Eric Has A New Girl.

 Tuesday 28th October 2025

It’s school holidays in some places this week, so today Mum was looking after Heidi while her mum was at work.

She arrived just before nine—perfect timing to help with breakfast, both in the cooking and the eating of it. The cooking part mostly involved fetching and carrying for Mum, but she took her duties seriously and did a good job.

Having breakfast with us meant she also got both entertained and educated by Eric. I actually felt a bit neglected this morning. The entertainment centred around Eric’s finger trick. I can’t explain it properly—my eyes barely understand it themselves. It’s all about how you interlock your fingers, and somehow the result looks as though two of them are broken or twisted. Heidi thought it was marvellous.

Then Eric asked her what she was going to do all day and whether she’d be coming out to help him.

“Don’t you go putting ideas in her head,” Mum said. “I want to be able to return her in good fettle to her mother when she calls for her.”

Before he could think of another suggestion, Mum told him they were going to spend the morning baking.

That, of course, reminded Eric of his famous tale about the time he baked currant buns but accidentally used rabbit droppings instead of currants. How anyone could possibly do that by mistake I’ll never know. Naturally, it earned him another telling-off from Mum, which Heidi found hilarious.

They spent the whole morning in the kitchen baking and cooking—Heidi making cakes for a Halloween party she’s having with her friends, and later some scones with currants and cherries for us. Mum made a big pot of homemade vegetable soup for our dinner tonight.

At lunchtime, Heidi presented Eric with one of the scones, telling him—with a little prompting from me—that it was a special one made with rabbit droppings. Eric played along beautifully, saying how delicious it was and how much better than ordinary currants. Heidi's face was a picture as she sat watching him. I'm sure she believed the play to be true.

After lunch, she did some crafty work with Mum. Mum had bought some air-dry clay in all different colours, so they spent quite a while making Christmas ornaments.

Around four, I took her out to watch Eric feeding the cows. She loves the cows. It was a bit wet and muddy around the yard after all the rain we’ve had, so we had to be careful where we went.

And that was my day really—just doing bits and bobs while joining in where I could. Watching Heidi, I couldn’t help thinking it would’ve been lovely to have a sister.

Later, when the house was quiet again, the smell of vegetable soup heating up on the stove drifted through the rooms. Mum sat in her chair by the window, tired but smiling faintly to herself. I thought about how full of laughter the house had been only hours before, and how quickly silence returns once the door closes.

There was something comforting in that quiet though—like a deep breath after the joy of company. It reminded me how lucky I am now, to have somewhere that feels so much like home.

Sneaky Washer Woman.

 Monday 27th October 2025

This morning was the usual round of housekeeping duties. Mum’s back was giving her a bit of jip, so I suggested she take it easy and let me do as much as I could alongside my usual vacuuming job.

“She’ll do anything to get her hands on your new feather duster, Jan,” Eric chipped in, trying to stir up trouble as usual.

In the end, Mum decided she’d just clean the conservatory and leave the beds until she felt a bit better. It was a fine day for washing, so I did them while she was out of the way. When she’s among her plants—whether in the conservatory or the garden—she becomes completely absorbed, oblivious to everything else going on around her.

It was worth the effort anyway; she was genuinely pleased when she realised how much I’d managed to get done.

After lunch, we went to church to take down everything we’d put up on Saturday and had a bit of a tidy while we were at it. I quite enjoyed it, to be honest—it took me into corners of the place you don’t usually get to see.

By the time I’d brought in the washing and folded it ready for ironing, it was time for tea and biscuits in the summer house—one of my favourite parts of the day. We spent a while there, talking about what we might buy Dad for Christmas, though so far, we’re still undecided. When someone has just had a new tractor everything else seems a touch trivial by comparison.

The sun was sinking by the time we came back to the house, the air cooling fast and the light turning soft and gold through the trees. Inside, the rooms felt warm and homely after the chill outdoors. Mum was humming quietly in the kitchen while I set the table.

“Feeling any better now?” I asked.

She smiled, straightening slowly. “A bit. Thanks to you—and your secret washing operation.”

I laughed. “Well, I knew you wouldn’t mind once you saw how clean the sheets were.”

“Hmm,” she said, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll let you off this time.”

The kettle began to whistle softly, and the smell of cooking drifted through the room. I sat down at the table, listening to the familiar sounds of home—mum's radio playing BBC Radio 2, the hum of the oven, the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs as dad readies himself for the evening—and felt that small, gentle peace that comes when the day’s work is done and all is well for a little while.

“Twice in one week, Dad?"

 Sunday 26th October 2025

This morning Mum and I went to church. We would have gone anyway, but with it being the Harvest Festival, the service felt a bit more special. Those who hadn’t been there yesterday seemed genuinely pleased by all the work that had gone into decorating the church. It did seem a shame that it would all be taken down after just one day.

There was, however, a touch of sadness about the morning. Moss has had his test results back, and it seems he has bowel cancer. People were trying to stay upbeat, saying how much treatment has improved these days and how well many do — but I’m not sure how much comfort words like that really bring, especially when you’re the one facing it.

