**Fermented with Love**
The bus smelled of petrol and damp wool as it rattled down the narrow country lane, fields streaked with the first hints of autumn gold flickering past the window. Emma sat with her chin propped on her hand, rubber boots tapping restlessly against the floor. In her bag were two tins of coffee—a gift for Auntie Val—but her mind wandered far beyond simple hospitality. *Why am I even doing this?* she wondered. *To pickle cabbage? Or just to escape London, where every day is the same—work, the Tube, an empty flat?* She wasn’t sure. But something pulled at her, a quiet magnetism drawing her back to the village where Granny had once taught her to weave daisy chains, where summer evenings smelled of warm milk and hay.
The journey was long, the road dusty. When the bus finally shuddered to a stop beside a weather-beaten sign reading *Rose Hill*, Emma stepped out into the crisp air and smiled. It was just as she remembered—the distant bark of a dog, the creak of the old well, the sweet tang of windfalls underfoot. She adjusted her backpack and set off toward Auntie Val’s cottage.
As expected, Val was in the garden, a bright headscarf knotted under her chin, a bucket dangling from one hand.
«Oh, you’re here!» Val’s voice rang out as she straightened from the vegetable patch, her wind-chapped face breaking into a grin. «Well, don’t just stand there—come in! I thought you’d changed your mind.»
Emma nodded, pushing open the squeaking gate. The cottage was old, its timber darkened with age, but warm, as if hugging her the moment she stepped inside. The kitchen smelled of dried herbs and something else—something nostalgic she couldn’t name. On the table lay piles of cabbage, pale and round as baby’s heads, alongside knives, bowls, and a wooden shredder straight out of a museum.
«Starting already?» Emma asked, shedding her jacket.
«Why wait?» Val bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. «Plenty to do while the sun’s out.»
Within half an hour, they were settled on a bench in the garden, Emma slicing cabbage, Val salting it, layering in carrot and pepper. The air was sharp with the clean tang of greens. The only sounds were the distant lowing of cows and the occasional creak of a cart. Emma worked in silence, her thoughts drifting—to childhood, to Granny’s pies, to stormy nights when the wind howled but indoors was safe and warm.
«Em, you remember Tom, don’t you?» Val asked suddenly, not looking up.
«How could I forget?» Emma huffed a laugh. «Absolute menace. Dipped my plait in ink in Year Five.»
«Ah, well. That was years ago,» Val said with a chuckle. «He’s different now. Built his own place, keeps a fine garden. Proper catch, he is. Still single.»
Emma raised a brow but said nothing. Val carried on, «Said he’d help when you came. Brought the barrel this morning while you were dozing on the bus.»
«Good for him,» Emma shrugged. «One less job for us.»
She didn’t think much of it. Tom was just… Tom. She was only here for a week, after all. But something odd happened after she arrived. The village wrapped around her like an old friend, whispering, *Stay.* Emma brushed the thought away, but it kept returning—like bees to honey.
The next day, Val left for the shops, leaving Emma alone in the garden. The rhythm of slicing settled into her bones, her hands moving on their own. She watched the pale ribbons of cabbage fall into the barrel and remembered Granny’s voice: *Take your time, love. Cabbage likes kindness.*
«Alright there?»
Emma startled, nearly nicking her finger. She turned—Tom. Tall, in a worn-out jacket, his blue eyes sharp as if he saw right through her. A bucket dangled from his hand.
«Didn’t mean to scare you,» he said, setting it down.
«Didn’t scare me,» she lied, setting aside the knife. «Just thinking.»
He stepped closer, peering into the barrel. «You’ve a steady hand. Done this before?»
«Every autumn with Auntie Val,» she said, cheeks warming under his gaze.
«Need a hand?»
«You could pass me a head. My fingers are numb.»
He did, then perched beside her on the bench. Emma caught the scent of him—woodsmoke, earth, something warm.
«You smell nice,» he said, eyes on her hands. «Sweet. Like apples or lavender soap.»
Emma ducked her head. «Probably the soap.»
«Suits you,» he said simply.
Her face burned.
«Since when are you so… polite?» she teased.
Tom grinned, looking away. «Always was. Just… acted the fool. Liked you back then. That’s why I tormented you.»
Emma stilled. Her heart thumped louder than she’d have liked. She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Neither did he. They sat by the barrel, quiet as if everything had slotted into place.
When Val returned, Tom was gone, the bucket left by the step.
«Well?» Val eyed her shrewdly. «He talk to you?»
«A bit,» Emma muttered.
«And?»
«That’s it.»
Val cackled. «Oh, it’s only the beginning.»
By the third morning, the sky hung low and grey. Emma plaited her hair, pulled on Val’s old dressing gown, and went out to the garden. Another barrel, another mountain of cabbage. She worked, but her thoughts tumbled—her empty London flat, her joyless job, Tom’s words: *Liked you back then.*
He appeared an hour later, a jar in hand.
«For you,» he said. «From my own hives.»
Emma took the honey, watching the gold swirl. «Cheers. What’s it for?»
«Dunno. Just… thought you’d like it.»
She smiled, set it aside. «Stay for tea?»
«Only for a minute. Sheep need moving.»
They drank from chipped mugs, talking of nothing—weather, Val’s feud with the neighbour’s rooster. Emma laughed, lighter than she’d been in years. At one point, she slipped inside for a towel. In the hallway, she spotted her apron—the one she’d worn all day—hung neatly by the door. She reached for it, then froze.
Tom stood on the step, her apron in his hands. He pressed it to his face, inhaled, and murmured, «Wish I had a lass like her.»
Emma’s breath hitched. She stepped out, and he startled like a boy caught stealing jam.
«You heard that?»
«Aye,» she whispered.
«I—well—forget I said it.»
Emma studied him—his broad shoulders, his rough hands clutching the apron. «Maybe I don’t want to.»
He looked up. His eyes held a warmth that melted something inside her. Slowly, he reached for her hand.
«Could I come by tomorrow? Just to help. Or…»
Emma nodded. «Come.»
By week’s end, the cabbage was tucked into barrels, salted and spiced for winter. Emma sat on the step, watching the sun sink behind the trees. A week ago, she’d been counting the days until London. Now… now the thought of leaving ached.
Val settled beside her. «So, Em. Packing up?»
Emma twisted her sleeve. «Not sure, Auntie. It’s… nice here.»
Val smiled. «Nice is when your heart’s where it belongs. And yours, seems to me, is staying put.»
The next day, the village buzzed. Neighbours clustered by the well, whispering, *Have you heard? That London lass—saw her walking hand in hand with Tom! Came for a week, looks like she’s staying.* Emma overheard and grinned. Let them talk.
That evening, Tom came again—no buckets, no gifts. They strolled through the lanes, speaking of the past, of how he’d built his house, how she missed Granny’s baking. When he took her hand, she didn’t pull away.
Who’d have thought a heart could be lost over cabbage, spice, and a shared apron? But it happened. And the village, once just a memory, became home—true, warm, and hers.