‘The great “we” then. You know what I mean.’ Hannah waved the comment away. ‘It’s like she’s said in interviews, she’s always loved performing. It was what she was meant to do. I think anyone who’s following their heart can understand that.’ Hannah sat back in her chair. Her own point made. When one dream had been scuppered, she’d followed another. Well, more like fallen into it.
She’d arrived in London not really knowing what she’d wanted to do. Taken work in a café, because she had customer-facing experience from working in the farm shop, then scrimped and saved until one day she saw an advertisement for a makeup course and thought ‘why not’? She’d enjoyed art at school, had sketched a bit in her spare time when not working in and around the farm, and makeup artistry was art on people’s faces. It had seemed like a solid next step.
‘So, is she as lovely as she looks in your gran’s magazines?’ Peter leaned forward in his seat, his eyes shining.
Hannah stemmed the laugh that threatened. Her grandad’s cuteness was off the scale. She’d go as far to say he was smitten.
‘She really is. Honestly, I think she looks perfect without makeup. Her skin is ridiculously smooth and unblemished. I don’t believe she’s ever had a pimple in her whole life.’
‘So, there’s none of this?’ Sylvia mimed injecting her face.
‘Gran, that’s not anyone’s business. And even if she did I wouldn’t tell you. Client privacy and all that.’
‘Even if she did? That means she doesn’t.’ Peter gave a short sharp nod. ‘A woman like that ages gracefully.’
Sylvia swatted her husband. ‘You’re an idiot. A woman can age any way she chooses and it’s still graceful.’ She pushed her chair back and began collecting the plates. ‘Anyone for dessert? Nothing fancy, just some ice cream. Strawberry flavoured of course.’
Groans rose from the table.
‘Really?’
‘Again?’
‘Can’t we have chocolate ice cream or plain old vanilla, just once?’
Hannah grinned at their mournful tones. She’d forgotten how sick of strawberries one could get when they were available fresh for a good three months of the year, then in frozen form via smoothies and ice cream off-season.
Her stomach gurgled at the thought of the creamy, sweet tanginess of one of the farm’s homemade ice creams. The others might not be up for it, but she was.
‘I’d love it, Gran, thank you.’ She rubbed her tummy, settled back in the chair and watched her family go about their evening routine.
Her grandad got up and set the table for dessert, putting out spoons and bowls. Her grandmother plonked a tub of ice cream on the table with a silver-coloured ice cream scoop stuck into the middle of it. Meanwhile her father and Grey had their heads together in muttered conversation. She caught the words ‘rain’ and ‘runners’ and knew they were talking farming. Of course they were. They lived for it. Were born for it.
Sadness tugged at her heart. She’d thought she’d been born for it until enough slights and hurts from her father had taught her otherwise. Now she was an outsider looking in. Still, even outsiders were allowed to ask questions and if she was going to be here for three weeks she wasn’t going to just sit there like a lemon.
‘Has it been a good season then, Dad?’
Duncan’s head jerked up. His brows rose high in surprise.
‘Are you asking to be polite, like before? Or because you care?’ He reached over, brought the tub closer and served himself three large rounds of the dessert.
‘Because I’m interested.’
‘In that case…’ He drove the spoon into the ice cream so it was standing handle-up, ready for the next person. ‘It’s been good. The farm shop’s been busy. We’ve sent a respectable amount of produce off to local shops. More so than last year. We might even beat our record. Weather’s looking to stay mild enough that the season won’t be over too soon.’
‘But you never know,’ Grey filled in.
‘That’s right. You never know.’ Duncan glanced towards the ceiling.
Probably saying a prayer to the weather gods, as he’d done many a time in the past.
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ added Hannah.
Duncan offered the tub her way. Before he offered it to Grey, Hannah couldn’t help but note.
A peace offering? A firming of rocky ground?
She took the ice cream with a smile. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Ask your gran for some of her freeze-dried strawberries to scatter on top.’ Her grandfather held his thumb and finger up in a circle. ‘They make strawberry ice cream for the millionth time that much better.’
