A Taste of Home Page 7

  ‘Night, Fliss,’ he huskily replied. ‘Sleep well.’

  Chapter 6

  I had no idea whether it was the wine, the emotion of the day or Eliot’s warm night-time wishes, but I slept surprisingly well. The unfamiliar mattress and inner turmoil didn’t impact at all, and I was up with the lark and feeling refreshed early the next morning. I was grateful for the early start too because the Fenland sunrise was every bit as spectacular as the sunset.

  I quietly made myself a coffee and, wrapped in the blanket from the night before, crept outside to enjoy a calm, slow and steady start to the day. I was feeling wonderfully relaxed after some mindful meditation and ready to face whatever the day threw at me, but when I went back inside my tranquil state immediately took flight.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ gulped Eliot, who was filling the kettle at the sink and wearing nothing but his boxers. ‘Where did you spring from? I thought you were still asleep.’

  ‘I’ve been outside,’ I said, trying to keep my eyes on his face and stop myself from laughing because he had jumped almost as high as the ceiling. ‘I wanted to see the sunrise. How did you sleep?’

  ‘Badly,’ he muttered, thumping down the kettle and flicking it on. ‘Bill was awake all night and now he’s out for the count.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I don’t suppose it mattered when my grandfather slept, but it was tough on Eliot. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was even more mussed up after the night spent tossing and turning than it had been when he’d worn his bike helmet. ‘That’s not great then, but do you think he’s getting any better?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he yawned, rubbing his eyes. ‘Perhaps. I dunno.’

  ‘Look,’ I gently said, wishing he’d at least sit down so I couldn’t see quite so much of him. ‘You’re exhausted, why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?’

  ‘No,’ he said, running a hand up and down his bare chest before arching his back. ‘I’ll be all right. Besides, the floor isn’t all that comfy.’

  ‘Then take your sleeping bag and lie on the bed I slept in,’ I suggested. ‘And I’ll listen out for my grandfather.’

  ‘No,’ he said, more firmly. ‘You’re all right. I’ll be fine when I’ve had a coffee.’

  ‘A shower then?’ I brightly proposed. ‘That, combined with the caffeine, might make you feel a bit brighter?’

  ‘Are you insinuating that I’m not my usual sunny self this morning?’ he asked, one eyebrow cocked.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, looking away. ‘Well, a bit. But then if I’d spent the night on the floor, I’d probably be feeling a bit jaded too.’

  What I wouldn’t be though, was walking about the house half-dressed. Eliot didn’t seem in the slightest bit bothered that the one item of clothing he was wearing left very little to the imagination, but then with a body like that…

  ‘All right,’ he relented. ‘I’ll go and shower. You keep an ear out for Bill, but whatever you do, do not disturb him, okay?’

  What did he think I was going to do, rush in and shake him awake? I might have wanted to be useful, but after what had happened the day before, I would most definitely be avoiding implementing the element of surprise.

  In the few minutes it took Eliot to get showered and dressed, and with one eye on my slumbering relative I made a list of all the dishes I could cook with the leftover ingredients from my culinary shopping spree the day before and got some breakfast on the go. Eliot reappeared smelling and looking great and the smile that lit up his face when he saw I had buttered bread, made more coffee, had bacon sizzling on the grill and the biggest eggs frying on the hob, made me feel as smug as Nigella.

  ‘I thought you might like some breakfast,’ I said, setting out the plates which had been warming on the stove. ‘And I know my grandfather didn’t eat last night, so he might fancy something too.’

  ‘I’ll have some,’ he said, ‘but Bill’s going to be asleep for a good while yet.’

  I looked back at the hob. There was definitely too much food for two.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ Eliot said, rising to the challenge. ‘I’ll make short work of it.’

  Where on earth did he put it all, I wondered, then hastily decided not to ponder.

  ‘Are you cooking bacon in there?’ My grandfather suddenly called out, making us jump. ‘I could go for a bit of that and an egg or two if there are any.’

