A Taste of Home

I started pining for them too much, or letting the sharp pain of missing Mum get the better 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