Christmas at Hollybush Farm, page 17
I put my fork into the potato, with golden crunchy bits, and a sprinkling of cheese, then dive into the meat.
‘It’s just like your nan’s,’ says Dad. ‘You didn’t need to follow a recipe, just remember what you loved about it. How it made you feel. That’s all we can do in life, isn’t it? Follow our instincts. Go with what’s in our hearts.’
I couldn’t agree more. The rich gravy sits with the sweet carrots and caramelized onions and clings to the buttery mash. It’s just how I remember it in this kitchen when my grandparents were still here.
‘This is …’
‘Fantastic,’ finishes Llew.
‘Blooming marvellous,’ says Dad. ‘Just like we used to have.’
We sit and eat in silence, enjoying the comfort of the food and the here and now in the soft light over the table.
When we finish, I look at our empty plates.
‘So? Do we think people would like it? Would they buy it? Mamgu’s shepherd’s pie?’
‘Absolutely!’ they chorus, and I have another dish to take to the lorry tomorrow.
‘Any news on your car?’ I ask Llew, as we’re washing up, then wishing I hadn’t: once his car is done, his time here will be up too. I berate myself and wish I hadn’t said anything. ‘Not that I’m pushing you out!’
‘Sure?’ He laughs, and the room feels warm, safe and very cosy.
‘The body parts firm is still waiting for something to come in. But, seriously, if I’m in the way …’
‘Not at all,’ say Dad and I simultaneously.
‘It’s been lovely having you here,’ says Dad, and I don’t need to tell Llew that I feel the same. With no other thoughts about what we’re going to do in the new year to save the farm, it’s lovely to be right here, right now.
The next morning, the weather has taken a turn for the worse. There’s a cold, icy wind. Llew meets me again in the kitchen, handing me tea in a mug.
‘I thought you’d have run a mile by now,’ I say. ‘I mean, you’re the smart country businessman who never gets his boots dirty. Aren’t you desperate to get home?’ I take the hot tea and sip.
‘Maybe I’m beginning to like it around here.’ Then he introduces the elephant in the room. ‘Besides, I still have business, remember?’
I don’t want to talk about it. I want things to stay just like this, without having to think about the blooming solar panels. ‘Not on my watch!’ I turn away from him to the coat rack.
‘Jem,’ he says gently, ‘I know I said I wouldn’t say anything, and I’m not talking as Llew from Solar Panels now. I’m talking as your friend, I hope. Just … you know you can’t put it off for ever, don’t you? Your dad needs to do something to stay on the farm. And this way you can still graze the sheep around the solar panels.’
I throw my head back. ‘I know. I just wish it wasn’t like this.’
‘I’m sorry. I promised not to discuss it. But I will try to get the best deal I can for him. But you two need to decide by the end of the month. My office has been on the phone, reminding me that you’ve got until the end of December to sign the contract.’
I look around the kitchen, so cosy with the lights on. If only there was another way of making a living. Of making the farm pay properly. The pop-up is bringing in a bit of money. Mae insists we share anything we make, but it’s not enough to turn down the solar panels. I wish it was.
I nod. ‘I know. It needs to be done.’
At the cattle market, we park in the same place as we did yesterday. Mae is waiting for us. She’s made twice the amount of jacket potatoes.
‘Bore da! Morning,’ she says. She’s wearing a pair of flashing Christmas earrings.
‘Morning, Mae!’
I wish I could feel cheerier, but I’m still thinking about Llew and the solar panels. I slide out of the driver’s cab followed by Llew, who takes a tray of shepherd’s pies from me, our fingers just touching and sending a bolt of electricity around me.
I stop and stare at him. ‘What am I doing here, Llew? Why am I here in a cattle lorry selling homemade shepherd’s pies? I’m just putting off the inevitable, avoiding what really needs to be done, burying my head in shepherd’s pie and cawl so I don’t have to face the facts. Maybe’ – I take a deep breath – ‘I should talk to Dad, and we’ll just sign the paperwork. Agree to the solar panels. Get it over and done with. I mean, me selling this from the lorry … it’s not going to make enough money, is it, to turn down the solar panels?’
