A Taste of Home Read online

  ‘I’m going to do some weeding,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll stop for lunch, shall we?’

  ‘That sounds like a grand idea,’ said Grandad, sitting back down and rearranging the umbrella because the sun had shifted.

  I looked over at him and smiled. Day on day he was looking better, and that morning, with the benefit of the sunshine and a task to keep him occupied, he positively glowed. It was amazing to think it was just ten days ago that I had arrived and he had been so poorly. It was also amazing to think that it was just ten days ago, full stop.

  Whether it was because I was used to working on a fruit farm and familiar with the routine, or whether it was because this was my family farm and where I truly belonged, I couldn’t be sure, but I felt as though I’d been at Fenview Farm for far longer. Mum’s suggestion that I would be a good fit here, had turned out to be right. So far at least.

  I hummed as I worked my way between the bushes, hoeing up some weeds and pulling up others, while Grandad watched from outside, chatting companionably to the still irate blackbird.

  ‘That’ll do for today,’ I said, grimacing as I stretched out my aching back and checked my phone. It showed me the time, but precious little else. ‘Definitely time for lunch.’

  We had a scratch meal of bread, cheese, fruit and chutney and then Grandad went for a nap while I measured, cut and hammered on the new roof for the henhouse. After that, I headed back over to the barn. Throughout the morning, when I wasn’t thinking about Eliot, Marco or Mum, my mind had drifted back to it and I was eager to have another look.

  The cat was asleep on top of one of the tea-chests and when she realised I was going to be moving stuff about, she stretched and yawned and stalked out, no doubt resolved to find somewhere else to snooze the rest of the day away.

  This time I looked properly inside the chests and pulled more things out. Some held framed photographs while others were packed with newspapers, which had turned yellow with age. A few of the photographs were of Fen skating, which matched the boots I’d seen before, and others were of wily looking eel catchers in tweed caps and grubby work clothes, a couple holding the same willow traps I’d already identified.

  None of the newspapers, I realised, were being used as wrappings or to pad things out, but had been kept because they recorded particularly interesting stories and events. Most were about farming and local agricultural shows, and others recorded births, deaths and marriages in the area. I was interested to see that there were quite a few Browns listed.

  A shadow fell across the doorway and I jumped. It was Grandad.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me looking,’ I swallowed, thinking that I really should have asked before I rifled through it all. ‘I spotted it all the first time I came in here and again this morning when the order from Andersons arrived and my curiosity got the better of me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I daresay you think it’s all a load of rubbish,’ Grandad said.

  He stepped further in and I could see he looked more uncomfortable than annoyed, but there was an air of defiance in the way he stuck out his chin.

  ‘None of it looks like rubbish,’ I quickly said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s fascinating. An amazing record of life around here. I’ve learned loads just from looking at the newspapers. Some of these should be framed and preserved like the photographs.’

  Grandad looked taken aback.

  ‘And these eel traps are incredible,’ I said, picking one up. ‘I had no idea they were so skilfully woven when I saw them online.’

  ‘Why were you looking at them online?’

  ‘I did a bit of research about the area and its history before I came here. I found out a few things, but it’s not the same as seeing them first hand, is it?’

  ‘You don’t think it should all be put in a heap and burned then?’

  ‘What? Of course not!’

  ‘That’s all your mother said it was good for,’ he huskily said. ‘Whenever I found something new, or someone gave me a piece for safekeeping, she’d sneer and tell me how sad I was, being stuck in the past.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. This is a treasure trove of local history and I can promise you Grandad, that’s not what Mum would have said if she could see it all now.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She would have appreciated this every bit as much as I do.’

  ‘She obviously changed a lot over the years then, didn’t she?’

  ‘I think she must have done,’ I agreed. ‘Teenagers often bear little resemblance to the adults they become, in my experience, and it’s such a shame you didn’t have the opportunity to know Mum once she’d got all of that angst out of her system.’

  It pained me deeply to know that she’d never come back to Fenview Farm to make amends. I wished with every fibre of my being that Grandad had known the worldly, well-travelled and much-loved woman his daughter had become and that his memories weren’t confined to the argumentative and sulky girl she had been.

  ‘Some of this looks unique,’ I carried on, steering the conversation back to the collection. ‘It should be treasured, not torched.’

  ‘It is,’ said Grandad. ‘That’s why I’ve kept if for all these years.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do with it?’ I asked. ‘What are your plans for it? I can’t imagine that you’ve kept it all just so it can gather dust.’

  ‘Well, no,’ he said, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I had thought about finding a way to put it all on display at one time, but nothing ever came of it.’

  ‘You should do it,’ I said, picking up one of the maps. ‘I’m sure people would be interested, especially if you talked to them about it too. A personal connection is a very powerful thing.’

  Grandad gently took the map out of my hand and turned it up the right way. He clearly loved the collection he had so painstakingly put together and I was going to make sure it got the recognition it deserved. Shut away in a dusty old barn wasn’t doing it any good or any justice at all.

