The Honey Farm on the Hill

by Jo Thomas

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; General Fiction

Synopsis

Jo Thomas's irresistible novel transports you straight to the mountains of Crete. A gorgeous, sun-filled new read from the author of THE OYSTER CATCHER, THE OLIVE BRANCH, and LATE SUMMER IN THE VINEYARD. Perfect for fans of Lucy Diamond, Katie Fforde and Erica James.

Sometimes you have to go back before you can move forwards...

One magical summer Nell fell in love in the mountains of Crete and her life changed for ever.

Eighteen years later, Nell is ready for a new beginning. When she sees a honey farm in the same hilltop town has lost its bees, the opportunity is impossible to resist. Welcomed back to Greece by the warm sun and aroma of wild thyme, Nell finds memories of her past at every turn. But much has changed since she's been away.

As Nell throws herself into restoring the honey farm, she starts to unlock the truth of what happened all those years ago. She soon learns that the course of true love - just like Cretan honey - can be wild and sweet. And well worth the wait...

Jo Thomas takes you there.

Release date: August 24, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

It all began the day the Christmas decoration factory burned down.

‘Bloody hell, it’s like New Year’s Eve at Winter Wonderland,’ says Angelica. Her festive red and green tinsel-edged earrings flash in the late-June sunshine as we huddle together outside, watching the orange and yellow sparks shoot up from the factory roof.

Bang! Crackle! Bang, bang! Fizz . . . bang!

We jump back as the factory’s electrics explode and fire takes hold. There’s an almighty crash as part of the roof collapses. We gasp in unison, huddling tighter together and shuffling backwards at the same time.

‘Christ!’ Angelica, one of my closest friends despite the ten-year age difference between us, is the first to speak. ‘That was right over where you were sitting, Nell!’

I stare at the hole where the roof used to be, sparks and smoke spitting out of it like an angry volcano. I can’t reply. My blood runs cold and I feel my hands begin to shake. She’s right. I was sitting just under that roof beam only a tea break ago.

Gracie coughs like she’s trying to dislodge a bone from her throat . . . a whole leg bone by the sounds of it.

‘You all right, Gracie?’ I reach down to put a hand on her back. Gracie is my other close friend at the factory. She was my nan’s next-door neighbour for as long as I can remember, and she’s mine now, ever since Nan died and I took over the house. Gracie is just five foot tall, and almost as wide, wearing one of her signature shapeless nylon dresses. Although in her late fifties, she looks much older. She nods, still coughing.

Another fire engine arrives, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. The girls from packing let out a roar of approval as the firemen leap from the engine, as does Rhys from baubles, who’s wearing two of them as earrings. Most of the girls are wearing tinsel round their necks and wave it like cheerleaders’ pompoms as the firemen leap into action pulling out their hose.

‘I will be,’ says Gracie in her gravelly voice as she slowly straightens. Pulling out a packet of cigarettes from her front overall pocket, followed by a lighter, she sparks up, puffing smoke into the air, where it mixes with the thick black smoke chugging out from the factory roof. She drags deeply on the cigarette between her long, hooked painted nails, exhales, then growls, ‘Better now.’

Sporadic bangs, sparks and flashes take us by surprise, making me leap out of my skin, but the girls from packing cheer again. ‘Better than Bonfire Night, this,’ says one in a dayglo vest top and a flashing gold Santa hat.

I shove my hands in the back pockets of my worn and comfortable calf-length jeans. I live in jeans – I wear them to work, to the pub, at weekends. Angelica thinks I have a vintage look going on, but it’s really just about reusing things, like the chequered shirts and the fifties bomber jacket I found in my nan’s attic, and scarves made from bits of fabric to keep my unruly red hair in place. I roll the toe of my lace-up canvas pump around in the fallen white ash in front of me and push my hands deeper into my pockets, my collection of wristbands and bangles bunching together.

