A Home at Honeysuckle Farm: A gorgeous and heartwarming summer read

I watched the houses and trees get smaller and smaller as the plane climbed into the clouds and within minutes all I could see was the intense blue sky.

‘I hope you’ve brought a coat with you,’ Hetty chuckled. ‘That’ll be the last sunshine you’ll see for a while. It’s always raining in Manchester.’

I smiled, leaning back against the headrest, remembering all the times I’d pulled on my Wellington boots and splashed through the puddles on a Saturday morning on the way to the dance school.

With one last glance towards Manhattan, I lowered my oversized shades on to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. My mind drifted towards the farm, my childhood home, a place of outstanding beauty. I could still remember my bedroom, a large room situated at the rear of the annexe. The window overlooked the amazing view across the valley. In spring, I’d been mesmerised by the white, cotton-wool clouds bobbing along and in winter by the angry, dark clouds that were pushed by the sharp gusts of wind.

Every morning, Grandie used to wander across the courtyard towards the annexe clutching a mug of steaming tea for Mum and without fail he would kiss me goodbye before school. I was his girl, and we’d been so close back then. I started to worry again, how it was going to be when I saw him. What would I say? What would I do? And the question burned inside me, how would he feel about me? It must have broken his heart when we’d left, and I felt sad and angry that I’d had to miss out on the last thirteen years. I’d missed the place and I was only just beginning to realise how much.

Before I knew it, I was being shaken gently. ‘Wake up.’

I opened my eyes and soon realised, I’d slept for the whole of the flight.

‘Welcome to Manchester, England where the local time is 6:45 a.m.,’ the purser announced over the intercom.

‘I told you,’ Hetty grinned, tipping her head towards the window. ‘See, it’s raining in Manchester.’

Immediately, I sat upright. ‘Gosh, how did I sleep for the whole of this time?’ I couldn’t quite believe it, stretching out my legs in the cramped leg space as best I could.

‘You’re very lucky. I’ve been plotting his murder for nearly seven hours.’

‘Huh?’ I answered, puzzled.

She raised her eyebrows towards the man sat on the opposite side of the aisle. ‘He’s snored for the whole time,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘It’s driven me insane.’

‘Oh no, I hope …’

‘I never heard a peep out of you,’ she confirmed with a sparkle in her eye.

The pilot steered the plane towards the terminal and cut the engines. As soon as the aircraft came to a standstill the clicking of seatbelts echoed around the cabin, followed by the clunking of the overhead compartments being opened.

It didn’t take long to get through passport control, collect my luggage from the carousel and make my way through customs. I pulled my case behind me and encountered a sea of faces staring back at me, people holding up signs eagerly waiting to meet their loved ones.

I’d arranged to meet Connie outside the terminal building and Grace’s message had instructed me to stand still, and she would find me. I hadn’t seen Connie for such a long time and wondered if she’d even recognise me.

Hetty had been right, the blue sky I’d left behind was nowhere to be seen and instead there was an army of black angry-looking clouds marching above, being hurried along by a sharp wind. The rain was belting down and the puddles splashed under my feet as I pulled up my hood and snuggled deep down inside my hoodie, waiting outside for Connie.

The nerves were kicking in as I waited, flicking a glance at all the cars pulling up and others whizzing by.

Then I heard a voice: ‘Oh my goodness! Look at you, Alice Parker, you’re all grown up!’ I spun round to see a white-haired woman dashing towards me.

‘Connie!’ I exclaimed, feeling relieved that her arms were open wide and her smile was very welcoming.

‘Welcome home!’ she shouted, pulling me into a suffocating hug. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

The hug was heartfelt and tears welled up in my eyes. ‘Thank you!’ I gasped, taking in a lungful of air the second she let go of me. All my nerves disappeared in an instant.

She stood back and took a proper look at me. ‘My word, you look just like your grandfather.’

I felt a sudden surge of happiness being compared to him, even though I had no idea what he looked like now.

