href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter 24
For Sharon Pillinger,
Whose tireless cheering and continuous
excitement for my books has never
gone unnoticed.
Thank-you.
Love AB x
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