‘All my Christmases come at once,’ says Rhys from baubles, fanning away the heat and smoke with a ‘Santa Stop Here’ sign. Gena, who works in the luxury crackers team, lets out a laugh like a machine gun that makes us all wince and put our fingers in our ears. It grates up and down my already shredded nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. Gena usually gets this response when she laughs. It’s the reason she’s been moved off Christmas deely boppers – those headbands with baubles on springs that can smack you in the eye if you nod your head too much – at the front of the factory. Instead she’s been put on crackers at the back to try and stop her high-pitched laugh from carrying across the factory floor.

‘Stand back, please, stand back.’ A fireman in a big black suit and a large white helmet waves his arms at us, and we shuffle back again with a few good-natured catcalls, mostly from tinsel, trimming and fairy lights. As we move, there’s another huge bang and the remainder of the factory roof around the hole over my work station, blows off, showering pieces all over the car park.

‘I guess we’re not going back in today then?’ says Angelica. She clicks away on her phone, taking photos of the explosion and posting them on Instagram. As one hand takes a selfie, the other does a thumbs-up.

I look over to our managing director, short, fat Alwyn Evans, who is smoothing his comb-over nervously as he talks to the fire officer.

‘Might as well go to the pub.’ Angelica puts her phone into her big cream and gold handbag and hangs it over her shoulder.

I cough as the smoke catches in my throat. My chest is tight and I feel a little light-headed. I’d like nothing more than a sit-down and something to settle my nerves. I look at the hole in the roof again. My whole body is shaking. That could have been me gone if I hadn’t got out. I shake my head in disbelief and reach for my own phone, running my thumb over the keypad. I just want to hear my daughter’s voice and to tell her I miss her. I do miss her, badly.

‘You coming, Nell?’ Angelica asks.

I shake my head. ‘No. I gave my last twenty to Demi last night at the bus station.’ I check my phone for messages. There are none. I wonder if now would be a good time to ring, or if she’ll be busy. Who’d have thought, my daughter, nearly eighteen, and living in London. I look up at the roof.

‘She’s gone then, your Demi?’ Angelica asks. ‘Didn’t fancy the job in packing? Decided to go for this posh job in London?’

I nod, feeling the tears that keep filling my eyes, determined not to let them fall.

‘Lucky beggar. Wish I was off somewhere exciting, instead of stuck here.’ She folds her arms and her bag swings violently.

‘I took her to Cardiff last night to get the bus. She promised to text when she arrived safe and sound.’

‘Blimey, I’m amazed your car made it that far. And she’s really ditched her A levels and gone to get a nannying job in London?’

I nod again, because I’m not able to talk properly through my tight throat.

‘Strong-minded, that one,’ Grace pipes up. ‘Just like someone else I know . . .’ She smiles at me and coughs, and I try to smile back, wishing I could see the funny side of this. The truth is, I’m petrified for Demi. Not yet eighteen, and living in London with a family I’ve never met, working as an au pair. She thinks I’m worrying too much, that I’ve got to understand she’s grown up now. But she’s so young. I told her to wait, to do her A levels; she has plenty of time. But she insisted A levels weren’t for her and she was ready to go. I’m just not sure I’m ready to let her.

‘They have to fly the nest sometime. Just like you did. Your nan was beside herself when you went off travelling. But you came back safe and sound, a bit bruised maybe and with some surprise news. But you coped. The world kept spinning.’

My face falls. I wouldn’t change having Demi for the world, but I wish I’d seen a bit more of life first. I just want something different for her. Maybe this is the best thing. I manage a smile

‘At least you’ll get the remote control to yourself now.’ Gracie stubs out her cigarette on the low red-brick wall and then coughs some more.

Angelica’s mouth turns down. ‘It’s a scary place, though, London. Who knows what lunatics are lurking around those street corners.’

For a moment none of us say anything, and a hole in the middle of my heart, loosely held together, seems to rip right open. The colour, whatever is left of it after the shock of the fire, finally drains fully from my face. I could strangle Angelica . . . and I just want to bring Demi home.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Nell! How stupid of me! Of course she’ll be fine!’ Angelica grips my wrist, her face screwed up in apology, and the tears I’ve kept in start to pour down my cheeks. Neither Angelica nor Gracie has children, but they’ve been like brilliant aunties to Demi over the years. Angelica buys her fabulous outfits for birthdays and sends over magazines with the latest fashions for her to look at. And Gracie has always been there, just next door, with a full biscuit tin, a listening ear and a couple of quid if Demi runs to the shop to get her milk and fags.