‘How is he?’

‘Frail, but he has all his faculties and talks about you all the time.’

‘Does he? Does he really? Does he know I’m coming?’

Connie shook her head. ‘We didn’t say anything, just in case your plans fell through. We didn’t want to raise his hopes. No Rose?’

I shook my head, ‘Afraid not.’

‘Such a shame. Anyway, let’s get you home. We can chat on the way. Grace can’t wait to see you!’

We hurried towards the car, splashing in rainwater, and once my suitcase was loaded into the boot, we began the journey back to Brook Bridge Village.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Connie, once she’d carefully manoeuvred the car from the busy slip road on to the inside lane of the motorway.

The second the plane had landed there was no denying I’d felt apprehensive, even a little panicky, not knowing what was waiting for me. What if … what if I’d made the wrong decision coming back? What if Grandie didn’t want to see me? But once my feet were firmly back on English soil, all my apprehensions dissipated and I couldn’t help but recognise that comforting feeling, the smells and the familiarity that swathed me as a child, feeling safe and happy.

‘I’m glad to be home.’ I replied, meaning every word.

Chapter 5 (#u617cfc03-939a-5dd5-ac82-9a6531adb4ea)

Connie slowed the car and changed gear before driving around the roundabout and up the cobbled High Street that I’d walked along so many times as a child. I was back in the village for the first time in thirteen years and I felt a tingling of excitement along my spine.

My eyes were wide, staring out of the passenger window, taking everything in. It felt like time had stood still and I’d never been away. Opposite the village pub stood a row of cottages, painted in different colours, facing on to the main street. I smiled to myself. Grandie and I used to take a stroll most evenings after school, which was basically code for going to the pub where Grandie sneaked a crafty pint and I was treated to a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. We’d sit on the benches outside and he would test me on the colour of the houses, for educational purposes, he said. Of course, I knew my colours at that age, but it was just our little bit of fun together. These were happy childhood memories. Apart from the new housing development that had sprung up on the outskirts of the village, everything appeared exactly the same.

‘There’s Mr Cross,’ I exclaimed in amazement, as I saw him disappearing through his front door. He owned the small bookshop on the corner of Bridge Lane in the heart of the village. ‘He doesn’t look any different,’ I remarked. He was just as I remembered him, dressed in a green checked wool jacket with brown leather patches on the elbows, over his smart sweater. ‘And does Mrs Berry still own the sweet shop?’ I asked, watching it whizz by.

‘She sure does, the kids still swarm in there after school, like bees around a honey pot.’ Connie smiled at me before turning into the next street.

‘What about The Old Teashop? Please tell me that’s still here?’

‘You do have a good memory! Yes, Mrs Jones is still there and over the years she’s won many awards for her delicious cakes.’

‘I must make sure I see her while I’m here. I wonder if she’d recognise me.’

‘I think she might. Looking at you is like looking at your grandfather. Your characteristics and mannerisms are exactly the same, but that accent of yours might cause a stir with the locals. It’s not often you hear an American accent round here.’

Connie flicked on the indicator and turned left into Croft Lane, ‘That’s Grace’s house, the one with the duck-egg-blue door.’ She nodded to a row of three cottages all with pink coloured roses entwined around their stunningly crafted oak beam porches. Each cottage had its own individual swinging garden gate. Colourful blooms drooped from the hanging baskets and the grass was neatly edged and mowed.

‘So pretty, a scene from a countryside magazine.’

‘She’s been there a little over two years now. You do know Grace and Finn have split up, don’t you?’ asked Connie, still staring at the road ahead.

‘I do, but we have a lot of catching up to do,’ I said, knowing how devastated Grace had been when she’d discovered Finn had been having an affair after they’d moved in together.

‘She isn’t going to arrive home for another hour. The show finished last night and she’s out to lunch with some of the cast members who are moving back to London. Do you fancy coming back to the farm and having a look around at the old place before she’s home?’