‘No, but you want people to understand where the food is coming from. Not from the mega-farms in America. Because it matters. Farmers should be able to make a living from what they produce.’
We hold each other’s gaze.
‘Or maybe I should fall on my sword, tell my bosses it was a moment of madness, and beg them to reconsider and take me back on in some role. At least I could try to raise a loan then, buy us more time, for Dad to stay on the farm.’
‘Is that what you want? Just to buy time? Or are you trying to make a difference here? To do something you believe in?’
I nod slowly.
‘Well, then, you’ve already got me questioning what I’m doing. Why I’m buying up land for solar panels, or to use as building plots, looking at other options for farmland. But you’ve taught me that’s not what we should be doing. We should be looking at how farmers can make a living. Teaching people to know where food comes from, how to cook, how to eat better.’
‘But when? After Christmas, in the new year? When everyone goes back to how they were? When Coffi Poeth opens? What then?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
‘Me neither,’ I say, but I like having him around and I don’t want this to end. I know it has to. When his car is ready, he’ll be going back to wherever his home is. And the only memory of his time here will be row upon row of solar panels. If only I could tell him how I feel. But with Matthew only just becoming a thing of the past, that would be totally foolish.
27
As we pull down the ramp and start to set up, the queue is already massive.
‘Looks like we’re in for a busy time,’ I say to Mae, and we get to it, setting out the food we’ve brought with us, and letting people know where we are on social media.
We’re cramped behind the table as we lay out the food we’ve brought with us. In no time at all, jacket potatoes and shepherd’s pies are flying out of the lorry.
‘I need to reach over you,’ Mae says, grabbing some napkins. As she does, a load of them fly up into the air and whip away on the wind, landing in a puddle. The light snow has been replaced by rain, and the mood is a little more sombre.
The rain pours down on the roof, melting the remnants of the snow that was there yesterday, drowning the Christmas tunes as we work around each other to serve as many people as possible and get home to the warm and dry. Myfanwy and Dad are squashed together, handing out her Welsh cakes from a corner and taking more orders that Dad writes down. It’s pretty packed in here.
Outside, I hear a bark and a shout.
‘Hey!’
I look out of the lorry. A woman is holding two Labradors pulling at their leads and straining to get at Jess. She’s cowering from the dogs and the woman.
‘That dog should be on a lead!’ she snaps. ‘I could report you for unsettling my dogs.’
Evie stands up from where she’s sitting in the lorry, talking to a couple more of the farmers there, and offering to check their blood pressure. She sees the woman.
‘I mean it! That dog needs to be on a lead!’ I recognize her as the dog-walker in Dad’s field and plan to have a word with her. But Evie reaches forward before Owen has time to answer. She fishes her newly finished scarf from her knitting bag and ties it around Jess’s neck.
‘She is now!’ says Evie, defiantly.
Owen turns to her and I see the spark land between them, taking them and me by surprise. I watch them smile, which makes me smile too. There is hope everywhere, I think.
‘Excuse me, are you selling those?’ asks another woman. ‘I’d love a scarf for my dog for Christmas.’
‘Er, no, but I could,’ replies Evie.
‘You could bring more down, sell them here,’ says Owen, smiling at her.
I turn back to the queue. We’re nearing its end now. A woman seems to be hanging back. ‘We’ve still got a little left,’ I call to her, and beckon her forward. She walks up the ramp, into the brightly lit, festive lorry. ‘Hi, what can I get you? We’ve got a final shepherd’s pie. Mae? Jacket potatoes?’
‘Just with butter and cheese now,’ says Mae, clearing away around me.
‘Actually, I just wanted to …’ The woman swallows ‘… I wanted to speak to you.’
Her tone is serious.