  ‘Sounds like you won’t get the chance,’ I whispered with a smile on my lips.

  I turned my attention back to the pan and competently flipped the eggs, feeling thankful for Nonna Rossi’s ‘the bigger the better’ opinion on portion size.

  * * *

  ‘He’s demolished the lot,’ Eliot told me, when he came back in carrying a tray bearing two empty plates and mugs a little while later. ‘And he’s had all the tea, too.’

  I was pleased to note that he hadn’t left a scrap of anything either.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, feeling well satisfied. Nonna’s cookery lessons had not only equipped me with the knowledge to fill plates with delicious food, but also to feel the satisfaction of seeing them empty too. ‘He must be feeling more like himself, if he’s eating and drinking so much.’

  ‘It’s a definite improvement, that’s for sure,’ Eliot agreed.

  ‘And has he mentioned anything about yesterday?’ I steeled myself to ask.

  ‘About you, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘No, not a word. I reckon you’ve got away with it.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ I sighed, feeling relieved.

  ‘You’ll be able to introduce yourself in no time,’ Eliot then said, pushing my nervousness back up the scale again. ‘Don’t look so worried. He’s a really great guy.’

  If he was that great, then why had Mum left him all those years ago? I didn’t think there was much point asking Eliot. Louise was more likely to have the answer, although she hadn’t offered it up yesterday. Not that it had been the day for further revelations and explanations. My turning up had been more than enough to contend with. For all of us.

  ‘Doctor Clarke rang earlier to say she’s coming out again later,’

  ‘On a Sunday?’ I asked.

  Given what he’d said yesterday, I didn’t think my grandfather would be particularly pleased to see her again so soon.

  ‘She’s on call and said she might as well pop in as she’s bound to be passing. She’ll take another look at Bill and then we can decide how to take things after that.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed. I supposed that did sound like small enough steps for me to be able to manage. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘Maybe you could go and take a walk around the farm for a bit while she’s here?’

  That was another good idea.

  ‘I guess that would save any awkward questions, wouldn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘She’d probably want to know why the stranger from yesterday is still hanging about, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Eliot nodded. ‘Nothing gets past Doctor Clarke.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said, squirting washing up liquid into the sink, ‘I’ll get this lot sorted and head straight out.’

  ‘Great,’ said Eliot, making to walk out.

  ‘Tea-towel is right there, Eliot,’ I said nodding to the hook where it hung.

  ‘Right,’ he grinned, giving me a nudge. ‘I’ll dry up then, shall I?’

  I made sure I was well out of the way by the time Doctor Clarke’s car turned into the yard and I was careful not to walk anywhere near where I guessed the dining room window was too. Having managed to find a spot where my phone picked up an iota of signal, I typed out another message for Marco to relay to Nonna and Alessandro and attached the photo I’d taken the day before. I would have liked to hear their voices, but neither my Italian family nor I had WhatsApp downloaded and unsure of the cost of a call, decided not to risk it.

  Before I started pining for them too much, or letting the sharp pain of missing Mum get the bett
er of me again, I reminded myself why I was here and strode out to what I thought was the furthest point of the farm boundary and looked about me properly.

  ‘Right,’ I said to Mum, as I patted the pocket which had her letter and Nonna’s recipe in. ‘Let’s see why you thought I might like this place, shall we?’

  It didn’t take long to work out. I knew it wouldn’t be the same as it had been thirty years ago, but I could see there was plenty of work to be done, which backed up what Eliot had said about my grandfather having not been able to keep on top of it for the last couple of years. That said, it was a lovely spot and potentially very productive.

  As I walked about, I imagined myself getting stuck into what needed doing. I had worked on fruit farms across Europe and in the UK and there didn’t appear to be anything beyond my skillset, but would my grandfather want me helping out if I did decide to stay on for a while? The evening before I had imagined potential tender new roots anchoring me to this place, but should I allow them to sink down if there was a chance that my grandfather might slice straight through them when he found out who I was?