‘Cheeky man.’ Sylvia swatted Peter lightly up the back of his head, then placed a small ramekin containing brightly coloured specks in front of her.
The camaraderie, the easiness she’d remembered experiencing as a child at the dinner table was back. Had probably never left. It was just her presence at the table that had caused the hovering tension.
Hannah served herself a couple of goodly sized scoops, dusted them with the freeze-dried strawberries as suggested, then spooned the silky ice cream into her mouth and closed her eyes as the creaminess coated her tongue and mouth. Better than she remembered.
And totally worth returning for.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hannah balanced the tray on her raised knee as she inched open the door to parents’ bedroom. The room was bathed in the last of the sun’s warm, golden light, outshining the little lamp’s light that was placed on the bedside table, already turned on in preparation for the coming darkness.
Her mother was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows and reading a dog-eared magazine. Even from here, Hannah could see the sharpness of her cheekbones. The hollowness below. Lines from years spent working outside were further emphasised. Despite all the sleep, dark shadows clung to her under-eye area.
Jill glanced up from her magazine as Hannah further pushed open the door. ‘Hannah, I was wondering when you’d come up. I bet they told you not to disturb me. To let me get my rest.’ She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ‘Worrying about nothing, that lot. The doc said I’m on the mend. Besides, nothing would make me feel better than seeing your face. Come here.’ She patted the rumpled duvet. ‘Sit. Tell me about everything.’
Tell me about everything.
Hannah’s heart warmed. It had been her mother’s way of opening a conversation since she could remember. An open-ended question that would see her start off cautiously, talking about a rabbit she’d seen on her way home from school, or some new toy she’d heard about, and ended with her talking about a perceived slight from a friend that had hurt her heart, or the way she hoped Grey would ask her out one day.
But never the feelings that she held tight to her heart. That she couldn’t please her father. That nothing she did was good enough. That, secretly, he didn’t want her to take over the farm.
For all the openness that lay between mother and daughter, Hannah had always been terrified that voicing her concerns around how her father treated her and what her place was in the world would close the space. Slam it shut.
Her mother may not have been born on the farm, but she was every bit as big a part of it, and Hannah – already dealing with so much rejection from her father – didn’t know that she could handle hearing ‘you’re imagining things, Han’ or ‘it’ll come right’ or ‘you’re lucky to have a father who loves you, you’re being dramatic’ from her mother, as she’d heard from Grey whenever she’d opened up to him on the subject, only to have him minimise her feelings.
Hannah carried the tray to the bedside table and set it down, then gingerly sat next to her mother, leaned over and placed a kiss on her cheek. Tissue-soft and cool to the touch, it was like kissing a stranger’s cheek.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’ Jill shuffled over in the bed and tossed the sheets aside. ‘You’re treating me like a stranger. Or someone on the verge of death. Get in here and snuggle with me. It’s been too
long.’
Hannah’s trepidation, her fear that she’d somehow damage her mother, cause her illness to surge back, evaporated.
She swung her legs up onto the bed and pulled the covers around them. ‘I’m going to be sweating in a few seconds. How many blankets are on this?’
‘One million. Any less and your gran worries that I might expire.’ Jill clucked her tongue in amusement. ‘Pass the tray over, sweetness. I’m starved.’
Hannah handed over the glass of orange juice first, then put the tray on her mother’s lap.
‘Great. Toast with strawberry jam. Just what I wanted. For the thousandth time.’
Hannah laughed. ‘For a sick person you’re being very difficult. A bit too feisty. I think you’re faking this whole illness thing just to get out of doing work. Escaping the drudgery – that’s what you’re doing.’ She raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Jill’s hand went to her heart, her eyes widened in innocent protest. ‘Me? Do such a thing? Never.’ The last word was punctuated by a series of coughs. Short, sharp, hacking. They racked[HN14] her shoulders and saw her lean forward, her face contorting in discomfort.
Hannah circled her mother’s back. Painfully aware of how bony she’d become.