  ‘Promise me you’ll think about it,’ I asked him, but he didn’t have a chance to answer as a car pulled into the yard.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ he shrugged.

  I quickly put everything back where I’d found it and closed the barn again.

  ‘Jemma,’ I smiled, as she climbed out of her car. ‘How lovely to see you. Grandad, this is Jemma from the Cherry Tree Café.’

  ‘I thought I recognised you,’ he said, also smiling. ‘I was going to give you a call this afternoon.’

  ‘With good news, I hope,’ she said, reaching back into the car and reappearing with a large cake box. ‘I hope you don’t mind me just turning up out of the blue, but I was so excited after our chat, Fliss, that even though I’d said there was no rush, I couldn’t wait another day to find out what you’d decided, Mr Brown.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better call me Bill,’ Grandad told her. ‘I like to be on first name terms with anyone I do business with.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’ Jemma grinned. ‘Bill it is then.’

  In the kitchen, she handed over the box which was full of cakes, biscuits and cream-based confectionery.

  ‘Well now,’ said Grandad. ‘I can see where your talent lies, my dear. These all look delicious.’

  Jemma flushed prettily. ‘And I know where yours lies too,’ she said back, ‘and I’m hoping it’s going to enhance mine all the more.’

  Grandad nodded approvingly.

  ‘Why don’t you and I go and have a look around the farm?’ I suggested to her. ‘And then we’ll have tea and cakes while we talk business.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Grandad agreed. ‘I’m all walked out for today, but I can run to making a pot of tea.’

  I gave Jemma the full tour, explaining what would be coming into season and when and she was enthralled with everything.

  ‘This is just the sort of collab I’m
looking for,’ she said excitedly as we walked around. ‘I’ve got a similar set-up with Jake and Amber from Skylark Farm.’

  ‘I guessed as much from what I read on the back of the café menu,’ I told her, stopping to pluck a couple of strawberries which had conveniently ripened just in time.

  By the looks of it, I was going to have to start making daily checks of the rows. Mindful of Grandad’s concerns, I didn’t want to waste a single fruit and the straw delivery couldn’t come soon enough now.

  Jemma closed her eyes as she bit into the soft, sweet flesh.

  ‘Plucked straight from the plant,’ she said, chewing appreciatively. ‘You can’t get any better than that, can you?’

  ‘You certainly can’t,’ I agreed, picking a few for Grandad. ‘And I can easily get them to you within just a couple of hours of picking.’

  Or at least I could if I had transport. I was really going to have to address that situation sooner rather than later, but in the meantime, perhaps Bec might be able to help me out. She certainly had the right vehicle for ferrying fruit about!

  ‘Come and see what we’ve got in the cages,’ I said to Jemma, determined not to let concerns about my lack of wheels jeopardise our deal. ‘There’s nothing ripe yet, but you’ll be able to get an idea of the yields we can offer.’

  An hour later, going organic had been discussed, along with apple, pear and plum varieties and the deal was done. It was all sealed over a few more strawberries and some sumptuously frosted cupcakes which felt and tasted like a wonderful way to do business to me.

  ‘This is a lovely barn,’ said Jemma, nodding over to where Grandad’s Fenland collection was stored as she prepared to leave. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it, would you?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said, before Grandad had a chance to answer.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ she laughed, ‘but I thought I’d ask. Tom and I rather fancy taking on a conversion project.’

  ‘If it had been built further away from the house then it might have been a possibility, but I don’t think it would be ideal having someone living so close by, do you Grandad?’

  He looked at the barn, but didn’t answer.

  ‘There’d be all sorts of issues with access too.’ I pointed out. ‘What with sharing the drive and everything and especially as this is a working farm.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ said Jemma. ‘Let’s just stick to the fruit deal then. Tom would probably have had forty fits if I told him I’d put a deposit down on a barn, rather than a fruit harvest this afternoon!’

  Once she’d gone, I indulged in a little happy dance, which made Grandad laugh.

  ‘Now all I need to do, is sort out some transport to get the fruit to town every day,’ I said, linking my arm through his, ‘and we’ll be all set.’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ he said, pulling me closer to his side. ‘By this time tomorrow you’ll be up and running. You have got a driving licence, haven’t you?’

  I stopped and looked at him. What was he talking about?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s here?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Have you got your licence or not?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s Italian, but I can drive on it here for a year, I think. Then I have to get it transferred to a British one.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, before mysteriously adding, ‘I’ll need to borrow it later.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me why?’ I asked, dancing around him again.

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I want it to be a surprise. Let’s go and have another cake.’

  I wasn’t sure I needed more sugar, but I followed him back inside wondering what exactly he was going to surprise me with the next day.

  Chapter 13

  The following morning Grandad and I made the most of the time before his friend, Jake, was due to arrive with the straw and hens, by shifting the henhouse into position and surrounding it with a simply constructed run.

  ‘I know I said we wouldn’t bother with a run,’ said Grandad, as he handed me the stakes and ties so I could hammer it into the ground, ‘but I’ve been giving it some more thought and, as these are ex-battery girls, I reckon they’ll feel a bit more secure in an enclosed space for a while.’