  I slowed my breathing and reminded myself about those tiny steps I was supposed to be taking. There was no point in trying to look too far ahead, because I couldn’t see that far. No one could.

  ‘You must remember to live in the moment, Fliss,’ I heard Mum dreamily say as she drifted through my mind reclined on a patchouli-scented cloud. ‘Just go with the flow.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, out loud. ‘Well, I’ll try.’

  As I’d surmised from the bedroom window, the farm wasn’t at its best, but there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with hard work and commitment. In the right hands, the neglect could be turned around in no time. Everything was salvageable and it was a credit to my grandfather that it was only at this point after a couple of slack years. I could tell that everything would have been perfect before his hip gave up on him, because had it not been, the state of things would have been far worse.

  I inspected the rows of trees in the orchards, admiring the light as it filtered through those in blossom. The apple, pear, plum and few cherry trees would produce a decent enough harvest, even though the apples and pears were in need of some pruning. I soon discovered the soft fruit would be fine too, as long as the holes in the cages were repaired before the birds found their way in and stripped the lot.

  On closer inspection, I could see that the netting needed completely replacing. Some areas were definitely more hole than net, but that was a job for later in the year. Completely removing the covers when the harvest was over would make weeding easier and also encourage the birds to pick off any bugs and clear up any rotting fruit.

  There was a healthy abundance of raspberry canes, as well as gooseberry, black and redcurrant bushes. There were blackberries outside of the cages too, along with the long rows of established strawberry plants. Second to the cage repairs, they needed the most urgent attention. It was important to get the straw on as soon as possible and I wondered where that was usually sourced.

  Even though it wasn’t my place to, I automatically made mental notes of everything as I walked back to the yard and pondered over how farming in the area had changed in recent years and how the place could financially stay afloat in the future.

  I was aware that in the fairly recent past, a farm the size of Fenview would have been a common sight as well as a competitive and profitable prospect. The Fens had been dotted with dozens of places of similar acreage who all took their harvests to the local auction houses to sell on a daily or weekly basis, depending on the crop and the season, but those days were long gone.

  Even using ‘locally sourced and grown’ as a USP was no longer entirely enough for a small farm to compete in the large commercial market. My grandfather must have been horribly aware of that and, assuming that he kept tabs on his finances, known that the farm income was feeling the pinch.

  What, realistically, was the future of this place going to be? As a small-scale farm, it wasn’t likely to still be turning a profit, not enough of one to comfortably live off anyway. If Fenview Farm was going to keep afloat then it was going to need to do more than just sell fruit. Did my grandfather have long-term plans for it or hadn’t he thought that far ahead?

  ‘Well, hello puss,’ I said, bending to stroke a rather thin ginger and white cat who ran towards me with its tail standing to attention. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  I hadn’t seen the ragged little scrap before and wondered if it was a stray. It clearly wasn’t feral because it would have pelted in the opposite direction when it spotted me.

  ‘Who do you belong to then?’

  It decided it’d had enough of me and trotted jauntily over to the brick-built barn which sat at the far side of the drive. I watched in amusement as the cat walked through a hole in the bottom of the door which had obviously been sawn there for that purpose.

  ‘What’s in here then?’ I mused, following the cat, sliding the bolt and trying the handle on the huge arched wooden door which, to my surprise, was unlocked.

  I tugged the door open and slipped inside.

  ‘Wow.’

  The barn was bigger inside than I expected, with beautiful wooden beams and it was currently being used as a storage space. Intrigued, I pulled the doors further back, coughing as dust motes filled the air and my eyes adjusted to the change in light level. The cat looked at me accusingly from its perch atop some straw bales. It clearly wasn’t impressed about having its home invaded.

  Along with the bales, there were old bits of machinery, a few ancient tools and half a dozen or so tea-chests and larger boxes. They were filled with what looked like old Fenland paraphernalia. I had researched the history of the Fens a little, as well as fruit farming, when I had been on the coach from the airport to Peterborough and could therefore recognise the willow woven eel traps and a few of the tools, and it was obvious what the ice skates were.

