A Taste of Home by Heidi Swain (the beginning after the end read novel TXT) 📕

the chair, to avoid looking at him. ‘I’ve only been in the spare room and the bathroom.’

‘Well,’ he said, his gaze returning to the window. ‘Now we’ve finally established who you are, feel free to have a proper look about the place, won’t you?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, pulling myself together and trying not to think how heartbreaking it was going to be to tell him what had happened to Mum. ‘I will.’

I didn’t mention that I’d looked over the farm, and in the barn, already and I didn’t say that I’d leave exploring Mum’s room for a bit longer either. I had no idea what I would find in there, but I certainly wasn’t ready to face it yet.

‘There is one thing I want to see,’ I said, rushing back to the kitchen and drying my eyes before returning with some scissors and a jar filled with water.

I leant out of the open window and gasped at the sight of the roses which scaled the height of the house and were in full bloom. They were a riot of colour and the scent, intensified by the strengthening sunshine, was intoxicating.

‘Wow,’ I gasped.

The jars in the kitchen were full of flowers cut from the front of the house and they were lovely, but I knew another one filled with roses would look, and smell, even better.

‘You like those, do you?’ Grandad laughed.

‘Just a bit! Did you plant them?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not me. They were Felicity’s passion. The whole garden was, not that there’s much of it left. Whenever one of her roses has died off though, I’ve always replaced it like for like. It’s been my way of keeping her floral legacy alive.’

I began to realise that every conversation we were destined to share was going to have an emotional undercurrent running through it. There was so much for me to learn and catch up on. Not least Grandad’s explanation of the circumstances surrounding Mum’s departure.

‘Can I cut some of the roses?’ I asked, again pushing the thought of the revelatory moments away. ‘For you to have in here.’

‘Of course,’ Grandad keenly agreed. ‘And we can take them upstairs tonight.’

Once I’d filled the jar with the yellow, red, pink and peach scented roses, and embellished it further with lime green Alchemilla mollis, I turned my attention to Grandad’s bedroom. The décor was dated with lots of eighties pine furniture and floral sprigged Laura Ashley style prints, but I had expected that because it was similar to the spare room, but what I wasn’t prepared for were the shelves full of framed photographs.

‘Mum,’ I murmured, picking up one of her in her late teens.

There were eighteen photos in total, one for each year of Mum’s life before she left, I guessed. I lightly ran my fingers over the frame of the last one, wondering if she might have been pregnant with me when it was taken. The last three or four were classic moody teenage shots. She looked a bit begrudging to be facing the camera, unlike in the early ones where she was all smiles. What had changed? What was it that had turned her off the farm and indeed, away from her father?

‘Hello!’ called a voice up the stairs, making me jump. ‘Are you there, Felicity?’

It was Louise.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m here.’

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, she pulled me in for a hug.

‘Have you seen Eliot?’ I asked, blinking away the tears her kind gesture prompted, when she finally let me go.

‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said, offering me a tissue. ‘But he called to tell me that Bill had sussed out who you are and he wanted me to ring and check everything was okay. He’s not going to be able to get back himself, so I decided to pop in in person.’

‘That was kind of him,’ I said. ‘And you.’

‘I’m not sure if he really is all that busy,’ Louise admitted, biting her lip, ‘or if he wanted to give you and Bill some space.’

Kinder still, but then I wouldn’t have expected anything less of Eliot.

‘So,’ said Louise, studying my face. ‘How’s it going?’

I didn’t get the chance to tell her that Grandad and I were getting along wonderfully but that I still hadn’t found the moment, or mustered the courage, to tell him about Mum.

‘Are you two going to be out there whispering all day?’ Grandad shouted from the dining room. ‘Come in here. I want to talk to you.’

‘Sorry, Bill,’ said Louise. ‘We’re on our way.’

‘What I’d really like to know,’ Grandad said to me, once we, and the cat, were settled with tea and a slice of delicious shop-bought cake which Louise had arrived with, ‘is why you’ve decided to come and find me now. Why didn’t you come before?’

This was it then. This was the moment everything was going to be revealed. I was grateful for both Louise’s kind and encouraging smile and the boost my blood sugar was receiving courtesy of the sweet slice of sponge. I pressed my hand against the pocket where Mum’s letters and Nonna’s recipe still rested, protecting my heart as best they could.

‘Because,’ I began, ‘I didn’t know about you before. I only found out about you and the farm very recently.’

Grandad nodded. ‘Your mother didn’t talk to you about me or this place or her mother while you were growing up then?’

‘No,’ I huskily said. ‘I’m afraid not. If she had, I most likely would have come a long time ago.’

I couldn’t promise that though, because when I’d first read Mum’s letter, I’d been adamant that I wouldn’t come, but then, it hadn’t taken me long to change my mind, had it?

‘So, where has she ended up then?’ Grandad asked. ‘With your father?’

I noticed Louise shift in her seat. Clearly, Grandad had known more than she thought.

‘No,’ I swallowed. ‘Mum didn’t find him. He’d given her a false Italian address when they parted after their holiday, so that turned out to be