‘Geez, it’s eaten you alive.’ She pressed her lips together as a hot flush of embarrassment coursed through her. ‘Sorry, Mum. Probably the last thing you needed to hear.’
Jill patted her arm. ‘It’s nothing I don’t already know, Han. To be honest I’ve been avoiding even looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognise myself the way I am now. Reckon I’d be good for sticking out in the field and scaring away the birds though.’ She offered a weak smile, then lifted the glass of juice to her lips with a shaking hand and took a sip.
Hannah kissed her mother’s temple. ‘Whatever. You’re no scarecrow. And you’ll be right in no time. Knowing Gran, she’ll be stuffing you full of food the moment you can handle a bit more than boring old strawberry jam on toast.’
‘Scones with strawberry jam. Ice cream with strawberry coulis. Strawberry shortcake. Crepes with strawberries. All with a side of whipped cream “to put meat on my bones”.’
The eye-roll was back, and Hannah’s heart was fit to burst. She’d missed her mum. So much. More than she’d realised. She had a youthfulness about her that remained despite the deepening lines around her eyes, the frown lines that ran the length of her forehead. The softening of her jaw. She may have been knocking on fifty-two, but her soul was that of an eighteen-year-old who’d taken off after finishing school to travel around England, only to stop in for some seasonal work at the farm, fall in love with the owner’s son, and never leave. Or so the story went.
‘How do you handle it?’ Hannah prodded at the plate on the tray. ‘All strawberries, all the time? Don’t you get sick of them?’
‘Are you asking if I’ve ever accidentally dropped a piece of strawberry pie on the floor, popped it in the rubbish and passed on a second piece? Or said I’ve heard something outside, gone to investigate, strawberry sandwich in hand, and tossed it in the compost bin?’ Jill placed a hand on her chest. Her lips puckered into a smirk. ‘Never. Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Mum, you rebel.’ Hannah picked up one of the halves of toast and took a bite. ‘It’s good once in a while, though.’ She swallowed her mouthful and smacked her lips.
Jill tapped Hannah’s toast-holding hand. ‘No talking with your mouth full. We taught you better than that.’
‘Even when she’s unwell she manages to tell me off.’ She passed a piece of toast to Jill. ‘Eat.’
‘Only if you tell me how things are down there. Is everyone happy to see you?’ Jill plucked the piece of toast from Hannah’s hand and took a bite. ‘Have you seen Grey?’
‘Who’s talking with their mouth full now?’ Hannah wagged a finger, then settled back onto the pillow mountain propping her mother up. ‘It’s fine. You know.’ She shrugged. ‘Same old.’
Beneath the blankets her mother’s foot nudged hers. A silent encouragement to be honest, or at least as honest as she could let herself be.
‘Gran’s happy to see me. She’s also going on about the meat on my bones. Grandad is… I think you’d say he’s on the fence. Happy to see me, but also the disappointment he feels towards me for leaving the way I did is so ingrained that every now and then his true feelings pop out. Dad is, as you’d expect, the same as ever.’
‘He’s hurt.’ Jill set the toast down. ‘He never says anything, being the reserved man of the land that he is, but he misses you. Wishes you’d come home more.’
Surprise saw Hannah straighten up, despite the plushness of the pillows. ‘He wishes I’d come home more? That’s not the impression I get.’
‘He’s never going to come out and say it, Han. It’s not the way of the Beety men. I know you’re only here for three weeks, but just you wait, you’ll see in that time just how proud he is of you. Then maybe you’ll stop feeling so guilty about how you left that you’ll come visit us more often.’
Hannah took a deep breath in. Her mother knew her so well. When she was small her father had observed that she was an emotional carbon copy of her mother. When they laughed together it was deep and true. When they fought, they put the cats and dogs to shame. When they loved, which was always, it was unbreakable. No matter the distance. No matter the amount of time between emails, or calls, or visits.