  I had to agree and the spot we’d picked, still just in sight of the house, but in the shade of a tree, was perfect.

  ‘It was fortunate you remembered you had this,’ I said, as I hammered in the last stake. ‘It’s just the job.’

  ‘It’s getting on a bit,’ said Grandad, giving it a shake to make sure I’d secured it properly. ‘But it can still do the job.’

  ‘A bit like you then,’ I grinned up at him.

  ‘You cheeky beggar,’ he laughed.

  A horn tooted in the yard.

  ‘That’ll be Jake,’ he said, distracted from my mischievous comment. ‘Let’s go and see what he’s got for us, shall we?’

  I felt a bit nervous about meeting Jake Somerville. I knew he was a good friend of Grandad’s and had been more than generous when it came to helping keep Fenview Farm running during the last couple of years. I smoothed down my work shirt, my heart skipping in my eagerness to make a good impression, but I needn’t have worried. Jake was kindness itself and not at all how I had imagined him.

  He was about twenty years younger for a start. Definitely older than me, but not by all that much. Unkempt haired with hazel flecked eyes, a ready smile and a firm handshake. He pumped my hand with something akin to relief as he said how pleased he was to meet me and that he hoped Grandad wasn’t giving me too much trouble.

  ‘He’s behaving himself so far,’ I said, returning his smile, ‘but I’m expecting that will all change once I’ve found my feet.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said Grandad, talking over us. ‘I can see how it’s going to be. You two are going to gang up on me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Jake, winking at me.

  ‘In that case,’ Grandad sniffed, ‘let’s have a look at these hens and then I’ll go and make us a drink while you pair get on with the work.’

  Jake’s Kawasaki Mule and trailer were loaded up with straw bales, a bag of feed for the hens and another of grit, while the box containing the three chickens was wedged securely in the passenger footwell.

  As we approached, I could hear a gentle clucking which grew all the louder when Jake jumped behind the wheel and manoeuvred the vehicle over to the run.

  ‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ said Grandad, forgetting his former scolding and honing in on exactly how I felt. ‘It’s going to be lovely having chickens again. Livestock and poultry make a place feel more alive.’

  ‘And then there are all those fresh eggs,’ I wistfully added. ‘I’ve got the most amazing meringue recipe I want to make again and it will go perfectly with our fruit.’

  ‘You’ll be giving Jemma a run for her money at this rate,’ Grandad chuckled.

  I packed some straw into the henhouse and filled the feeder and drinker while Jake lifted the box into the run.

  ‘We’re supposed to leave them shut in, aren’t we?’ I asked the two men who knew far more about poultry welfare than I did.

  ‘As a rule, they’d be in the house overnight to get their bearings,’ said Jake. ‘But it’s going to get hot today, and as you’ve got a run and they can’t wander off, I reckon they’ll be able to come out after about an hour. What do you think, Bill?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That should do it. Let’s get them in, shall we?’

  Jake opened the box and Grandad carefully lifted the first hen out, expertly tucking her under his arm. She was the classic ginger and white Rhode Island cross-breed and in far better condition than I had been expecting.

  ‘She doesn’t look too bad,’ said Grandad, as he gently stroked her back.

  ‘I’ve had them a little while,’ explained Jake, reaching into the box and handing me the second one. ‘So, they’ve already had some fairly decent feat
her growth. They hardly had any wing feathers at all when I collected them.’

  They certainly had them now. The hen I was holding gave a mighty flap and Grandad stepped forward and tucked her wings in so I could get the same grip on her, as he had on his.

  ‘She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?’ he laughed as Jake picked out the third, who was docile by comparison.

  ‘She’s definitely the boss,’ said Jake, nodding at mine as he lifted the henhouse lid and lowered his demure bird inside.

  I quickly followed suit, keen to let go of the ringleader before she flapped out of my arms. She clucked and gave me a very hard stare as Grandad deposited his. Jake carefully closed the roof and I checked the door was secure.

  ‘That’s that then,’ said Grandad, looking well pleased. ‘You’ll have to let me know how much you want for them, Jake.’

  ‘Nothing for the hens,’ he said, brushing his hands down his trousers, ‘but I’ll charge you for the feed and grit.’

  ‘Grand,’ said Grandad. ‘Let’s have a drink before you two shift this straw, shall we?’

  By the time Jake and I had finished lugging the bales about and stacking them on wooden pallets as close to the strawberry rows as we could get, I was feeling hot and ready for another drink.

  ‘Thank goodness you had the Mule,’ I puffed as we covered the bales in a sheet of tarpaulin and secured it with a couple of bricks.

  Rain wasn’t forecast, but I didn’t want to get caught out. Grandad had said the area was known for freak thunderstorms, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘I would have had to shift this lot individually with the wheelbarrow if you hadn’t.’

  ‘That would have been a killer,’ Jake agreed, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘You could do with widening the path to get bigger vehicles down here. The farmer who owns the field next door doesn’t mind the tractor coming through his gate and on to here, but it’s not ideal.’