The Golden Oldies' Book Club

Judy Leigh

Description

Deep in the Somerset countryside, the Combe Pomeroy village library hosts a monthly book club.

Ruth the librarian fears she’s too old to find love, but a discussion about Lady Chatterley’s Lover makes her think again.

Aurora doesn’t feel seventy-two and longs to relive the excitement of her youth, while Verity is getting increasingly tired of her husband Mark’s grumpiness and wonders if their son’s imminent flight from the nest might be just the moment for her to fly too. And Danielle is fed up with her cheating husband. Surely life has more in store for her than to settle for second best?

The glue that holds Combe Pomeroy together is Jeannie. Doyenne of the local cider farm and heartbeat of her family and community, no one has noticed that Jeannie needs some looking after too. Has the moment for her to retire finally arrived, and if so, what does her future hold?

From a book club French exchange trip, to many celebrations at the farm, this is the year that everything changes, that lifelong friendships are tested, and for some of the women, they finally get the love they deserve.

Judy Leigh is back with her unmistakable recipe of friendship and fun, love and laughter. The perfect feel-good novel for all fans of Dawn French, Dee Macdonald and Cathy Hopkins.

Readers love Judy Leigh:

‘Loved this from cover to cover, pity I can only give this 5 stars as it deserves far more.’

‘The story’s simply wonderful, the theme of second chances will resonate whatever your age, there’s something for everyone among the characters, and I do defy anyone not to have a tear in their eye at the perfect ending.’

‘With brilliant characters and hilarious antics, this is definitely a cosy read you'll not want to miss.’

‘A lovely read of how life doesn't just end because your getting old.’

‘A great feel-good and fun story that made me laugh and root for the characters.’

Praise for Judy Leigh:

‘Brilliantly funny, emotional and uplifting’ Miranda Dickinson

'Lovely . . . a book that assures that life is far from over at seventy' Cathy Hopkins bestselling author of The Kicking the Bucket List

'Brimming with warmth, humour and a love of life… a wonderful escapade’ Fiona Gibson

Sujets

• Mashups
• Feminist
• Holidays
• Siblings
• World Literature
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Inglaterra
• Friendship
• Sibling
• Public library
• Types of rural communities
• General officer
• Woman
• Feminism
• 21st Century
• The Women
• General
• Holiday
• Topic
• Family Life
• Romance
• England
• Somerset
• Bristol
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 06 décembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781801623667
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE GOLDEN OLDIES’ BOOK CLUB


JUDY LEIGH
To friends and neighbours, librarians and teachers
CONTENTS



The Cider Seasons: apple blossom time


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The Cider Seasons: summer, and new apples

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

The Cider Seasons: harvest time

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

The Cider Seasons: winter wassailing

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue


Acknowledgments

More from Judy Leigh

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
THE CIDER SEASONS: APPLE BLOSSOM TIME
PROLOGUE

Apples have been a part of my life since I was at my mother’s knee: A is for apple; an apple for the teacher. I was an only child, the apple of my mother’s eye, my wonderful, sweet, funny mum who made apple pie and apple jelly, and told me that I was the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree.
My father owned Sharrocks’ Cider Farm, my grandfather too, and my great-grandfather before him. When my father passed away, my husband Peter and I ran it together. Then Pete met Gail and they moved to Spain. I became a Sharrock again and ran the cider farm by myself, hoping that my son, Wesley, would show an interest. He was his father’s boy: he liked an occasional drink of cider, but he wasn’t interested in it before it reached the bottle. Then, years later, Wes upset the applecart and left to join his father while his teenage children stayed with me to finish their studies. I was the only apple left in the barrel. But Sharrocks’ cider ran in my veins and I kept the farm going, with help from wonderful friends.
Now I sit in the orchard as the delicate pink blossom tumbles from the branches, inhaling the sweet, sharp scent of apple juice, and I wonder whether I should think about making this my last year running the farm. Perhaps it’s time for someone else to take over.
But there’s an old saying, ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away,’ and I’m lucky to be healthy and able-bodied. Every day of my life has been about apples, growing them, harvesting them, fermenting the juice. As each season changes at Sharrocks’, I can’t help but look forward to the next one; each time of year has its own temporary beauty. That’s how life goes by and, almost without realising it, I’m seventy-two and the years have flown. Now here I am, not knowing what else to do but to keep on doing what I’ve always done. I don’t know anything else.
I can’t grumble…
1

