No Going Back by ALEX GUTTERIDGE

earliest memories was clutching his work-roughened hand as he led me out to the orchard to feed the chickens. I was probably only about two and a half but I can still remember his strength and the way he clasped me to him, as if I was the most precious thing in his whole world.
    First of all we would go to the old dairy where the grain was kept in a big metal drum. Grandad would lift me onto a wooden stool so that I could reach and then, holding me firmly around the middle, he would flip open the lid and pass me a little metal bowl to plunge into the silky grain. The corn was like a cascade of golden pearls running over my chubby babyish fingers. I loved that feeling. Sometimes I would plunge my hand straight into the barrel, grabbing a handful of the cool grain and listening to the plinking sound it made as it fell like hailstones into mine orGrandad’s bowl.
    The chickens always came running and squawking towards us the second they heard Grandad lift the latch on the orchard gate. We would toss the corn high into the air and laugh as the hens pecked at the ground as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks.
    While they were feeding we would collect the eggs. I had a special little basket, woven from willow and lined with flowery fabric by Aunt Jane. Liberty had one too. When we got older, Liberty and I were allowed to go on our own to collect the eggs. She knew of all the secret places where the hens laid. Speckle, the little grey bantam, liked to play hide and seek with her eggs. Underneath the raised shed where Gran kept her bike was one of her favourite places. Speckle had scratched out a deep hollow in the dry, dusty ground and we had to stretch our arms as far as they would go so that we could reach those eggs.
    If one of the hens got broody and wouldn’t move, you had to scoop your hand right underneath them. I was always a bit afraid of getting pecked but Liberty was fearless. She’d laugh at my nervousness and then drop the warm egg, maybe with a downy feather ortwo attached, into my outstretched palm. I loved the smoothness of the pale brown shells, the way the egg nestled in my cupped hand and the feeling of gentle heat against my skin.
    Life seemed less complicated then. I still loved feeding the chickens and watching them excavate their funny bunker-type holes in the grass so that they could have a dust bath. But sometimes I felt a bit sorry for them, especially when they flew up into the apple trees, perching uneasily on the lower, gnarled branches. They couldn’t get any higher than that. I wondered if they looked up at the other birds soaring high in the sky and felt envious. If I’m honest, I felt envious of Liberty because she could have had all the time in the world with Grandad, if she’d wanted to.
    â€œDid you and Grandad get on okay?” I asked Dad as I removed the dead flowers from the front of the headstone and replaced them with the fresh ones.
    Dad was pacing up and down. “Your grandad got on with everyone,” he said.
    â€œAll the same,” I persisted, walking to thecorner of the church where there was an outside tap, “considering Gran really, really didn’t like you…”
    â€œYour grandad always saw the best in people.”
    â€œWell I don’t suppose there was any ‘worst’ to see, was there?” I joked.
    â€œWe’ve all got a dark side, Laura. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.” Suddenly he sounded deadly serious.
    I let the tap run, the icy water gushing all over my bare toes. I winced.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I looked at him. He didn’t look back. Instead he kept his head down and feet moving, studying the tarmac path.
    â€œI mean that people aren’t always who you think they are.”
    He was talking in riddles and I didn’t like it.
    â€œWhat are you trying to say?”
    There was a silence, both of us standing there with this great chasm between us. He looked up,