  I wondered if they had been used for competing when the winters had been cold enough for the flooded meadows to freeze. They certainly looked old enough, but what were they doing in the barn? What was any of this stuff doing here?

  ‘Fliss!’

  Eliot’s voice rang out across the yard. So much for keeping my presence under wraps. If he carried on bellowing, my grandfather wouldn’t be in any doubt that the impostor who had upset him was still in the vicinity. Assuming he could remember. Eliot had suggested he wouldn’t and I really hoped he was right. It was far better for my nerves if I agreed with him about that.

  ‘Coming,’ I shouted back, although not quite so loudly.

  I pushed the barn doors closed again and went back to the house.

  ‘Whose is the cat?’ I asked, when I was close enough to not have to shout.

  ‘The mangy ginger and white thing?’

  ‘It’s not mangy, it’s sweet.’

  ‘It’s Bill’s,’ he said. ‘But it’s not a house cat. It lives outdoors and you might not think it, but it’s a great ratter.’

  My body emitted an involuntary shudder.

  ‘She’s not afraid of taking down a rat, even though they’re bigger than she is.’

  ‘Oh crikey,’ I said. ‘I would be, I hate them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eliot, matching my shudder with one of his own. ‘Me too. It’s the naked tails that make my flesh crawl.’

  ‘And mine. So, what did the doctor have to say?’ I quickly asked, keen to change the subject. ‘Could she see any improvement?’

  ‘Definitely. She’s told Bill to take the whole week’s worth of antibiotics to be sure the infection goes, and now he’s not so confused I’ll be able to get him out of bed and doing his exercises again soon.’

  ‘Can you manage to do that on your own?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  I was relieved about that.

  ‘But even though he’s well on the mend,’ Eliot carried on, ‘I still think it would be best to give him another day or so before you introduce yourself.�
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  I was relieved about that too.

  * * *

  The rest of Sunday ticked slowly by and by mid-afternoon, thoughts of Mum’s last few days and of what the Rossis were doing, were beginning to plague me as they always did when I had nothing to do.

  I’d cooked as much as I could, but I hadn’t felt the usual unadulterated pleasure I generally derived from time at the stove because I had to be careful about staying quiet and out of view as Eliot flitted in and out. I’d had to try and contain the delicious smells too. None of that had been an issue the evening before because my grandfather had been fast asleep, but now caution was the watchword and I was feeling tense.

  Rather than give in to my anxiety, I took a notepad I’d found on the kitchen dresser and began to doodle and jot a few things down. I made detailed lists of all the jobs around the farm that needed doing, prioritising those such as strawing the strawberries and fixing the fruit cages, which were most urgent.

  Then, having filled one side of the A4 sheet and decorated it around the edges with a border of roughly sketched strawberries and leaves, I then began to scribble down ideas which could help the farm turn more of a profit. Obviously, it was only for fun, but it helped pass more time and occupied my mind.

  Increasing yields or growing different crops wasn’t an option because, as far as I had seen, the farm didn’t have space to expand. I would have to ask Eliot if there was more land attached to the place than that which surrounded the house though, just to be sure.

  I thought again of the barn, with its mellow bricks, attractively arched doors and lofty interior as well as the collection of vintage paraphernalia someone had squirrelled away inside. Was there any value in any of that I wondered? Not in selling it necessarily, but in finding a way to utilise it?

  I wrote down ‘venue’ in large capitals and then listed what was currently fashionable in alternative uses for farm buildings, assuming you could secure the official change to its use, and any subsequent planning permission of course. Weddings were the obvious choice, but the Fenview barn wasn’t big enough to make it worthwhile and there was no space for decent parking. A dozen vehicles max and the yard would be rammed. And more to the point, I couldn’t imagine my grandfather in the role of wedding planner.