I couldn’t think of much to do except offer to drive him to the hospital if he ever finds himself short of transport. It’s not much, but it’s something, and he seemed grateful.

Because the service ran on a little longer than usual, Dad decided to take us out for lunch afterwards.

“Twice in one week, Dad? Are you feeling all right?” I teased.

Mum laughed, and Dad turned towards me, eyes twinkling.

“You watch your tongue, young madam,” he said, nodding towards Mum and giving me a wink.

For those who don’t know, young madam is Mum’s line when she thinks I’ve overstepped my place a little — so Dad was having a dig at both of us at once.

We all laughed, and it lightened the air again. By the time we got home, the afternoon light was already softening due to the clocks getting altered last night. Mum put the kettle on while Dad settled by the fire, and for a moment, before going out to help Eric with the cattle. It was the kind of feeling you wish you could bottle and keep for when the days aren’t quite so easy.

Harvest Festival Preparations.

 Saturday 25th October 2025

Tomorrow is the church Harvest Festival, so Mum asked if I’d go and help with the decorating and setting up of the food donations — which of course I did.

We called in at the stables on the way, though I can’t say I was overly keen on the idea.

There was a nice moment, though, when Peter and Elizabeth spotted me standing by the car and immediately dropped everything to come over. They both looked happy and well, which always pleases me — it’s good to see how life has turned out for them. From what I could gather, Charlotte is still seeing Nigel, though by the sound of it he’s up to his old tricks again. I couldn’t help saying I wasn’t exactly surprised. Charlotte herself was in the training ring with Lyn, and I decided it was best to keep out of the way and wait for Mum by the car.

Once we arrived at the church, my first job was to help one of the ladies sweep up the leaves blowing around by the door. It was a hopeless task in a brisk north-westerly wind, but we gave it a good go. By the time we left, I noticed that just as many had blown back again.

We arranged the food donations inside the entrance — baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tins, packets, and jars all neatly lined up. It reminded me of when Irene once suggested I try shop work; perhaps if I’d taken her up on it instead of turning into a farm girl, I might have done a tidier job of the display. Still, I did my best.

Mum and the other ladies were busy with flowers, wheat sheaves, and garlands of hops, the whole church beginning to smell of autumn and greenery. I mostly passed things over when asked, happy just to be part of it all.

It was an enjoyable afternoon, made even better when we stopped for fish and chips on the way home — the kind of simple treat that somehow makes a good day even better. By the time we got back, the air was cool and still, and the last of the daylight lingered across the fields. The house lights glowed softly across the yard as we carried everything inside — the smell of salt and vinegar following us in. Dad welcoming us with a big smile, the warmth from the wood burner and the chatter about the day's events coming up the stairs as I quickly changed — and it felt, in that small, contented way, like home.

Surprise Company.

 Friday 24th October 2025

When we got up from breakfast this morning, Mum reminded Dad that we wouldn’t be in for lunch as we were heading to the garden centre for dinner and to take a look at the Christmas displays. It turned out to be a good thing she mentioned it — Dad had clearly forgotten.

He hesitated for a moment, as though something had just come to him.

“You haven’t got room for a little ’un, have you?” he asked.

Mum and I both looked at him, a bit puzzled.

“I suppose so,” she said cautiously. “Why, what’s happening then?”

“Well,” Dad began, with that half-grin of his, “I haven’t got anything desperate on. I was thinking, seeing as it’s my little girl’s first Christmas with us, I might come along and maybe get a few snaps of her on Santa’s lap!”

That was just Dad being Dad — sentimental and daft all at once. It made me smile, though I knew perfectly well there’d be no such photo today or any other day. Mum made sure of that.

“We’re not having any of that sitting on strange fellas’ laps around here,” she said firmly.

I’m not sure why she’s so against it. After all it was the last spell of lap-sitting that got me here — not that I plan on repeating that experience.

So, the three of us set off for the garden centre. We had a lovely lunch and spent some time wandering through the aisles, admiring all the lights and ornaments. Mum was hoping to find a new Christmas tree but none quite took her fancy.

At one point she turned to me and asked, “Is there anything that takes your fancy?”

Having never done anything like this before, I was already feeling a little overwhelmed — and quietly thrilled — by the whole experience. The idea that I might actually get to choose something myself caught me off guard.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Mum asked, her tone sharp but not unkind, just her usual impatience with my indecisive moments.

“No,” I said after a pause. “Everything has taken my fancy. I want it all.”

Dad burst out laughing, slung his arm round me, and gave me a quick squeeze.

“That’s my girl — no messing about! Gets the job done properly, no matter what!”

Not one to be outdone by Dad’s foolishness, Mum shot back, “You’d better fetch that bloomin’ tractor of yours and a trailer, then.”

In the end, she just bought a few bits, saying we’d try somewhere else another day.

As we drove home, the sun was dipping low behind the trees, the sky washed in that quiet gold that only October seems to manage. Mum was talking softly about where the new decorations might go, Dad humming along with the radio. I sat in the back, watching the fields roll by, thinking how strange and lovely it feels to belong somewhere at last. It’s funny — after all the years of waiting, Christmas seems to have already begun.

No rules, no manners, no grace.

