A Taste of Home Read online

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re taking so much,’ Marco sulked the morning I was set to leave, even though he could clearly see I was taking very little. ‘It’s not as if you won’t be coming back, is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, pulling him into a hug. ‘You’re not getting rid of me for good.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ he said, squeezing me tight. ‘The season starts soon and you need to be here to organise the troops. That’s still your job, you know?’

  Inspired by how Mum had worked on various farms around the world to fund her happy-go-lucky lifestyle, the Rossi farm was set up to welcome travellers who wanted to stay and immerse themselves in local life for a while, rather than whizz through, barely taking in the sights before moving on.

  Everyone worked and lived together over the summer months and even though each year welcomed a different mix of people, the atmosphere was always the same – inclusive and a lot of fun. From mid-May to late October the farm buzzed and we all preferred it to the quieter months of winter.

  ‘I know it is,’ I smiled, amused that Marco was using my role at the farm to mask how much he was going to miss me. ‘And I’ll probably be back even before the first lot arrive.’

  ‘Probably?’ he asked, pulling away, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Stop pressuring her, Marco,’ said Alessandro. ‘She’ll be as long as it takes. Fliss, we need to go.’

  He took my bags out to the truck and I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I wasn’t sure I could handle saying goodbye to Nonna.

  ‘Here,’ she said, holding out a sheet of paper. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Read it and see.’

  I only took in the four words written at the top before my throat closed up and my vision blurred. Copied straight out of her ancient handwritten family cookbook it was the Rossi cherry and almond tart recipe. I had been asking her for it for years, but she had always refused to give me the exact details. The particulars were a closely guarded family secret, not even Alessandro and Marco were privy to the extra ingredient which she only ever added when no one else was in the kitchen.

  ‘Wherever you end up,’ she shakily said, ‘this will always give you a taste of home.’

  I let out a steadying breath and nodded.

  ‘I’ll keep it safe,’ I huskily promised, carefully folding and tucking it into the breast pocket of my shirt alongside Mum’s two letters.

  Together they felt like a protective talisman close to my heart and I was in no doubt of the honour Nonna had bestowed upon me by handing the treasured recipe over.

  ‘And you only add the last ingredient when no one is watching,’ she sternly reminded me.

  ‘Of course,’ I smiled, bending to give her one last hug.

  This departure from the farm felt very different to when Mum was dragging me off somewhere. It felt unsettlingly final. Not as though I would never be coming back, rather that when I did things would be altered for good.

  * * *

  The journey from Puglia to Peterborough wasn’t all that long but by the time I checked into the hotel where I was staying for my first night on UK soil, I felt exhausted. I briefly video called the farm to let everyone know I was safe and then, refusing to give in to the bout of homesickness the sight of the familiar kitchen aroused, I indulged in a long, hot bath.

  Still with no real idea of where I was going to end up the next day, but knowing I had come far enough not to change my mind, I snuggled down in the comfortable double bed and began to google.

  ‘Fenview Farm,’ I said aloud as I typed the name into the search bar. ‘Wynbridge.’

  There was no website for the farm, or social media presence, and Google Street View offered up little more than a view of a Fenland drove road, flat and far reaching, but the land on either side of it appeared to be full of orchards. I hadn’t given much thought to what sort of farm Fenview might be, but looking at the landscape, a fruit farm felt likely. My heart skittered at the thought. The acres of trees would provide a setting I could relate to and there was some comfort in that. Perhaps that was why Mum considered it a match for me, but why hadn’t it been for her?

  I could see that most of the trees looked to be well-tended, but there were a couple of areas which were either neglected, or altogether abandoned. The exact spot on the road where the farm was located was obscured by a row of silver birches so I couldn’t see much, but from what I could make out it looked to be a proper working farm.

  It pained me to think that Mum had never once mentioned it. She had worked her way around numerous farms over the years, but she had never shared a single detail about the one which was owned by her family. Why exactly was that? My mind started to race again in spite of my efforts to stop it before and, knowing I was in danger of undoing all the good my relaxing bath had done, I quickly put my phone down and turned off the light before I worked my way up to a panic.

  * * *

  Saturday was a warm, soft, spring day and practically as soon as the bus left Peterborough I became mesmerised by the landscape. Parts of Puglia were flat, but nothing like the Fens. The vast fields stretched all the way to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by a distant copse, or boundary defining ditch, but beyond that there appeared to be nothing. Or there was nothing until we reached the outskirts of Wynbridge. Then the orchards began.

  Acre upon acre of rows of flat-topped trees, many laden with frothy bursting blossom, were planted along both sides of the road, just as I had seen on Google. My heart soared at the sight and I wondered if there would be as much of a spectacle waiting to welcome me to Fenview Farm. I hoped the discarded orchards I had seen online didn’t belong to the place. That really would be too sad.

  But more to the point, would there be a welcome for me at Fenview Farm? For the first time since I had decided to come, I felt a real rush of nerves. It was more intense than what I had felt the night before and it stamped all over practically every other emotion I had recently experienced. I began to feel nauseous.