At the end of the road an ambulance whizzes past, sirens blaring, and I wonder again if Demi is safe. It’s just her and me; she’s all I have.

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. You can owe me.’ Angelica links her arm through mine, not taking no for an answer, and we join the other groups of workers heading for the pub, tottering on their high heels, snowman deely boppers bobbing up and down.

Just then, my phone pings. I have a text, from Demi. The first since I left her at the bus station last night.

Here safe and sound. House is amazing. I’m going to love it here. x

That’s all it says, but I hold the phone close to my chest and breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Oh hiya, Nell love.’ I turn to see Gena, gripping on to one of her co-workers and grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. I have no idea what she’s got to be so happy about. With the factory fire, we’re all going to be out of work and out of pocket. I nod.

‘Gena.’

‘Sorry to hear about your Demi ditching her A levels. You must be gutted. Not the college type you thought she was going to be then.’ She smiles that Cheshire cat smile and her friend sniggers.

I bristle and squeeze my phone as if it’s her neck. Breathing as deeply as I can, which isn’t very with my tight chest, I lift my chin and look her right in the eye. ‘Actually, she’s doing really well, Gena. Got a fab job in London. She’s just arrived and is settling in.’ I wave the phone and grit my teeth.

‘Oooh, too good for us!’ Gena is pulled away by her giggling friend. Her laugh grates on me all over again. ‘You off to the pub?’ she asks.

Angelica nods curtly. ‘Seems as good a plan for the afternoon as any,’ she says, clutching my arm tightly as if I’m going to do a runner.

‘You coming, Gena?’ her friend asks, orange in clinging vest and flashing fairy earrings.

‘No, I’ve got other business to see to.’ She gives the three of us a little wave as she teeters out of the car park on to the main road and heads in the opposite direction.

My hands are shaking even more and I don’t know if it’s the shock of the fire or Gena’s catty comments. I’m sure Demi will be fine. She’s a smart girl, I tell myself, trying to loosen the grip of the doubts wrapping themselves around my heart.

‘It doesn’t look as if the factory’s going to reopen any time soon. Rhys heard the firemen talking . . . it could be a couple of months.’ Angelica puts a bottle of white wine and three glasses on the ring-stained round table in front of us; a selection of crisps, nuts and pork scratchings tumble from under her arm.

‘And we’re on zero-hour contracts. I guess that means they won’t be paying us then,’ Gracie grumbles, ripping open a bag of pork scratchings.

Realisation suddenly hits me like I’ve been whacked with a sack of spuds. I’m skint! I have no idea how I’m going to survive if the factory is shut. No work, no money. I gave Demi the last of my savings from the jar on the dresser that I’d put aside for a weekend in Tenby. The only thing I’ve got of any value is my car, and that’s only worth a few hundred quid.

‘We’re never going to find anywhere else to take us on at such short notice.’ Gracie confirms exactly what I’m thinking.

‘We should go on holiday.’ Angelica beams, unscrewing the bottle and filling the glasses.

‘Some hope. I haven’t even got my share of a bottle of wine!’ I accept a glass from her with thanks and take a slug of the sharp, warm wine.

Angelica sits down and leans forward excitedly. ‘We could always go WWOOFing!’

‘I beg your pardon!’ Gracie chokes on a pork scratching and has another coughing fit.

‘WWOOFing!’ Angelica repeats with a wicked smile.

‘I’ve heard about that. It happens on the common . . . in cars . . . exhibitionists!’ Gracie takes a sip of her drink to recover.

‘Not dogging, Gracie!’ Angelica hoots, and even my low mood lifts. ‘WWOOFing! Worldwide . . . um, working on organic farms, or something like that. You volunteer to work on a farm in return for bed and board. You can do it practically anywhere.’

‘What, like in the Bahamas?’ Gracie frowns and then looks like she’s imagining herself there.