‘Look, if it’s about us parking here, we didn’t think it would be a problem … I know we should probably have applied for a licence. If you tell us what we need to do …’
‘No, no,’ she says, waving a gloved hand at me, cutting me off, and I can see she’s plucking up courage to say something. ‘It’s not that. It’s your social-media posts,’ she says.
‘Oh. I know the company weren’t happy and I know they said they’d withdraw the offer of a new job if I did another. And I agreed to that and left. I’m not with them any more. I didn’t think they’d send someone down. But I’m not reconsidering. I realized my dad needed me. And he still does. And … if I’m honest, I need to be here. Seattle was me running away, trying to prove I could get to the top of the ladder. Probably to my mum, proving to her I was someone and she shouldn’t have abandoned me. But anyway …’ I’m waffling, as if someone has turned on a tap that has been tightly closed for years and now won’t stop flowing. I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t need to prove myself any more. I need to be me. I’m happy here. Not working for a big company. I was running away, trying to find my happy place, when it was here all along. I’d lost sight of what was important, where food came from, and how hard farmers are working. Big companies should be supporting them, not just chasing profit and getting food for the lowest price.’
‘I agree,’ she says.
‘You agree?’ I’m confused. ‘I thought you’d come here to tell me to take down my posts. Or persuade me back … Are you a journalist?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know anything about your company. Or any of that. I’m certainly not a journalist.’ She pauses, as if gathering her thoughts. ‘I just want to tell you to keep doing what you’re doing. My name is Janet. I follow you on social media.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘So does my son. He’s been working on a farm. He’s had a … hard time. It’s been a tough year for all of us. But your posts have helped him, sharing what daily life is like on the farm, how you have to adapt, learn, try to find your way, and letting other farmers know they’re not alone. You’ve created a community, a supportive one. I just wanted to say thank you.’
I’m stopped in my tracks. There are tears in her eyes.
‘You made him understand he wasn’t on his own.’ She lets out a little hiccup, trying to keep the tears back.
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say, so I step out from behind the table and hug the woman. ‘Is he okay?’ I ask, letting her go.
She nods and sniffs, and Evie hands her a tissue. ‘He’s going to get some help too, find someone to talk to about his dark thoughts.’
‘I can recommend some places,’ says Evie, gently, standing beside us, her hand on the woman’s back, the three of us in a triangle.
She wipes her tears. ‘That would be kind. Thank you.’
We’ve done something good here, I think. And it suddenly feels worthwhile.
‘Thank you again, for what you’re doing,’ she says.
I hug her once more and wish her well. ‘We need to be there for each other,’ I say. ‘We’re stronger together.’
‘We are,’ she says. ‘You’re doing something valuable.’
‘Looks like we’ll be back here tomorrow,’ I say to Mae.
‘We will!’ says Mae, and I look at Llew.
He turns away from his phone. He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s my car. The garage. It’s ready. They’re looking for me,’ he says, staring at me, just as his car comes into the cattle market, delivered back to him: the scars from the crash and the time we’ve spent together might never have happened.
I can’t step away from where I am now, beside the woman who has taken so much strength from connecting with us on social media. I look up at Llew. I can’t tell him how I feel. That I want him to stay. Or can I?
I wonder what he’s feeling right now. But I can’t just walk away from this conversation. I raise a hand and wish him well. He raises his, and with that, awkwardly, he turns to leave.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I call after him. And I mean it.
I just wish he was spending Christmas here with me.
28
Over the next two weeks, the wind picks up even more, biting at my extremities, and the temperature drops, freezing me to the bone. It seems to be punishing me for imagining I could stick this out on my own. It’s freezing in the field every morning when I move the ewes, feed and count them. Afterwards Dad and I drive to the cattle market. It’s bitter, and my mood is darker by the day.