‘Your silence says everything. You still hold that guilt tight. Even now after all this time. And I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it was to come home when you have a huge life to live. I’m sorry this has happened. That I got sick…’
Jill’s hand folded around Hannah’s and held it tight.
The guilt in Hannah’s stomach solidified, grew. How could her mother be so selfless, so apologetic when she’d been so unwell? And what kind of selfish cow was she to feel even the tiniest bit sorry for herself and the situation she found herself in? Especially when it was one of her own making.
‘Two things, Mum. First…’ She held up one finger. ‘Do not apologise for getting sick. Ever. You didn’t cause this. You didn’t do it on purpose. It just happened. And, second…’ She held up another finger. ‘It’s only a few weeks. I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl and this is my home. If I can’t be here for you, for Dad, Gran and Grandad, then I’d be a horrible person. Worse than horrible. Whatever worse than horrible is.’
‘Evil?’
‘Let’s not take things that far.’
A soft ‘huh’ of a laugh came from Jill. ‘Fair enough. Worse than horrible will suffice.’
‘Indeed. So I’m here for you. I’m glad to be here for you. You grew me, ruined your body ejecting me, then got a bunch of wrinkles because of me. It’s the least I can do.’ She turned to her mother and stuck her tongue out.
Jill returned the action, then stroked the back of Hannah’s hand with her thumb. ‘There’s my girl. Full of spirit and spit and fire. Enough to handle the Grey situation, too, I bet.’
Hannah sighed inwardly. Of course her mother had picked up on the way she’d skirted the topic of His Royal Grumpiness[HN15].
‘It’s fair to say I didn’t receive the warmest reception from him. But it’s to be expected. I just hope we can work together without killing each other.’
‘Oh, sweets, Grey’s not the killing type. He’s a lot like your father. Holds his feelings in. Afraid if he lets them go he’ll risk being hurt even more deeply.’ Jill covered her mouth as a yawn escaped, then snuggled down into the bed.
Hannah glanced at the tray. Two bites were taken out of the toast. The juice barely touched. A few minutes’ conversation and her mother was exhausted. Her mum could make light of how ill she was, say she’d be well soon, but it was going to be a longer road than she thought. Or was willing to think.
‘If I were you, Han, I’d just be you. You’re my beautiful, bright, funny, sparkly girl… Well, woman, now. Although, you’re still my baby. Always.’
Ji
ll’s eyes grew heavy, and Hannah slipped out of bed, not wanting to disturb the sleep to come.
‘He’ll come back to you. They all will.’ A tiny smile made it to Jill’s lips, then fell away as sleep arrived.
Hannah moved the tray to the bedside table before the food or drink could tip over onto the duvet. Leaning over, she kissed her mother’s forehead, pulled the blankets up around her to keep her warm. Snug as a bug in a rug, as her mum used to say.
From below she heard a rumbling laugh, which could have belonged to her dad or her grandad, followed by an even deeper laugh. Grey’s.
She sunk down onto the chair beside the bed. Any desire – or, if she were honest with herself, courage – to go downstairs had disappeared.
Her mother had told her that she’d win them back over if she was herself. There was something in that. The way they’d warmed up at the dinner table earlier that night while they spoke about her work with Amethyst was proof.
She stood and made her way to the bedroom window. The fields that stretched around the farm were in gloom, but even from here she could see the orderly rows. The hunched bunches of leaves, underneath which nestled fat, juicy, fragrant strawberries, ready and waiting to be picked the next morning.
What if your father can find it in his heart to forgive you? What if Grey can? What if you can forgive the past slights and rejections and lack of belief that led you to leave? What if the next three weeks here are everything you ever hoped for? Then what? Do you stay? Do you try once more? Do you break apart the life you’ve spent years building on nothing more than a dose of hope with a touch of maybe?
Hannah pressed her forehead to the cool glass, closed her eyes and breathed out her thoughts, her concern, her turmoil.
She was overthinking things. Imagining a situation that could never happen.
Sunrise at Strawberry Farm: As delightfully delicious as strawberries and cream, this is the perfect summer romance to read in 2020. Page 4