Jeannie Sharrock wandered through the orchard along the grassy path and stopped abruptly, closing her eyes. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of delicate petals, a hint of sharp apple. There was no one around. The farm didn’t come alive for another hour; the sun had barely risen. Jeannie loved this time of day, this time of year, a pink-blush sunrise in late April, crammed with hope and promise. She leaned against the bark of a tree, not caring that the tops of her boots were wet and stuck with zigzag blades of grass. The blossom above bunched in small clusters, delicate white flowers like tiny open palms, dots of pink and yellow at the centre. The bees would be here soon, busily fizzing and hovering around the blossoms, a steady happy hum before whirling away on transparent wings.
Thin dawn sunlight filtered through branches, warming Jeannie’s face. It was good to be alone in the orchard with the blossom drooping overhead, petals light as crêpe paper. There was something in the scent of fresh apple blossom that reminded Jeannie of new life. A bloom tumbled down light as a sigh, brushing Jeannie’s cheek, and she understood immediately why she felt so happy. An apple-fresh, zingy year began every April with the blossom and ended with pruning back the trees in January. Then there was just the quiet reflecting about life and solitude, sitting by the leaping firelight in the dark winter evenings until the creamy flowers bloomed again.
Jeannie pushed her hands into the pockets of her anorak and headed back towards the farmhouse, her feet squelching damp grass. She’d go into the kitchen, set the kettle on the range and start breakfast. Then the noise would begin, a bubbling eruption of activity that would shatter her quiet thoughts: the grandchildren rushing downstairs, her mother settling in her seat, dictating what she needed from high on the throne. Jeannie sighed. The precious moments in the orchard helped her to stay sane, to feel calm. Besides, it was her farm – she had run the business for the last fifty years. She’d had help from a half-interested husband for a while, and Barney Knowles was the best farm manager in the world. Ivan and Stuart, the men who worked the land on tractors, picked the apples, brewed and bottled the cider, and Aurora ran the shop and café. In the summer, she’d have help from her grandchildren, the twins. It was a comfortable family business, everyone was happy. She wasn’t doing a bad job.
Jeannie stepped into the boot room, tugging off damp wellingtons plastered with wet grass, padding in socks that hugged the bottoms of her jeans. The kitchen was warm as ever, the old Aga belting out dry, comforting heat. She went through the same mechanical moves that she repeated every day: filling a kettle, slicing bread for toast, reaching for cereal boxes and milk, lifting the iron skillet for the eggs.
Then she glanced up at the small woman who hovered in the corner. Whenever she saw her mother watching her, Jeannie was filled with a mixture of affection and anticipation, always for the same reasons. Affection because her mother, despite her ninety-five years, was feisty and stubborn; she refused to give way to the ailments that plagued her, high blood pressure, arthritis. Affection, because her mother was warm, funny, kindly, and fiercely loyal. And anticipation because, any moment now, the jokes would start.
‘Good morning, Mum.’ Jeannie passed a hand though the white fringe that hung over her eyes as she bent over the frying eggs. ‘Tea? An egg on toast?’
‘Did you hear about the egg that wasn’t sure if God existed?’ Violet asked chirpily. ‘He was egg-nostic.’
Violet’s jokes came from boredom, an active mind and a sense of mischief. She had little else to occupy her now, and the jokes were said to provoke a reaction. She shuffled forwards, a furtive, mischievous elf edging along steadily, as if concealing a magic wand behind her back. She had that cunning expression she often used when she was about to launch a small bombshell. She said, ‘You’re looking peaky today, Jeannie.’
Jeannie poured tea into a china cup. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘When are you getting your hair cut?’
‘I thought I’d grow it,’ Jeannie countered with a grin.
‘Grow your hair? You’re seventy-three years old. You should have it short and sensible.’
‘Seventy-two, and I’m sensible enough.’ Jeannie patted the coils fastened to her head with a clip, teasing back the strands.
‘Oh, my aching bones… my legs twinge something terrible.’ Violet eased herself into a chair and reached for the cup. Jeannie noticed her fingers shook with the effort of lifting it. She took a sip. ‘It’s hot.’
‘Just drink it carefully, Mum,’ Jeannie said anxiously.
Violet smiled mischievously. ‘Why do Marxists drink herbal tea? Because proper tea is theft…’
Jeannie rolled her eyes. Her mother had a joke for every occasion. Violet leaned back and closed her eyes, the lids paper thin, networked with light blue veins. ‘I wonder if the good Lord will take me off this year. It’s about time He laid me to rest alongside dear Stanley.’
‘You’re good for a few years yet,’ Jeannie soothed.
‘Stanley was a wonderful man,’ Violet observed. ‘He liked his cider a bit too much, but your father was a wise businessman. I thought the cider farm would go to the wall when he passed on, but you’ve made it your own. You’ve done very well considering…’
Jeannie knew that a compliment usually meant that the opposite would follow immediately afterwards. Violet pursed her lips: here it came. ‘I told you it wouldn’t last when you married Peter Yarcombe. He had a roving eye, that one. Not that he was much to look at himself, mind.’
‘Pete’s in the past. I’m a Sharrock again and that’s how it’s staying,’ Jeannie said, placing a plate in front of Violet. A neat egg sat in the middle of a piece of buttered toast.
‘Oh, I can’t eat all that, Jeannie.’ Violet lifted her knife and fork and tucked in. ‘Yes, Peter’s living it up in Spain, and so is your son now – Wesley’s no better than his father, leaving those kids here with you.’
Jeannie shook her head. ‘Pete retired with Gail. I was glad to see them go. It was different with Wes – he and Sheila went there to start a business. The twins wanted to stay here because of school – I agreed they could, until they’ve finished their A levels.’
Violet huffed. ‘You’re saddled with the pair of them until then. And why are they still at school? I mean, at least Ella is bright, she’s got a brain, she’s sensible. But Caleb? Why on earth would a seventeen-year-old boy want to study drama ?’
‘He’s very talented.’
Violet cleared her plate. ‘And why photography? He should take some pictures of rosy cider apples for your new website, whatever a website is.’ She gazed up as Jeannie lifted her plate. ‘Nice egg, that, Jeannie. Not too runny. I always said you cook a good egg.’
Jeannie was tempted to kiss her mum’s cheek, soft, crumpled with furrows. Instead, she said, ‘Do you want another piece of toast?’
‘Oh, yes, I have to have more toast, Jeannie. I’m lack-toast-intolerant.’ Violet sniggered.
‘One piece or two?’
‘None at all.’ Violet opened her e