Each day, about mid-morning, we set up the lorry and turn on the fairy lights. My mood isn’t helped by WhatsApp messages from Matthew, telling me he’s been offered the Seattle job, my job, to take up the area manager post there, instead of just hotel manager. It’s a step up, overseeing the hotel and others they hope to acquire. He hopes I don’t mind. He’s moving seamlessly into the post I created, with the frameworks I put in place, filling the gap I left behind, like a footprint in the mud that is filled with water and no longer there at all. I had tried to make my mark, only for it to be erased and filled in by someone I thought I’d have as my wingman. Turns out he was more interested in taking the pilot’s position. He didn’t want me, the real me, just the potential I could give him, the life he wanted. Well, he got it, and I gave him the leg up to get him there.
But it’s not Matthew on my mind. It’s Llew Griffiths. I’m wondering if he’s mulling over his time on the farm or if his comfy office is where he wants to be. He’s been gone for ten days with no contact, keeping to his word that he wouldn’t contact me about the solar panels but would let me and Dad make our own decision.
Despite the weather, the queue outside the lorry is growing. A line of people is holding up cameras, photographing us and posting. Then three things happen.
Mae and I can barely move around each other. She has more dishes of fillings and I’ve doubled up on shepherd’s pies and made a hogget curry, which Nan used to make, and brought that with me, thinking it could work with the jacket potatoes.
‘It’s no good, you’ll have to move up a bit!’ she says, as we juggle everything on the table at the back of the lorry, with us behind it. ‘I’m going to need more space.’
‘I can’t,’ I reply tetchily. ‘I need that space there too.’
Our tempers are fraying.
The wind whips up and into the lorry, and the atmosphere feels as frosty as the bite from the icy air outside. It doesn’t stop there. As the wind whooshes, the lorry even starts to sway.
‘Let’s just get going,’ I say to Mae, keen for the lunchtime rush to be over and to get back to the farmhouse. The wind is making everything hard, including keeping the food warm.
‘I need the generator so that I can warm up the beans on the hotplate,’ says Mae.
‘I’ll have to heat the curry too,’ I reply, wrapping my hands around the cooling pot.
Outside people are getting impatient, standing in the wind and rain. The generator noisily does its best to keep up with the portable stove we’ve got there, and the lights and speakers for the music.
I lift my phone to tell people we’re here, what’s on the menu, and that Myfanwy is taking orders for Welsh cakes and sourdough.
‘It’s not like it is on social media,’ I hear someone in the queue say. And I listen. ‘They don’t seem nearly as friendly.’
‘I heard their portions aren’t as big as they make out,’ says another.
‘I heard there’s a big chain behind them and it’s all a publicity stunt.’
I’m about to go out and tell them that’s rubbish, that we’re just trying to do what we can to make a living and keep local business and farming going, when there’s a bang.
With that, the generator gives up and everything switches off with an exhausted sigh.
‘Excuse me, are you in charge here?’
‘Yes? Me and my friend,’ I say, looking out into the windswept cattle market at the bottom of the ramp to see a familiar and unwelcome face.
‘I’m Deborah Atkins, from the estate agents who are selling this site.’ She’s the dog-walker from the cottage at the end of the farm drive.
‘I know you,’ I say. ‘You’re the woman staying in the cottage near Hollybush Farm.’
‘God, the place with the vicious ram and horse!’
‘He’s not vicious, and she’s a pony.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m the owner’s daughter. And you’re the woman with the out-of-control dogs you walk in our fields, terrorizing the flock.’
She sniffs. ‘I’m afraid I have to shut down this little hobby of yours. The owners have asked if you could move your lorry. They have an interested buyer for the site and I’ve been sent to arrange for the locks to be changed on the gate.’
29
‘That’s it, then,’ says Mae, as we push up the ramp of the lorry and close the doors for the last time.
I’m feeling wretched, but what had I expected? It was never going to be a long-term solution. I just got carried away, with more and more likes on social media, getting the word out there. ‘Looks like it,’ I reply.
‘I’m sorry I got a bit tetchy in there,’ says Mae.