  Was I making a mistake? Why did Mum think that me coming here was so important when she herself had left almost thirty years ago without a backwards glance? She had written that I would be a better fit for the place, but were she and I really so different?

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ said the bus driver, as he twisted round to look at me from his seat and pulled me out of my reverie. ‘Are you getting off or going back?’

  He didn’t know it of course, but that was actually a huge question.

  ‘Getting off,’ I said, grabbing my bags and rushing along the aisle and down the steps before I bolted back to Peterborough.

  ‘Town square’s that way,’ he called after me, pointing along the road.

  Clearly, I didn’t look like someone who knew where they were going.

  ‘Will I be able to find a taxi there?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ he said, before closing the doors and swinging the bus round to face the way we’d just come.

  I hoisted my pack on to my back and headed in the direction he had indicated. The little town looked lovely in the sunshine, almost idyllic. There was a busy market in the centre of the square and an interesting variety of shops around the edges. There was a pretty café set behind a cherry tree, with some sort of gallery next door, and a pub with an impressive array of spring flowering containers.

  The friendly chatter and busyness reminded me of where I shopped in Italy and I tried to marry my initial impression of the place with a vision of Mum. This must have been where she visited and hung out when she was growing up, but I couldn’t picture her anywhere. ‘Work hard, play hard’ was the ethos she had lived by. The second she’d earned enough in the country she was off to the bright lights and big cities to spend it and immerse herself in new experiences, but there didn’t look to be those sorts of opportunities here.

  Wynbridge looked too restrained for her taste, altogether too small, but I was charmed. That said, the town
was no doubt a very different place all those years ago, and Mum a different person. Perhaps it had satisfied her until she fell pregnant with me and her life had inevitably changed.

  ‘Can you take me to Fenview Farm, please?’ I asked the only cab driver who was parked in a bay marked out for taxis.

  ‘Do you have a postcode?’

  I couldn’t place his accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, pulling a scrap of paper out of my jeans pocket and handing it over. ‘It’s on Lady’s Drove, if that’s any help.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as I stuffed my bags into the back of the car. ‘I know that road. It’s the fruit farm you want.’

  The journey only took a few minutes but in that time my heart started to canter again and as we came to a stop and I took in more of the landmark orchards, I thought it was going to make a bid for freedom and burst right out of my chest.

  ‘This is it,’ said the driver. ‘That’s four pounds, please.’

  ‘Keep the change,’ I said, the words sticking in my throat as I handed him a five-pound note.

  ‘Thanks. Do you need a receipt?’

  ‘No. No, thank you.’

  I took in the peeling farm sign which was leaning drunkenly towards the road. This didn’t look like the Fenview Farm that I had spent the long watches of the previous night building up in my mind. I wondered if the rosy-cheeked Nonna and big-hearted Nonno I had imagined were going to be missing too. There was a small red car parked in the yard, so clearly someone was home.

  The taxi driver cleared his throat, making me jump.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get out.’

  I still didn’t move.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. I can manage.’

  I had barely closed the door before he pulled away, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I watched until he was out of sight, then took a tentative step into the yard.

  ‘Eliot!’ shouted a voice from the house. ‘Is that you? You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?’

  The voice didn’t sound old enough to belong to my grandmother and obviously I had no idea who Eliot was, so I felt on the back foot even before I’d knocked on the door.

  ‘Come on!’ called the voice again. ‘Hurry up. I have to go.’

  I took a deep breath, walked briskly to the open door and knocked loudly on the frame in the hope that whoever was inside would realise I wasn’t who they were expecting.

  ‘Stop buggering about and give me a hand, would you? I need to get to Mrs Simpkins. Her stats were ridiculously low first thing, and I…’

  The words trailed off as the owner of the voice glared up from the pile of paper she was rifling through and saw me hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Oh,’ she frowned. ‘Not Eliot then.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ I smiled, apologetically.

  ‘And not the doctor either.’

  ‘Definitely not the doctor.’

  The young woman, dressed in a blue healthcare tunic, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, looked me up and down and then dumped the papers back on the table. She couldn’t have looked more annoyed if she tried.

  ‘So, who are you then?’ she frowned.

  I cleared my throat. I really didn’t want to tell her. She was obviously neither of my grandparents and I had planned to announce myself to them before anyone else.

  ‘Do you not know?’ she snapped.

  ‘Fliss,’ I swallowed. ‘Felicity Brown.’

  I knew instantly that I should have just said my first name, but her waspish manner had thrown me and I found myself in an even more heightened state of tension than I had been when I climbed out of the taxi.

  ‘Brown?’

  ‘Yes,’ I swallowed.

  There was no point retracting it now.

  ‘You’re a relative?’ she asked, sounding slightly less peeved.

  ‘Granddaughter,’ I told her, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

  There. I’d said it. The cat was definitely out of the bag.

  ‘Granddaughter?’ she repeated.

  I wanted to ask her to lower her voice, but daren’t. She still looked irritated and I found her a bit intimidating, even though she was only a tiny little thing.

