This is my entry for the blogfeast blogfest hosted by Angela - to see the full list of entries go here and look for the list at bottom of Angela's post.
This snippet has been snatched from one of my novels.
Sue couldn’t believe she’d just done that; driven up to the crossroads and instead of driving straight over she’d turned right. Now, here she was at Home Farm, the place of her happy childhood.
She dashed inside the old farmhouse, called out a hello and received a reply from her mother, as always in the kitchen. Sweet essence of apple drifted on the ether, and before she entered that oh so familiar room she more or less expected to see flour dusted hands, her mother in the process of rolling pastry.
Her mother glanced up, smiled, and with back of wrist brushed a wayward strand of hair from her brow, indeed exactly as visualised beforehand.
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ her comment.
Sue sensed inner scrutiny, her mother’s expression implying she might know more than she was letting on. She was right, for her mother averted her gaze and flipped the edge of the pastry over the rolling pin and began lifting it from the table.
‘Is there something you’re wanting to tell me?’ she said, quiet matter of fact yet hint of secondary smile, ‘only you look as though bursting with good news, and itching to tell someone. Is it your dad, you want?’
‘What makes you think I came here to reveal something?’ quizzed Sue, as diced apple covered with brown sugar disappeared beneath a cloak of pastry.
Sue was stunned, thinking she’d kept her secret so well. ‘How long have you known?
‘Ooooh, at least five months.’
‘Actually it’s six.’
Her mother suddenly stopped finger pressing the pastry edge, her imprints already halfway around the pie dish. ‘So you were . . . Oh my goodness . . .’
‘Yes, shockingly pregnant at the altar.’
‘Not the first time that’s happened in the family, and I doubt it’ll be the last,’ proclaimed her mother.
Her mother’s attention suddenly re-directed to the pastry and flush to her cheeks, Sue sensed this a confessional. ‘You mean, I . . .?’
‘Yes, and your grandmother before that.’
‘Well, and I thought I might be letting the side down, hence my keeping it a secret.’
Her mother picked up a knife and began trimming excess edging from the pastry case. ‘And Andy, did he know? Is he pleased?’
‘He’s ecstatic,’ she replied, as her mother hefted the pie dish to the AGA.
Then, with floured hands and all, her mother came round the table. ‘I’ve been knitting baby clothes, and your dad said I might be jumping the gun,’ confessed her mother, a tear tracking down her cheek. ‘But I knew, just knew.’’
‘What will dad say, do you think?’
‘I can’t begin to tell you how pleased he’ll be. He’s already got a little pair of Wellington boots tucked away. Teeny-weeny ones. So cute.’
Sue burst into tears, and her mother as always hugged her close.