‘So that’s you sorted out, Gracie. Where would you go, Nell?’ Angelica is enjoying the game, and why not? We can all dream. ‘You can have a moment to think.’

But I don’t need one. My hand instantly goes to my throat, remembering the weight of the necklace that used to sit there. There’s one place that’s still close to my heart. Somewhere I didn’t think I’d ever get to see again.

‘Crete. I’d go back to Crete.’ I suddenly feel like I’m falling into one of the big fluffy clouds that used to drift across the skies there. ‘Not that I haven’t loved being here and being Demi’s mum,’ I say quickly, blushing. ‘But in Crete . . . well, I think that’s where I finally became me. Grew up. Knew what I wanted in life.’ I remember the feeling of confidence I found there. I had everything to look forward to. The plans we made to run a small boutique hotel there on the mountainside, my future laid out like a map in front of me.

‘Why don’t you go then?’ Angelica says.

‘I couldn’t do that!’ I laugh off her ridiculous suggestion and try and shake the sadness that comes with remembering, taking another sip of the disgusting wine to bring me to my senses. This is real life, in the Frog and Bucket, drinking acidic white wine.

‘Well, what are you going to do then?’ She sits back, glass in one hand, a handful of peanuts in the other and she tosses one up and into her mouth.

‘You could spend some time with that man of yours.’ Gracie raises her eyebrows. ‘Snap him up before someone else does. He’s been waiting for Demi to finally be off your hands. Now’s your chance.’

Maybe she’s right. How else am I going to fill my time waiting for the factory to reopen? And Mike moving in, paying half the bills, would really help me out. Perhaps this is fate. It’s time the two of us finally put our relationship on a firmer footing, rather than just darts night on a Thursday and a takeaway curry on a Saturday. It would certainly take my mind off Demi being away.

‘You’re right, Gracie.’ I slap my glass back on the table and push all thoughts of Crete out of my head. ‘That is what I should be doing.’

I reach into my handbag, feeling fired up, and grapple for my keys, trying to ignore the monkey key ring that Demi bought me on a school trip to Bristol Zoo. Seeing it makes my heart twist again. Demi is fine, I remind myself. Her text said so.

‘I’ll surprise him. Turn up early!’ I attempt a surreptitious sniff at my clothes to see if I smell of smoke. Then, leaving Gracie and Angelica with the rest of the wine, I head out to the car park and my battered Ford Ka. The sun has gone and it’s beginning to drizzle. I try to ignore the memory of the Cretan blue sky that’s now started taunting me.

This is exactly what I should do right now: finally make an honest man of Mike and ask him to move in. Even Demi told me it was time I put him out of his misery and got on with my own life now that she doesn’t need me around. I throw my car keys up in the air and catch them, walking purposefully towards my car. I can’t wait to see the look on his face . . .

I pull up outside Mike’s flat and get my spare key from my bag. I slide it into the lock, feeling surprisingly excited, push the door open quietly and step over the threshold. Then I freeze, hearing that familiar irritating laugh . . . coming from the bedroom. I thought I’d surprise him, but it looks like someone has beaten me to it. I step back out and pull the door to as gently as I can. Suddenly the laughter stops and I hold my breath.

‘Mike? Did you hear something?’ I hear.

‘No, now get back to bed!’ And then that laugh again, running through me like the sound of a dentist’s drill.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding with a long, slow blow. Then, with shaking hands, I slip the key through the letter box and listen to it fall on to the mat before lifting my chin and walking away with as much dignity as I can muster, that laugh still ringing in my ears.

It’s over . . . Just like that, it’s over.





I take a deep breath as I step out of the plane door and on to the steel platform at the top of the steps, lifting my face to the hot Cretan sun. The wind catches the ends of my curly, red hair, just as I remember it doing last time I was here, eighteen years ago. I gather my hair up in one hand and hold it at the nape of my neck as I make my way slowly down the steps. That’s when it hits me. That smell, filling my nostrils, my head, my chest, catapulting me back to a time when I was young, happy; when anything was possible. I sigh blissfully, despite the nerves turning somersaults in my tummy. The aroma of wild mountain thyme on the wind wraps itself around me in a huge hug, and I hold the handrail tighter to steady myself. It feels as if no time has passed at all. I touch the necklace at my throat; I’m still getting used to its weight again. My heart fills and the widest smile spreads across my face. I’m here. I’m actually here.

