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

‘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.

Looking beyond the piles of newspapers, dirty laundry in the basket and unwashed dishes crowding the sink, I could see there were the foundations of what had once been a lovely room. Whether it was no longer fulfilling its potential because my grandfather couldn’t manage to keep on top of it, or because he didn’t care whether it looked lovely or not, I had no idea, but it wouldn’t take much to get it back to its former glory.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the battered pine table which stood in the middle of the floor and wondered if this was where Mum had sat and eaten when she was growing up. Had she been responsible for any of the dents and scuffs which marked the wood? Had she sat and lamented the loss of her mother here, like I had so recently mourned for her around the Rossi table?

‘Vicky!’

My hand flew to my chest and my heart thrummed. If that was how my grandfather usually sounded, then I could appreciate some of the reason why Mum had distanced herself from him. He sounded terrifying.

‘Vicky!’ he belligerently bellowed again. ‘Where are you? I need you!’

The gruff demand hadn’t come from upstairs, but from somewhere on the ground floor. There was no longed-for timely arrival of a car on the drive and I knew I was going to have to make my presence known, but what was I going to say?

Bill Brown sounded extremely agitated and the sudden appearance of a complete stranger, when he was already in such a vulnerable state, was hardly going to endear me to him or form an instant bond, was it?

‘Right, I’ll do it myself!’ he yelled.

That sounded serious. What if he was trying to get off his chair, or out of his bed and took a tumble? That wouldn’t help embed a recently replaced hip. I took another deep breath and quickly headed towards the room I could hear him calling from.

There was no time to process my emotions as I laid eyes on my grandfather for the very first time because he was, just as I had feared, trying to get himself out of the bed which had been shoehorned into what looked like the dining room. I dithered for a fraction of a second, then rushed forward to stop him toppling over.

‘About bloody time,’ he muttered, leaning his full weight against me.

He was heavier than I expected and it took all of my strength to support him and stop my knees from buckling.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he wheezed when he realised, I wasn’t Vicky. ‘What are you doing in my house?’

It was exactly what I had feared. He was going to have a coronary and it was all my fault.

‘I’m Vicky’s helper,’ I told him, in what I hoped was a placatory tone as I eased him carefully back on to the bed.

‘I don’t want you,’ he said, looking over my shoulder to the door. ‘I want Vicky.’

I wanted Vicky too.

‘She’ll be back in a minute,’ I told him, ‘and the doctor will be here too.’

I was feeling well out of my depth and more than a little afraid.

‘I don’t want that quack,’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

I begged to differ, but was in no position to say as much. With him leant back against his pillows, I could see his face properly. His glasses were a little skew-whiff and I automatically reached out to straighten them, but he batted my hand away and did it himself. His hair was white, and his face, hands and forearms were deeply tanned. It wasn’t the sort of tan you got from a holiday, rather one that you developed as a result of a lifetime working outdoors. He looked older than his years, but then having recently undergone surgery and with a water infection brewing, that was little wonder.

‘Who are you?’ he wheezily demanded.

‘I’m Felicity,’ I said, my name escaping before I had the sense to check myself.

‘Who?’

‘Felicity,’ I said again, though this time more quietly.

His frown disappeared and his eyes were filled with wonder and then, to my horror, they were awash with tears.

‘I’ve been calling for you,’ he said, his lip trembling.

Oh god, now he thought I was his wife.

‘No!’ he suddenly yelled, making me jump back. His expression transformed into one of pure fury as he realised I wasn’t the Felicity he wanted. ‘You’re not my wife! You’re not my Felicity. What are you doing here? Get out!’

I took another step away, my mouth opening and closing like a trapdoor, but no more words fell out. Which was probably just as well, because I’d already said too much.