the feel she wanted. Atworth Manor, she realised, was turning into a very calm and beautiful French chateau as she chose white, pale grey and dusky pink linens, white metal frame bedsteads and, she sighed happily, she would put flowers everywhere. Flowers in every room. People would arrive and feel alive . She wanted that. She needed that. Who knew, maybe other widows would arrive and they too could benefit from the energy?

Just as she had written the last item down to be ordered and wiped her brow at her morning’s efforts, she heard the familiar clunkety-clunk of her mother’s Land Rover (the kind, Daisy thought, that proper farmers kept with no heating, appalling steering and barely a roof). She looked out of the windows on the final floor’s landing and yes, it was as she had thought; Jenny, her mother, dressed in wellies and overalls, just come from her own morning of hard work.

Daisy moved quickly down the flights of stairs and arrived at the bottom as her mother knocked, somewhat aggressively, on the heavy front door.

Daisy clutched the catalogues and notes to her chest like a comfort blanket and pulled open the door with her free hand.

‘Mum,’ she breathed. ‘So good to see you.’ She went in for a hug but when her mother didn’t reciprocate, she pulled away quickly.

‘Not sure why we couldn’t have met down Hilda’s Coffee Shop on the edge of town or, even better, your old family home?’

‘I thought you might like me to make you lunch here.’ Daisy pulled the door further open and nodded for her to come inside.

‘Well, Daisy, you know full well neither you or me belong in houses like this.’ She had never lost her broad Gloucestershire accent even with the influx of ‘yuppies’, as Jenny called them, to the area. Though Daisy was glad of it because on the odd occasion when her mother was in a softer mood, it sounded glorious to her ear and reminded her of days out in the fields together tending to the animals or, on the rare day off, her mother making a huge picnic for them all, including her father who was still alive then.

Daisy often tried to recall when her mother had become quite so bitter; she reckoned it must have been after her father died. He had a heart attack one day, out on the farm, and that was it. So sudden. He had been fine that morning eating his two rashers of bacon and two poached eggs with a wedge of buttered toast. In fact, she often thought guiltily, how at aged sixteen as she was becoming highly aware of her body she had ribbed her father over his diet and how, if he wasn’t careful, it could be the end of him. Then, one morning, the man she adored with his laughter lines and rough, calloused hands just dropped down dead.

Daisy and her mother were both widows, only in Daisy’s case, her husband died over the course of a few years. She had never been able to figure out which way out was best. Maybe it didn’t matter; both left gaping holes in lives.

She realised her mother was still stood in the hall and so she herself had to move towards the kitchen, otherwise they might be there all day.

‘I’ve got soup I made a few days ago, your favourite? Tomato. And some bread I put in the bread-maker this morning. Does that sound OK?’ Daisy looked at her mother who was eyeing up the antique French kitchen dresser and the granite work surfaces. She didn’t even need to ask what she was thinking. Granite was for posh people, apparently. What was wrong with a bit of Formica?

‘Sounds fine,’ her mother eventually answered, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the carver chair.

‘Great, perfect,’ Daisy remarked through gritted teeth. As she set to heating up the soup and slicing the bread, she wondered how she was going to tell her mother about their hare-brained idea.

She needn’t have worried.

Her mother’s beady eyes had already clocked the catalogues and list on the table.

‘Tell me you’re not redecorating? You know, you might be quite well off but Hugh’s money isn’t going to last forever.’ She paused. ‘Life is expensive when you’re relying on yourself.’

Daisy continued stirring the soup, turning ever so slightly from the range.

‘Actually—’ she forced a smile ‘—you won’t believe this…’ Her mother flinched as if Daisy were about to inflict pain upon her. She had spent her life relaying her plans and goals with the utmost of care, never expecting a warm reception. Especially after the death of her father, he had been her go-between. ‘So I’m opening a B&B with Tom, Lisa and James.’ She turned quickly back to the soup.

The silence lay heavy and ominous.

‘Well, I suppose it would do you good. Ground you.’

Daisy took that as a seal of her approval.

‘Actually, it was an idea Hugh and I had years ago but not here, not in this house.’

‘Where then?’

Daisy poured the soup into the bowls and placed her finest bone china soup dish in front of her mother. Her mother’s arched brow told her that she would have been happier with Tesco’s own.

‘France.’ Daisy sat down, busied herself with cutting more bread needlessly.

‘Well, that really would have been a stupid idea. You in France? We all know how well French went for you at university.’

Daisy pushed down the lump in her throat. ‘Actually, I had been relearning and I’m almost fluent,’ she lied, pushing the far too hot soup into her mouth. Anything to avoid talking about it any further.

‘I’m amazed,’ her mother started after taking a mouthful of soup, giving an almost imperceptible nod of approval, ‘that James would want to stay here. I mean James is obviously from a house like this so that bit doesn’t surprise me but to stay here with the likes of you and your friends. It doesn’t make sense.’

Daisy lifted her chin defiantly. ‘What does that mean? “The likes of you”? I may not have been born into a house like this but it doesn’t mean I can’t live in one.’

‘Oh, Daisy, don’t be silly. I’ve told you all along you should have stayed with me on the farm. I needed your help and you insisted on going to university, which, frankly, was a total waste of time and money because then you married above your station. You just tried to make me look bad.’

Daisy buttered her bread, pushing the knife this way and that with such force she thought she might break the knife. ‘You’ll never be any different. I don’t know what happened, Mum, but when Dad died you changed and you pushed me away.’ She pouted. ‘Anyway, maybe I can make a success of this. Imagine that. Imagine your own daughter actually running a successful business.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that.’ Her mother spooned the last of her soup into her mouth and stood. ‘Thank you, I think I’d better get back to the lambs that have arrived early.’

‘Oh, have they?’ Daisy’s prickly mood softened. She had adored lambing, watching new life enter the world. ‘Do you want me to come over? Help?’

‘No,’ her mother said stiffly. ‘You stay here and look up cushions. Much more important.’

With that, her mother bustled from the kitchen, her wellies leaving a trail of mud to the front door, and got into her jeep, roaring off down the drive.

Daisy continued to sit, almost numb from the visit, except for one thing. Her mother had left a burning desire somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, a desire to make the business not only work but be a raving success.

Daisy’s mood had entirely shifted in a twenty-four hour period. This time yesterday she had felt as if the plans for the B&B were at best, mad, at worst, catastrophic. But something had changed. She had sensed it even in the sunrise this morning. It had appeared brighter, more hopeful.