  ‘That’s right,’ I confirmed.

  It was a less than satisfactory start and I felt my shoulders sag. In my head, I’d imagined finding my grandparents sitting together, perhaps enjoying a mid-morning coffee and looking through the newspaper when I rocked up, presented myself and made their day. Facing a harassed care worker before I’d even properly crossed the threshold hadn’t been part of any of the fantasies I’d indulged in. I wondered which of my two grandparents required the assistance of the aggravated carer.

  ‘Well, come in properly then,’ she said, looking me over again.

  I shuffled into the cool kitchen and rested my rucksack against the table while my gaze flicked around the room. It was practical with a few homely touches, but not particularly tidy. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had been expecting, but this place didn’t match the comforting rustic Rossi space that I associated with country kitchens.

  ‘You don’t look much like a Brown,’ said the carer, narrowing her eyes. ‘And Bill’s never mentioned family to me, but then he is quite a private person, isn’t he?’

  Bill was my grandfather’s name then. I wondered if it might be short for William. Mum really should have added her parents’ names to her letter, but then given the little energy she’d had when she wrote it, it was a miracle she’d got down as much as she had.

  ‘Mm,’ I tentatively agreed, guessing that it was most likely him who was under the weather. ‘And I’ve not been around,’ I added. ‘I’ve been abroad.’

  It wasn’t quite a lie.

  ‘Been travelling, have you?’ she asked, sounding envious.

  ‘I’ve been in Italy,’ I said, my cheeks colouring.

  ‘Lucky you,’ she sniffed, thankfully distracted from my family connection. ‘The furthest I’ve been in the last couple of years is the other side of Peterborough and that was only for a weekend and it chucked it down the whole time. I’m Vicky, by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Vicky.’

  ‘I shouldn’t still be here,’ she then impatiently added, before checking her watch. ‘I was only supposed to get his meal sorted, but he’s not right, so I thought I’d better hang on. I called the doctor ages ago and Eliot’s supposed to be on his way too.’

  I still had no idea who Eliot was but didn’t want to raise her suspicions by asking. The way she casually dropped his name into the conversation suggested that if I knew my grandfather, then I should know Eliot too.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked, now completely certain it was my grandfather who was unwell.

  ‘Water infection, I reckon.’

  Thankfully that didn’t sound too serious.

  ‘He’s got a bit of a temperature and he can’t stop peeing. He’s confused too. He keeps asking for Felicity, your grandmother.’ Vicky shook her head and let out a long breath. ‘The poor love.’

  My head began to spin and I gripped the edge of the table. I had my grandmother’s name. Mum had given me her mother’s name. How could she never have mentioned that in the years since I’d been born?

  ‘I see,’ I swallowed.

  ‘I haven’t got the heart to keep telling him she’s been dead for the last thirty plus years every time he starts shouting for her. It’s nice that you’re named after her though. You all right? You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  I clung tighter to the table, my knuckles turning white, and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice an octave too high. ‘I’m okay. Just a bit tired after my journey.’

  But of course, that wasn’t it. I’d had no idea that my grandmother wasn’t alive. I’d been expecting to find both her and my grandfather at the farm. My cosy Nonna and Nonno dream was evaporating before my eyes. What else had I mistakenly assumed?

  ‘Tha
nkfully his scar is healing up nicely,’ Vicky carried on, blissfully unaware of the blow she had just delivered. ‘So that’s something, but he’s going to be stiff when he starts the exercises again. But it can’t be helped. He’s certainly not steady enough on that new hip to carry on with them at the moment.’

  ‘Right.’

  A water infection and a new hip. Definitely not a quick fix. My timing really couldn’t have been worse.

  ‘But thank goodness you’re here now,’ Vicky rushed on, smiling for the first time since I’d arrived. ‘You’ll be able to manage until the doctor gets here, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I quickly shot back. ‘I’m not staying. I can’t.’

  Vicky looked shocked, but not as shocked as I felt.

  ‘Well, I can’t either,’ she said, fiddling with the papers again. ‘I’ve got to get to Mrs Simpkins. I told her I’d be there almost an hour ago.’

  ‘But I don’t know what to do to help him…’ I protested.

  I didn’t add that I didn’t know him either.

  ‘You won’t have to do anything,’ said Vicky, who was already halfway out the door. ‘The doctor will be here any second and she’ll sort him out. Just go and sit with him. Tell him about your holiday in Italy. That’ll distract him.’

  I didn’t know about distracting him, I thought the shock of my unexpected arrival was more likely to finish him off completely.

  Chapter 3

  I watched with a sinking heart as Vicky speedily completed a neat three-point turn, pulled out of the yard and drove off in the same direction as the taxi had gone without a backwards glance. She hadn’t even said goodbye to my grandfather and now he was left in my care and I had absolutely no idea what to do with him.

  With one ear still on the road and desperately hoping to hear the cavalry, I turned back to the kitchen and took the room in, in more detail, all the while trying to assimilate the wealth of new information I had just been given.