 Thursday 23rd October 2025

Today was whacky bin race day again — and that Eric was up to his usual cheating ways!

There’s no starting pistol, no countdown, no waiting for the red lights to go out. Perhaps it would be better if there were. As it is, the tension always builds toward the end of breakfast — each of us poised to catch the first sign of dismissal from the table. The race begins the instant we sense it’s safe to bolt.

This little bin-race ritual has survived several of Mum’s attempts to call time on it. After her scolding, one or both of us — but mostly Eric — will inevitably reply, “Great, that means I’m the overall winner then!”

What follows is an exchange of wildly inaccurate scores, numbers thrown around with great conviction but no record-keeping to back them up. Mum rises from the table shaking her head in dismay, Dad laughs at something nobody quite understands, and Eric and I take that as the cue.

Then chaos: no rules, no manners, no grace — just the two of us thundering out the door, before heading down the garden path bins in hand, vowing vengeance to the winner for next time.

And so it went this morning. We were both perched on the edges of our chairs when Eric suddenly said, “Since when did you allow muddy boots in the kitchen, Jan?”

He was pointing at my boots, placed neatly under a side chair by the wall. Without thinking, Mum and I both turned to look at once. The split second my attention slipped, Eric made his dash for the dairy door.

By the time I’d finished defending myself to Mum, retrieved my boots (which he’d sneakily moved), and got outside — he was already halfway down the garden path, bin rattling triumphantly ahead of him.

The only sympathy Mum offered was a dry, “It’s your own fault for encouraging him. You know what he’s like.”

And so another round goes to Eric — at least until next time. I’ll be ready for him.

This evening, the house still feels faintly alive with the laughter from breakfast — the kind that lingers quietly in the walls long after the dishes are done and we're sat snuggled up. Dad is always quick to point out that this is what I've brought to the house with me as it was never present until I arrived. He pulls my leg saying that they used to have a quiet life, now they enjoy a proper life.

A Contrasting Christmas.

 Wednesday 22nd October 2025

Mum was talking this morning about going out for dinner at the garden centre one day this week. She says that now there’s more reason, she’d like to go all out on decorating the house for Christmas this year. She wants to see how much another tree would be and to look at the decorations they’ve got in stock.

I suggested it might be a bit early, but she seems to think the displays will already be up.

Anyway, that was neither here nor there — but somehow it set my mind wandering back over past Christmases. Just that small, cheerful conversation with Mum was probably more genuine excitement for Christmas than I ever remember feeling before.

As I lay on my bed later, I found myself thinking how last Christmas was the best I’ve had so far. Grandfather was too ill to cause any trouble, and there’d been plenty of preparation beforehand, which made it feel properly festive. Cindy made a lovely dinner.

The year before had been a very different story. That was the year I learned I was to be sent away to Scotland “for my sins.” I was in the dog house — quite literally — and my Christmas dinner came in a dog’s bowl, as did every meal I had then. My birth dad, bless him, quietly transferred it onto a proper plate once my birth mother wasn’t looking and brought it up to my room for me. By then it was nearly cold. I didn’t get a present that year.

The Christmas before that, my only present was a bathroom gift set — the very one I’d bought my birth mother for her birthday two months earlier. I should have known she wouldn’t use it.

I can still picture her sad little Christmas tree, perched on a table to make it look bigger, with its tangled tinsel and dusty decorations. She hated the bother of taking things down, so after Christmas she’d shove the whole tree, still decorated, into a plastic bag and store it in the garage until the next year. About a week before Christmas, she’d haul it out again, ready for when all her parcels from Amazon arrived.

She’d buy herself stacks of presents and spend the whole day opening them slowly, one by one, while I watched and tried to look excited. When I once asked why Dad and I only got one each, she told me it was a mother’s right — and that one day, when I had children of my own, I’d get lots too.

The rest of her day was spent eating chocolates and drinking whatever she’d bought herself. I mostly stayed in my room, watching festive TV shows alone. My birth dad spent the day cooking, clearing up, and running after her — which was just the way things always were.

Going back to school after Christmas was the worst part. Everyone would be full of stories about what they’d been given and where they’d been. A few of the kids went away somewhere snowy and came back talking about sleigh rides with real reindeer. I loved the thought of it but hated the way it made me feel.

I kept quiet and to myself, having nothing to tell. If anyone asked, I’d try to dodge the question by saying we didn’t celebrate Christmas. That only led to more awkward questions, so in time I learned to lie.

Thinking about all this now, and the way Mum was talking earlier, made me weep a little — not so much for the past, but for the future. Just the simple thought of going out with her to look at Christmas decorations has already made this the best Christmas I can remember. And there are still two months to go yet.

Later this evening, after tea, Mum was sitting by the fire making a list of things we might need — fairy lights, ribbons, a new wreath for the door — and she asked what colours I liked best. I burried my face into dad's arm so as to make him part of it. Outside, the night was cold and clear, the first stars would be showing over the fields. Inside, the room was golden with lamplight and the soft ticking of the clock. I sat watching her write, feeling a quiet, unexpected happiness — the kind that settles in gently and makes you realise how far you’ve come, and how good it feels to belong.