Free The Wedding Cake Tree by Melanie Hudson Page B

be little glass jars full of sweets.’
    ‘ Oh, Alasdair, thanks. My favourites!’
    We left th e village green behind and, as the road narrowed, rushing water came into earshot. Down a lane and beyond a converted mill, the most delightful waterfall came into view. I reached for my camera again.
    ‘ Of course, you’re a photographer aren’t you? Funnily enough I knew that too … paparazzo aren’t you?’ Alasdair had obviously been listening to Mum.
    ‘No, I’m not a pap. Not any more. I do staged stuff now.’
    After snapping some quick shots I skipped to the far side of the falls to look at the tourist information board . Alasdair was standing on a picturesque wooden bridge that crossed the river.
    ‘ They’re called Cauldron Falls,’ I shouted, ‘and you can see why. Just look at the shape and the depth. And they were once painted by Turner, no less.’ I beamed across at Alasdair, triumphant with my discovery.
    He had placed his elbows on the hand rail and was resting hi s face on his hands. The term ‘wry smile’ was most definitely designed for the way Alasdair was looking at me.
    ‘ Don’t think I’m fooled by your sudden interest in the geology of the landscape, Grace. You’re time-wasting. Come on, Annie will be waiting.’
    After snapping a cheeky photo of him on the bridge, we crossed a stile and turned left onto a wide cart track. Not for the first time, I felt we had stepped back in time at least a century. A mass of pink campions, also enjoying the clement weather, sunbathed on the verge. A grass path ran down the middle of the track and that was the part of the lane I chose to walk on, popping sweets into my mouth as we sauntered along.
    Before long the natural smell of spring was overwhelmed by the natural smell of sweet manure. My heart fell to my boots when I noticed a piece of slate attached to a low stone wall almost hidden from view by bolting grass. Alasdair brushed the grass away from the stone. It was engraved with the words Bridge Farm .
    ‘We’re here .’
    The house was not in the least how I had imagined. It looked like a welcoming cottage rather than austere. It was clearly a working farm though, and as we made our way into the yard, a pack of muddy-legged black and white Border Collies rushed to greet us, announcing our arrival with a yappy chorus.
    The door opened with a creak before we had a chance to knock, and I took a nervous breath as Alasdair stepped in front of me. An elderly gentleman stepped out. He smiled warmly, but then narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side to analyse my face.
    ‘ I’m not staying love,’ he said gently, then shouted back down the passageway: ‘Annie, they’re here.’
    H e touched my arm and said, ‘It was good of you to come. It means more to that old battle-axe than she will ever let on.’ He winked and carried on his way.
    We turned back towards the house to find a woman with a purposeful gait striding down a long, dark hallway towards us. Highly polished slabs of slate, worn with years of use, lined the hall floor. Her bold demeanour withered somewhat as she approached the door.
    ‘ You’ll be our Frances’ child then.’
    I nodded and remained frozen to the spot, overpowered by her presence, like a nervous child on an errand.
    ‘ You’d better come in.’
    The dogs, eager to try it on, followed us into the house but were ordered out immediately.
    ‘ Aren’t they allowed in?’ I asked, but instantly regretted the question.
    ‘ They’re working dogs, not pets,’ she barked without turning. We followed her through to the kitchen.
    ‘ Sit yourselves down. I’ll put the kettle on.’
    The kitchen was at the back of the house and was large enough to accommodate both a substantial pine table and, resting against the wall at the far end of the room, a sofa covered in a patchwork throw and scattered with old but pretty cushions. Annie put the kettle on the AGA.
    I took a seat at the table. The chair scraped with an