‘Excuse me, madam, is everything OK?’

I turn to see the flight attendant and a line of impatient faces behind me. A group of young girls are giggling, fooling around with excitement, and suddenly I’m reminded of the sound of Gena’s shrill laugh coming from Mike’s bedroom. The memory makes me shudder all over again, leaving me suddenly cold despite the intense heat.

As I walked away from Mike’s ground-floor flat that day, from a relationship in which I thought it was just me stalling and we were waiting for the right time to take the next step, I realised that everything had to change. For seven years I had known where I was, what I was doing every day of the week. I’d had someone there to share the odd takeaway and telly night with. Now it was just me, and I felt like a balloon with its string cut, not knowing which direction to fly in.

‘Everything all right?’ asks the flight attendant again. I look at her and at the queue behind me, the harassed expressions of the parents with the child who was sitting near me. I look down at the man in ear protectors, overalls and a high-vis jacket despite the heat rolling in a haze off the tarmac, holding his hands up against the bright sunlight as he squints at me. ‘Do you need a hand?’

‘No, no . . . I’m fine. Just perfect, in fact,’ I say, pulling down my sunglasses from my head, making my hair fly about even more. Despite my thrill at being here, my nerves spin like acrobats in my tummy. I take one more deep breath, then grip the handrail again and continue on down the slightly swaying steps, snatching glances at that oh-so-familiar landscape.

‘Goodbye, thank you,’ says the flight attendant. ‘Hope you have a good stay.’

‘I hope so too,’ I reply, gripping the pendant in the palm of my spare hand.

The brilliant blue sea is just beyond the airport. Large jagged rocks are dotted along the shoreline, white spray dashing against them. All the while that scent is still there, like a good friend that has come to greet me, and suddenly all my nerves start to seep away. I did the right thing coming here, I tell myself as I make my way across the hot tarmac towards the terminal building. The sun’s reflection is bouncing off the glass like it’s part of a welcoming committee. I have no idea why I was so nervous, or why I’ve put this off for so long. I haven’t felt like this in . . . years! It was time to get away from the empty house. To get a life of my own, as Demi insisted during our rather stilted Skype call on the night of the fire. I’d wanted to tell her how much the fire, the roof caving in, had scared me, and how I wanted her to stay safe and that I’d always be there for her. In return she told me about the posh house she was living in, describing the decoration and the fluffiness of the towels in her en suite in detail. I could never have given her those things. I bought what I could in second-hand shops and post-Christmas sales. Gracie was always popping round with little finds, a marked-down shower curtain or a dented tin of who-knows-what. Surprise dinner, we used to call it. A far cry from the sorts of fancy meals Demi will be eating now, by the sounds of it.

At least here I can get away from the loneliness and the heartache. I can forget about the idea of Gena and Mike together and take time to be myself again . . . or remember who I was, at least, and the dreams I once had. I clutch my bag and shuffle forward on the worn blue linoleum floor.

‘Kalimera.’ I smile nervously when I reach the front of the queue, and the passport control officer nods slowly.

‘Kalimera,’ he replies, opening the pages of my passport. Then, ‘Efharisto.’ He thanks me and hands it back, smiling. The nerves settle again and I walk towards the exit.

‘Hello,’ I hear the passport officer say behind me to the family with the boy who used my seat as band practice all the way here. They have a teenage girl with them too, on her phone, barely grunting at her parents when she’s asked to take out her headphones for immigration. ‘I can’t get Wi-Fi,’ she wails, and I have a sudden pang, wishing Demi was here.

I pull out my phone and switch it on to see if I’ve got any signal yet, desperate to hear from her and to let Angelica know that I’ve arrived; that I did it. Gracie doesn’t have a mobile, but Angelica will tell her my news. I might even find a postcard to send her.

