A Taste of Home

worked at fairly regularly,’ I carried on, ‘and I learned loads at those. Mum was happy just to do what was asked, but I used to trail around after the managers, asking questions and picking things up.’
Grandad’s disapproval quickly changed to pride.
‘You’ll get far in life with an enquiring mind,’ he told me.
Well,’ I said. ‘I loved learning how it all worked and I was never happier than when I was sunburnt or filthy, or both, and stuffed full of fresh fruit.’
Grandad laughed, his gaze drifting off as he pictured how I must have looked.
‘What I remember most,’ I carried on, ‘is the taste of those first strawberries of the year, plucked fresh from the plant and greedily eaten before they made their way anywhere near the punnets I was supposed to be filling for the farm shop. They were so sweet and delicious and I always ate my fill before the end of the day.’
‘There’s nothing quite like fruit eaten straight from the plant, is there?’ said Grandad. ‘How anyone can enjoy stuff out of season that’s been refrigerated and travelled halfway across the globe is beyond me.’
‘I know,’ I keenly agreed. ‘But that’s the way of the world now, isn’t it? We expect to have access to anything and everything whenever we want it.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You’re right. Did you do anything else on these farms besides eat the profits and ask questions?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I often helped with the orders and admin and things. As soon as I was old enough I was helping to run one of them throughout the summer so the owner could take some holiday and I loved it.’
‘What did your mum make of that?’
‘Oh, she wasn’t with me by then. She’d found somewhere else to work by that point but I went back for a few years, before deciding to stay put in Puglia.’
‘What prompted you to stay?’
‘It was Mum, actually. She loved working on different farms, but she also enjoyed immersing herself in the life and culture of the places she visited and we decided to set something up at the Rossis’ which would give travellers the opportunity to stop for a few weeks and have a similar experience.’
‘Like a working holiday you mean?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Exactly that. The visitors work all day, then we eat together and, in the evenings and at weekends, I take them on organised trips to the less well-known sights in the area.’
‘It sounds busy.’
‘It is from May to December. The winter is very quiet. And cold too.’
‘I’m not sure Fenview Farm can compete with all that,’ Grandad sighed. ‘There aren’t many sights to see around here.’
‘Oh yes it can,’ I said reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘This place can definitely compete. It’s got you for a start!’
Grandad laughed.
‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’
‘It sure is.’
We were quiet for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts.
‘So, if you’re going to be staying here,’ Grandad then asked, ‘who will be doing your job in Puglia?’
‘That’s probably going to fall to Marco, the farm owner’s grandson,’ I explained. ‘I’m not sure how he’s going to feel about that, but I hope he’ll cope. He lives with his nonna who owns the farm and his dad, Nonna’s son, Alessandro.’
‘They keep it in the family over there then?’
‘Very much so and they always made me and Mum feel like family too.’
Grandad nodded.
‘Mum never spoke ill of you to them, Grandad. I want you to know that.’
‘She never spoke of me at all, did she?’
I couldn’t deny that.
‘You know,’ I said, squeezing his hand again. ‘They lost someone close to them too. Alessandro’s wife died when Marco was just a boy. You should get to know them. I’m certain you’d get on well and they could tell you loads about Mum.’
‘But I can’t speak Italian,’ he ruefully smiled.
‘That’s as maybe, but they can all speak English.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. It would be wonderful to connect my two families.
‘I don’t suppose you have Wi-Fi here, do you Grandad?’
‘Why, what?’ he frowned.
‘An internet connection?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen the point, although Eliot has mentioned it.’
‘Not to worry,’ I said, forcing myself not to linger over thoughts of our absent friend. ‘I’ll try the local library and see if I can send an email from there to Puglia explaining everything. Does Wynbridge have one?’
‘Yes,’ said Grandad. ‘A very good one, but you’ll need something with the farm as your address on if you want to register.’
‘Of course,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Grandad smiled. ‘I know the library manager. I’ll see if she can help you at least access a computer to tide you over.’
‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘That would be a big help.’
The lack of phone signal at the farm made messaging difficult enough, so sending emails and making video calls would be impossible and I didn’t want to say I wouldn’t be going back in a text. A lengthier explanation was definitely required.
‘I have to say,’ Grandad then said, ‘it is a comfort to think that your mother did pick up something of the farming bug while she was living here. Not that she ever let me or her mother know it of course.’
‘Was she really not a fan of this place?’
‘Goodness me, no,’ he vehemently said. ‘By the time she hit her teens, she was a right sulky madam. She used to open her window to shout, or march downstairs to tell us how much she hated the farm because it stopped us taking holidays like all her friends. She said she couldn’t wait to get away from this place and then she’d flounce off again or slam the window shut. I was grateful we didn’t have near neighbours!’
‘She sounds like hard work.’
‘Oh, she was, but teenagers mostly are, aren’t they?’
Thinking back, I knew I’d had my moments and Marco certainly had. There