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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2018
Copyright © Christie Barlow 2018
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Christie Barlow asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008240929
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008240912
Version: 2018-03-13
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
For Sharon Pillinger,
Whose tireless cheering and continuous
excitement for my books has never
gone unnoticed.
Thank-you.
Love AB x
Prologue
At ten years of age, Brook Bridge village was all I’d ever known. Nestled right in the heart of the countryside on the outskirts of Staffordshire, it was a quaint little village that radiated olde-worlde charm with its narrow streets and timber-framed properties, many of which boasted thatched roofs. It was a close-knit community where everyone was friendly and people looked out for each other. I loved everything about living there.
The summer months were always the busiest, when visitors would flock to admire the old, striking Tudor buildings and explore the nooks and crannies of the shabby-chic shops and historic pubs that lined the cobblestoned high street.
I’d look forward to Sunday mornings, my favourite time of the week, when I’d stroll with Grandie over the arched stone bridge which led us to a quaint courtyard that was a magnet for painters and photographers. On the corner we’d relax outside The Old Tea Shop, hugging our hot chocolate and treating ourselves to one of Mrs Jones’ scrumptious cakes that were truly delicious.
I lived with my mum on the fringes of the village at Honeysuckle Farm, in the annexe which was attached to Grandie’s three-storey rustic brick farmhouse. I’d felt safe ambling about the barns, riding my bike over the uneven grass and splashing about in the stream. The countryside surrounding the house stretched for miles and in the quilted fields of golden and green squares knitted together by the hedgerows grew potatoes and root vegetables for all those delicious autumn stews that Mum would rustle up. And not forgetting the abundance of fresh eggs laid by the chickens which roamed freely around the farm. It was simply the best place to live.
Beyond the corncribs there was a rickety old wooden bridge that arched over the trickling stream with its rust-coloured willow bushes growing on the banks; this was my favourite spot. I’d sit on the huge grey rock at the foot of the maple tree and watch Billy, the chestnut Welsh cob, graze in the field.
I’d just broken up for summer, the long school holidays stretched out before me, and I was happily waiting for my friend Grace to come over for a play day. As I jumped and splashed through the shallow waters of the stream in my Wellington boots, I didn’t have a care in the world.
Little did I know that my life was about to drastically change …
Happily skipping back towards the farmhouse, with the promise of buttery scrambled eggs on homemade granary bread, I flung open the door to the porch that housed an array of boots, coats and umbrellas. Kicking off my muddy wellies outside the back door, I felt slight disappointment that there were no delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. Marley was curled up in his basket at the foot of the Aga, but the sleepy spaniel never even attempted to open his eyes when I walked into the room.
It was at that moment that I heard raised voices coming from the living room. Barely daring to breathe, I tiptoed down the hallway, my eyes falling towards the gap in the living-room door.
Grandie was standing at the far end of the room, his hands resting on the mantelpiece of the huge stone fireplace, his head bent low. Mum was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.
He let out a long shuddering breath and turned back towards Mum, who shifted her gaze towards him.
‘Jesus Christ, Rose,’ he shouted at her, ‘when the hell were you going to tell me?’
Mum was now physically shaking but she didn’t answer him.
I’d no idea what was happening or what Mum was supposed to have done, but a feeling of trepidation rushed through my body. An eerie atmosphere swathed me, one I’d never felt before, cocooned in my perfect idyll.
Rooted to the spot, I waited anxiously to see what would happen next.
As Grandie’s voice continued to boom I felt scared, my heart hammering against my chest. I’d never heard Grandie shout before, and I’d never heard him and Mum argue. I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it one little bit.
‘Everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me.’ Grandie’s face was flushed.
Mum hung her head once more, unable to look him in the eye.
‘I thought I’d brought you up better than this. How could you betray me like this? Have you no shame?’ He snorted with disgust. ‘Get out of my sight, I never want to see you again.’ His face was thunderous, his eyes dark.
Those words jolted Mum.
I held my breath, not daring to move.
‘W-w-what do you mean?’ Mum stuttered, her cool façade now slipping and tears beginning to stream down her face.
‘Exactly that, get out of my sight,’ his voice boomed again, causing her to spring to her fe
et.
‘Are you serious?’ This time her eyebrows shot up and she dared to hold his gaze.