When I finally decided to book my plane ticket out to Crete, I rang Angelica, desperate to persuade her to come with me. If I was going to do this, I wanted her by my side. But despite my best efforts, she turned me down. Wendy Davies, Alwyn’s personal assistant at the factory, was pregnant. They’d found out at hospital when she’d had a funny turn after the fire. Angelica had been asked to step in to oversee the repairs and to get the factory up and running again.

‘It’s my big chance, Nell! If I can run a Christmas decoration factory, well, the fashion industry is just a step away. I could be in charge of a fashion house in London in no time. Following your Demi to the smoke.’

She couldn’t turn it down, I knew that. I don’t think she believed I’d actually get on the plane on my own. But I suddenly had to know. I couldn’t just sit in an empty house waiting for Demi to come home. I was going to return to where I’d left off, with or without Angelica’s support. I had to. I needed to know that the decision I’d made all those years ago was the right one. Let’s just call it unfinished business. I touch the pendant around my neck again.

And anyway, there were only so many times I could watch reruns of Mamma Mia! and Shirley Valentine. Sitting there on the settee a week after the fire, having finished a packet of Hobnobs and started on a box of Cheerios, I realised I was standing at the top of a slippery slope. So instead of watching The Holiday again, I heaved myself off the sofa and started spring-cleaning, wiping away tears as I cleared drawers and cupboards, trying to take my mind off how much I wanted Demi home, and how frustrated I felt by the wasted years I’d spent with Mike.

There were boxes that hadn’t been touched in years under my bed and on top of my wardrobe. Stuff I’d put away and hadn’t looked at. Baby clothes, paintings and cards Demi had made. Old clothes, a pair of cut-off shorts I’d customised with stick-on gems and patches. Nan obviously never threw away anything. And that was when I found it: the necklace. Under a pile of photographs. I’d taken it off when I’d gone into hospital to have Demi, bundled by Nan into a taxi, and never put it back on again. I picked it up. The little ruby in the corner was duller than I remembered, but still there. The black leather lace was worn. As I looked at the silver, now greying, outline of half of the island, it all came rushing back to me, the person I was before. This felt like fate, what with the fire, Gena and Mike, and Angelica talking about WWOOFing. As I fastened the pendant around my neck, it felt as if it belonged there.

With my phone in one hand I googled Crete, then, with Gracie’s initial horror still ringing in my ears and making me smile, I looked up WWOOFing and working abroad. An advert on a volunteering website jumped out at me: Help wanted in a honey factory in Crete. I love honey, especially Cretan honey – I remember the taste so well – and I know all about factories. It was perfect. In just a couple of moments I’d gone from utter despair to booking a flight on my supermarket saver points, all from my phone on my bedroom floor. With the factory closed for the foreseeable future, what else was I going to do? I’d sold my old banger and had the money from that to tide me over. WWOOFing seemed like a perfectly sensible idea. I was getting a life and it wasn’t costing me anything.

‘Find yourself a gorgeous Cretan waiter!’ Angelica shouted as I got into the taxi to the airport. Gracie was on the front step of her little terraced house next door, puffing on a cigarette, watching the world pass by as usual. Other neighbours appeared at their doors to see what all the fuss was about. I shook my head at Angelica.

‘That’s the last thing I want,’ I told her. There was only one man I wanted to find. Then perhaps I’d remember who I was too . . . because if I wasn’t Demi’s mum, or Mike’s girlfriend, who was I?

Now I step outside the terminal building, my nerves returning with the heat, not knowing how I’m supposed to be getting from here to where I’m staying.

A battered old truck with dents in every panel and a black and white wire-haired terrier barking for all it’s worth in the open boot pulls up in a cloud of yellow dust. I step back, putting my hand over my mouth, but still coughing. The window is open and a man in a large crooked-brimmed hat with a scarf around his neck, looking like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, leans out.

‘Woof!’ barks the man gruffly. He’s about my age but with a face that says he’s lived many more lives than just this one. I can’t see much of his expression, his hat casting a shadow over it, but it doesn’t look. . .