Page 5 of A Forever Home at Honey Bee Croft

Saturday 16 October

Aversford Manor, East Yorkshire

Invitation to follow

I removed a spare pushpin from the cork noticeboard on the kitchen wall and stabbed it through the card, sighing as I pinned it alongside four other wedding invitations for this year and a save-the-date card for next. I hadn’t been to a wedding in years and now I was going to six in the space of fourteen months. Six! It seemed like everyone I knew had met someone special and was settling down while I remained hopelessly single.

Zara was a good friend of mine but, if we hadn’t both been so slow at acting on the attraction we felt towards each other when we first met, it might have become something more. Although even if it had, it probably wouldn’t have lasted because I couldn’t imagine anyone being more perfect for her than Snowy. Zara had once told me that she thought the pair of them had been destined to meet and, seeing them together over the past two years, I was inclined to agree. Was there someone out there who I was destined to meet? I hoped so. I was okay with being single most of the time but, on days like today, I missed returning home to a hug and some reassurance.

3

POPPY

I wasn’t sure why I bothered setting an alarm anymore as I was always awake well before it sounded. That said, it served as a good reminder that I actually needed to rise and face the challenging day ahead when all I really wanted to do was hide under the duvet and wake up in the past where my daily ‘challenges’ were trivial.

My morning routine was always the same now – feeling the silence in the house screaming at me as I padded down the hallway to the bathroom. Glancing into my parents’ empty bedroom and thinking how it would make more sense to have the larger room with the en suite, but knowing I’d never move in there. Remembering the happy days when the house was full of laughter, but recalling the tears more vividly. Some days those thoughts were fleeting, but sometimes they stopped me in my tracks. Like today. I sank back against the wall opposite their bedroom, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of the empty bed, an intense wave of loss pulling me down onto the carpet.

It had been five years since Mum died and eighteen months since Dad moved into The Larks. During that time, I hadn’tchanged a single thing in the house despite me being the legal owner. I still expected to go downstairs and find them having breakfast together, a mug of coffee waiting for me. Would I ever get used to it being only me here?

I wrapped my arms round my legs for comfort and sat there for a while, trying to gather the strength to brave the day. Mum had a favourite quote from Eleanor Roosevelt, the first lady of the USA at the time Mum was born –Do one thing every day that scares you.She’d often said it to me when I was at school and afraid to step out of my comfort zone, and I’d found it opened doors and presented opportunities that would never have come my way if I hadn’t faced my fears. It had become a mantra for a life well lived but it was now the soundtrack to my existence because getting up every day scared me. Visiting Dad at The Larks scared me. And knowing that, one day soon, I’d be the only remaining member of my small family absolutely terrified me.

As I left the house a little later, my next-door neighbour, Wilf, was returning from the village shop. He had his newspaper tucked under his arm and his Yorkshire terrier, Benji was trotting alongside him, his favourite soft toy pig wedged in his mouth.

‘Morning, Wilf!’ I called.

‘Good morning, Poppy! Beautiful day.’

Our drives ran side by side, only separated by a low-barred wooden fence. Benji dropped his pig on Wilf’s drive, scooted under the bottom bar and ran to me, tail wagging. He flopped onto his back, legs in the air, demanding a tummy rub.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I said, crouching down and stroking his soft belly. ‘Who’s a good boy?’

‘I am!’ Wilf joked. ‘Although Benji says I’m stingy with the biscuits and he prefers his Aunt Poppy because she spoils him rotten.’

I couldn’t help it. Benji was the most gorgeous, friendly and snuggly dog who’d had me under his spell from the moment Wilf’s daughter turned up with him three years ago, shortly after Wilf’s wife, Vera, passed away. A Yorkshire terrier like Benji was perfect for Wilf, not needing the same level of exercise that the large dogs had required in his former life as a police dog handler. Not that he’d have struggled with doing the exercise. At eighty-two years young, Wilf still regularly hiked for miles each week and was up early on weekday mornings to swim a mile at the local leisure centre. Benji stayed home and slept while Wilf went swimming but I often looked after him when Wilf went shopping or anywhere else dogs couldn’t go. Most of the time, Benji would have been fine on his own in Wilf’s house but, as I worked from home and enjoyed the company, Benji had become a regular visitor, bringing me so much comfort, just as he’d done for Wilf.

‘Are you still okay to have Benji this afternoon?’

Wilf had plans to visit a friend who loved dogs but had allergies so Benji could only accompany him in the summer when it was warm enough for them to sit outside.

‘Definitely.’ I straightened up and Benji gave me a disappointed look before poddling back onto Wilf’s drive to retrieve his pet pig. ‘I’m off to the farm now and I’ll visit Dad straight from there. Should be back by one at the latest, so any time after that.’

‘Great. Give your dad my best.’

Wilf winced, presumably realising what he’d just said. I could absolutely do that, but it wouldn’t mean anything to Dadanymore, so I smiled and nodded before getting into my van and pulling off the drive.

I glanced back at Dove Cottage with a heavy heart. Situated at the edge of the village of Winchcote, north-east of Cheltenham, it had been my childhood home. I’d loved growing up here and had missed the house and village so much when I went away to university and even more so when I married Phil eleven years ago and officially moved out. When we split up five years later and I moved back home, I was sad that my marriage had ended but happy to be back in my favourite place. If I’d needed to heal, Dove Cottage would have healed me, but Phil and I had parted amicably and remained good friends ever since.

But then Mum fell ill and the place I’d always thought of as my home, my sanctuary, my happy place, gradually became a place of sadness. The hurt over Mum’s loss had run too deep for Dove Cottage to heal and now sometimes that beautiful house felt more like my prison than my home. I dined on my own off a tray in front of the television, watching programmes where people relocated for a new life in the country or overseas and I imagined doing the same. Where would I go? Anywhere but here. Except I couldn’t leave Dad, so I couldn’t leave the house and I couldn’t move on.

I’d been a regular visitor to Saltersbeck Farm – a small dairy farm owned by Sharon and Ian Maynard – since the age of ten when I used to accompany my dad on weekends after he took over as the beekeeper. While he tended to the bees, I played on the farm with Sharon and Ian’s sons, Phil and Bertie, who were a year older and a year younger than me respectively, or I spent time in the kitchen with Sharon baking cakes, biscuitsand scones. Back then, I’d have laughed if someone had told me that, twenty-two years later, I’d be the beekeeper and one of my playmates would be my ex-husband.

The pretty cream farmhouse was set way back from the road, nestled in a low valley and surrounded by stunning countryside. I always felt at peace when it came into view. Away from traffic noise, the only sounds were the moos of the herd, the rustle of the crops swaying in the wind and birdsong. As I child, I’d appreciated the space to play but it was the tranquillity of the farm which captured my heart as an adult. Now, I needed my regular Friday visits as, no matter how stressed I was, I always felt the tension easing from my body as I drove along the farm track.

It had been a fortnight since I’d seen Sharon and Ian. Last weekend they’d been to East Yorkshire, staying in a holiday cottage owned by an old friend of theirs. It was rare I could stop and chat for long, but I hadn’t appreciated how important even a five-minute catch-up was to me until I couldn’t have one.

As I pulled into the yard, Ian was refuelling his quad bike and Sharon was pegging washing on the line but, as soon as I got out of the van, she abandoned the clothes to cross the yard, arms outstretched. I held on for longer than I normally would and was grateful to her for tightening her hold, evidently recognising that today was a tough day and I needed comfort.

‘How are you holding up, honey?’ Sharon asked when I finally released her, her soft grey eyes full of concern.

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