A Taste of Home

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.’
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.
Hiring the space out to another farmer, or even a landscaper looking for machinery storage might be an easier option and then there were the residential conversion opportunities, as long as you didn’t mind someone living practically on your doorstep. That would most likely mean selling it, but I added it anyway.
I did another quick doodle then added farm shop to the list along with Fenland museum. I was scraping the barrel a bit by then, but the unusual collection had stuck in my head. It was obviously there for a reason and meant something to someone.
‘What’s this?’ asked Eliot, leaning over my shoulder and making me jump. ‘Possible diversification ideas?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said, turning the paper over. ‘I was