‘Deadly serious.’
The words hung in the air.
‘Right then, in that case I’ll go and you’ll be sorry,’ she spat, storming towards the door. ‘I’ll go where you can’t find me, and I’ll take Alice. You’ll never see her again, if that’s how you feel.’
‘You are not taking Alice,’ thundered Grandie.
‘I will and I am. I’m her mother, you can’t stop me,’ she shouted through her frustrated tears.
Her words penetrated my heart. Feeling shocked, my eyes misted with tears.
‘How can you do this to me? You know how much I love that girl. If you walk out that door with Alice we’re finished … forever.’ He moved towards the table and thumped his hand down, sending a cup and saucer crashing to the ground.
Mum was about to fling open the door and I was suddenly terrified of being caught standing on the other side. She couldn’t discover me listening to their conversation. For a split second, Mum hovered with her hand on the door handle and gave a dismissive shrug. ‘If that’s what you want …’
Sensing my knees were about to crumble, I quickly crouched down at the side of the grandfather clock and held my breath. Her voice trailed off as she flounced past me and disappeared up the stairs. She didn’t spot me, much to my relief.
Forcing myself to stand up, I stole a quick look into the living room before racing back through the kitchen and thrusting my feet back inside my boots. I ran and ran over the fields until I flung my hands around Billy’s neck, who nuzzled my pockets looking for carrots.
I thought back to Grandie who had been slumped down in his chair. He’d raked his hand through his hair before doing something I’d never seen him do before: he cried.
I’d no idea what he and Mum were arguing about but just twenty-four hours later I was strapped into the back of a taxi, tightly hugging my teddy bear. Of course, I’d asked where we were going but Mum wasn’t forthcoming with any answers. ‘Stop asking questions Alice, you’ll see when we get there,’ was all she offered me.
Mum’s best friend, Connie, had clutched on to her arms at the bottom of the steps to the farmhouse. ‘I don’t understand why you’re leaving. Where are you going? What’s happened?’ The barrage of questions tripped off her tongue, but Mum never answered any of them. In a trance-like state Mum muttered something then swiftly pressed a kiss on to Connie’s cheek before hugging her and clambering into the passenger seat of the taxi. She never even gave as much as a fleeting glance backwards.
I had no idea where we were going or why. All I knew was I had this wretched, nauseous pain in the pit of my stomach. Feeling scared, I snuggled my teddy bear and blinked back the tears. As the taxi pulled away from Honeysuckle Farm, I looked up and took a last glance towards the farmhouse. There was Grandie, standing in the bedroom window. He placed a hand on the pane of glass in front of him and I did the same. His tearful, saddened eyes never left mine but as the taxi reached the ornate black iron gates at the end of the drive he got smaller and smaller, before he finally disappeared out of sight, and the pain twisted in my heart.
Little did I know that this would be last time I saw Grandie for thirteen years.
Chapter 1
New York City, thirteen years later …
Hearing a knock on the door, I knew immediately it would be Molly, you could set your watch by her. Molly Gray had been my best friend for the last three years. She was a proper city girl, born and bred in New York and living in a second-floor apartment near the corner of 57th Street and 9th Avenue on the west side of town. I, on the other hand, had arrived thirteen years ago as a terrified and bewildered child, and I had always felt I struggled to fit in. I was now living in a dingy flat in a less salubrious area of Manhattan, a place full of unfamiliar sounds and smells and where everything and everyone were constantly on the move. It was a million miles away from the country village upbringing I’d had, and often, I’d long to hear the familiar sounds of a cockerel or the bleat of a lamb. Occasionally I’d dream that I could freeze the constant motion and walk the streets silently, at my own pace.
Every Sunday morning, come rain or shine, Molly would power her legs around Central Park for a good hour or so before grabbing a coffee and a catch-up at mine when she’d finished.
‘The door’s open,’ I shouted, ‘I’m in the kitchen.’
Molly soon appeared in the doorway, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks aglow.
‘Morning,’ she panted, switching off the latest gadget that was measuring her performance and heart rate. ‘Not a bad time,’ she muttered to herself.
Her slender body was poured into the tightest, most flamboyant running gear you’d ever set eyes on and an abundance of rust-coloured hair was escaping her pony-tail as she hooked it behind her ears.
