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

I was touched that he had referred to the spot as ‘ours’ and I could feel those tender roots I’d imagined before, pushing their way further down.

‘I’m completely smitten,’ I told him. ‘But to tell you the truth, I’m still struggling to come to terms with Mum leaving this place behind. It’s absolutely idyllic in my eyes.’

Grandad was quiet for a moment and I hoped I hadn’t upset him. I didn’t want to have to spend my time here not talking about Mum. She had been as real to me as she had been to Grandad and even though our relationships with her had been very different, I felt it was important to keep her memory alive.

‘Yes, well,’ he sighed. ‘You and your mum see things differently, don’t you? And the pair of you are very different.’

‘That’s true,’ I nodded. For a start, there was Mum’s flighty spirit which was the polar opposite to my stay-at-home one. ‘We never really were peas in a pod.’

Grandad readily agreed with that.

‘So, tell me then, Fliss,’ he further said. ‘What exactly have you got planned to get done around here when this rain finally stops falling?’

I made us tea and we pored over the list I had made. I was a bit nervous about Grandad reading it. It felt like he was a prospective employer scanning my job application. What I’d written would demonstrate whether or not I knew my stuff and was up to taking on the role of caretaker of Fenview Farm. I hoped I passed the test.

‘Looks to me like you’ve got everything covered,’ he eventually said and I felt relieved. ‘I’ve been meaning to wash and straighten the sign on the road and fix the cages since the end of last year, but what with the old trick hip, I didn’t dare venture up the ladder.’

I was surprised Eliot hadn’t stepped in and sorted the sign at least, but then he was always busy and I could tell Grandad was a proud man and as such, asking for help wouldn’t have come naturally, even if he was surrounded by people who were willing.

‘I would be out there now if it wasn’t so wet underfoot,’ I said, looking out of the window and Grandad nodded. ‘When the harvest is over,’ I carried on, ‘replacing all of the nets will be a priority. It wouldn’t hurt to leave the cages bare for a while either, so the birds can clear up anything that’s left.’

‘It’s certainly been a while since they were done,’ Grandad mused. ‘And you’re right, the soil could do with a good clearing and cleansing. We used to have a few chickens who were willing to help with that.’

‘Perhaps you should think about getting some again?’ I suggested.

‘I might,’ he smiled. ‘If you were willing to help look after them.’

His comment seemed to me a way of finding out if I was planning on staying beyond the harvest without having to actually ask the question. I thought about my role with the Rossis; how I was accepted there and how I fitted in, and then my thoughts shifted and I realised that I now had the chance to create something as family orientated for myself.

I had always felt a part of the farm in Puglia, but at Fenview Farm my ties were that much stronger because they were bound by blood. It would be a wrench to leave my Italian home for good, but hadn’t I felt, when I left for Wynbridge, that I might be going back there in a different guise and under changed circumstances?

‘I haven’t got much experience with poultry,’ I therefore said to Grandad, feeling my attachment to the place and to him deepen, ‘but I’m always willing to learn.’

‘Explain to me what else you’ve got in mind to get on with then,’ he grinned, giving me a nudge.

Clearly my answer was the one he wanted to hear and I knew I would soon have to break the news to Marco that I wouldn’t be back to organise the season after all.

‘The strawberries,’ I said, tapping the paper and elaborating on the words I’d written. ‘They’re the priority. I’m worried they haven’t got the straw on yet. They’re going to need it soon, if they aren’t going to spoil, especially after all this rain.’

Ideally it should have been down before the downturn in the weather.

‘I’ll give my friend Jake a ring,’ said Grandad. ‘He owns Skylark Farm and that’s where the straw will come from. He helps sell the strawberries and he keeps a few hens too. He might even have a couple going spare and if we could patch up the old henhouse that would save us some money.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘So,’ said Grandad, once we had finished going through the list and adding a few more jobs to it. ‘How come you know so much about fruit farming? I know it’s in your blood, but that doesn’t account for your obvious knowledge and understanding. Your mother never showed much interest here, so you haven’t picked it up from her.’

‘She had skills though,’ I told him. ‘She used to work on farms to fund her travels.’

‘They were just a means to end though, weren’t they?’ he sighed. ‘Somewhere to tide her over, not somewhere to properly settle.’

‘There was nowhere on earth capable of making her do that,’ I truthfully told him.

‘And don’t I know it,’ he tutted, before making us more tea while I gave him a potted history of my love affair with fruit farming.

‘Obviously, it began for me with the cherry and olive harvest in Puglia, but my love for British fruit farming came from the pick-your-own places where Mum and I used to work when we were roaming about a bit.’

Grandad didn’t look all that impressed with the idea of me missing out on my education, even if it was to pick fruit.

‘There were a couple that we