‘This was sticking out of your mail box,’ she said, placing the flyer down on the table in front of me before slumping on to the chair. ‘That’s right up your street,’ she said, sneakily pinching a piece of buttered toast from my plate then grinning at me.
Auditions for Wicked
The Majestic Theatre
Broadway, New York City
‘What, are you saying I’m a witch?’ I smiled up at her, hugging my third mug of coffee of the morning.
‘A good witch,’ she chuckled, ‘but this morning looking more like one of those English eighties rock stars. What’s with the make-up thing?’ she waggled her finger towards my face before standing up and sliding her Nike-swathed feet over the brown tatty lino that had seen better days towards the coffee pot.
‘It wasn’t the best night I’ve ever had, let’s put it that way,’ I answered, placing my mug on the table and looking up at Molly.
‘I’ll pour us both a coffee and you can tell me all about it. It can’t be that bad.’ Her tone was sympathetic.
‘Sorry, but there’s no more coffee, I’ve run out … again.’
Molly peered at the coffee pot then back to me, her expression a mix of surprise and sympathy, but she had no idea how difficult things really were. I immediately felt guilty for not sharing my woes with her, but the last thing I wanted was pity.
‘You can have this one,’ I offered, sliding the mug over the table towards her.
‘It’s okay, you look like you need it more than me. I’ll grab a water from the faucet.’
‘I don’t get paid until tomorrow.’ I sighed, ‘But there’s a couple of slices of bread left if you fancy some more toast.’
Molly gave me an inquisitive stare before pulling open the door to the refrigerator. Every shelf was bare except for a mouldy block of cheese wedged right at the back.
‘What are you planning on eating today?’
I shrugged, feeling totally helpless. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead yet. I didn’t want to think that far ahead.
‘Dunno, I’ll probably end up with a couple of Twinkies,’ I replied partly in jest, but deep down I knew if things carried on the way they were this could become reality.
‘Have things really got that bad?’ Molly’s tone was now a little more serious.
‘Oh Molly, I just can’t make ends meet, no matter how hard I try,’ I answered, not meeting her gaze. ‘It’s really difficult to find work, with a decent wage, working decent hours. Every job I go for has already been filled or the salary only just about covers my rent, leaving nothing for anything else. I don’t want to be working dead-end jobs; I want a career, I want to work in the area I’m trained for, but I just don’t get past the auditions. Something has got to give. I can’t carry on like this.’
Molly shut the refrigerator door before squeezing my hand, but stopped short of telling me it was going to be all right. It wasn’t. In fact, it hadn’t been all right for the last few years, but lately things had been slipping further out of my control and I was unable to hide it any more. There was a pile of unpaid bills sitting on the table in front of me and to mak
e matters worse, I was already a month behind with my rent.
‘Let me help you.’
I didn’t realise I was holding back the tears, but I clearly was, as her kind gesture soon had them flooding down my cheeks.
I shook my head, ‘Thank you, that’s a kind offer but no, you have your own bills to pay. This is my problem, not yours.’
‘Don’t be crazy Alice, you’re my friend, my best friend. I can stretch to some groceries for you and help you sort out this mess. Have you told your mom?’ she probed lightly.
‘No,’ I confirmed, ‘the diner she was working at has just closed down and I know she’s in a similar situation. I didn’t want to go worrying her.’
Molly gave me a concerned look and pulled out a chair and sat down at the table opposite me.
I thought back over my last three jobs and blew out a breath. I’d handed out leaflets in Times Square for a pittance, worked unsociable hours in a twenty-four-hour burger joint which was usually frequented by drunks and undesirables, and currently I was employed as a cleaner at a theatre on Broadway. The money barely covered my rent, never mind extras for food or nights out. I couldn’t afford new clothes and every day was a struggle. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Last night had been a turning point for me, I’d decisively told myself that something had to change. I needed to take control.
‘I had dreams once Molly, and look at me now. Can you remember when we first met?’
Molly smiled, ‘Of course I remember.’
Molly and I had met three years ago while doing an impression of a tin of sardines on the subway. It had been rush hour and we’d been travelling in the same direction towards Times Square, holding on to the same metal handrail. We’d both noticed him at the same time.
A Home at Honeysuckle Farm Page 1
