Christmas at Hollybush Farm, page 7
‘No, but it will help your dad to stay here for longer.’
‘By selling off parcels to you to ease the consciences of big business!’ And I’m not sure where this fury is bubbling up from. Suddenly I feel like battle lines have been drawn. He’s on one side and I’m on the other.
‘Well, yes, the likes of you and your bosses. Flying around the world, sourcing products for price more than provenance!’ he retorts. ‘We’re all here to try to make a living.’
Touché! I feel like I’ve been slapped.
The words sting. He’s right. I’m as bad as the people wanting to buy up the land and put their solar panels on it. I turn away and look into the fire.
‘I’ll get my things. Let me know if you want to talk.’
I say nothing. Then, in disbelief, I turn back to him and say again, ‘You want to buy Gramps’s field.’
‘Yes. Your dad, Edwin, was saying the farm was becoming too much for him. We’ve made an offer to buy the land.’
‘And put solar panels on it.’
‘That’s right. Renewable energy.’
‘But not for the town!’
‘Er, no. The power doesn’t supply the local area.’
‘So you sell it elsewhere?’
‘Yup,’ he says, sipping the tea.
‘And why?’
‘Well, certain businesses want to help the planet. Much like the one you work for, I imagine.’
Suddenly I feel as if I’ve got a foot in each camp and am being torn.
‘But that field is full of sheep. Fields should be covered by crops or livestock to support the local area!’ I say, realizing where my priorities really lie and that I and the company I work for are part of the problem, part of what’s happened to the town I left behind. ‘We should be supporting local workers, keeping them in jobs.’ Suddenly I’m getting worked up, thinking about Owen, Dad unable to pay his bills and the farm being turned into fields of solar panels that won’t make energy cheaper for the local people. ‘I’m not sure what Dad told you, or agreed to, but he won’t be selling Gramps’s field to you or anyone else right now. Not while I’m here to help on the farm.’
‘Have a chat when he’s feeling better. I can come back,’ he says, clearly feeling the frosty atmosphere between us.
‘Please don’t bother. We’re not selling!’
He lets out a long sigh. ‘You have my number.’ He points to the letter. ‘Call me when your dad is feeling better.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ I say, as he pulls on his coat and makes for the door. He looks as if he’s going to say something else, but doesn’t. Selling Gramps’s field is not going to happen. Not while I’m here. And I’m going to have to stay to make sure it doesn’t. I can’t leave any time soon.
He strides upstairs and, head spinning, I grab Dad’s keys to the Land Rover and pray it’ll start but I have no idea where I’m going. Just somewhere to clear my head.
12
Solar panel installation. The words repeat in my head, like an earworm. Like the big business you work for. I turn on the radio but it just hisses and I switch it off again. I want Llew Griffiths to be gone by the time I get back. How could I have been so foolish, talking to him, even feeling there was some kind of connection, when I have a partner to go back to? What was I thinking? I let myself be taken in by that charmer. Or am I just cross that the work I do makes me part of the problem, buying cheaper and selling wider, to all the hotels?
I think about what the letter said. It offered Dad a sum of money, for Gramps’s field, for solar panel installation, offsetting the carbon footprint of Llew’s client, who is doing their bit to give back to the planet.
Could Dad really be thinking about selling Gramps’s field? For solar panels?
I’m desperate to ask him about it, but I have to wait until he’s less exhausted.
I stick the Land Rover key into the ignition. The engine turns over but doesn’t start immediately. Finally it shudders into life. I push it into gear and drive, wanting to get away from the farm for a while. Clear my head. He wants to buy Gramps’s field, cover it with solar panels. But the money would be good for Dad and he could get Owen back to work on the farm. But solar panels? There must be another way. So this was what Dad wanted to talk about.
I head down the drive, checking on the sheep again and that Bertie is still in his own field, where he should be. I negotiate the gate and drive over the river. Llew Griffiths’s car is still there, its bonnet buckled. I swing around it. So that’s what he was doing here: trying to get Dad to seal the deal. What if I hadn’t been here? Would Dad have just signed without telling me? Sold off the field?
I drive away from town and over the mountain. Wild ponies are grazing on the common land, together as a family group, keeping close, as if showing there is safety in numbers. The stallion stands tall and proud, his long mane lifting in the wind, nostrils large as he lets out a loud neigh: he’s here, with his family, and he’s not going anywhere, protecting his patch. Around here they’re a part of the landscape, along with the sheep. Unlike bloody solar panels!
I watch him as I drive past and I think he may be watching me too. They’ve always been here, the mountain ponies. And though many have tried to catch and tame them they have continued to thrive up here, in the hardest of conditions. And I can’t help but think that that’s how I feel. There are people like Llew Griffiths, wanting to change the landscape, the way we live, and someone has to fight for it to stay as it is, recreating the past to give us all a future. If there were fewer coffee bars and fast-food outlets, maybe people would pay a little more for quality produce, food reared well, not just to be cheap. The past is slipping away, given up to newly built roundabouts next to supermarkets, there for ease and convenience. Cheap produce is flown in from abroad. The way things are, farmers will disappear. There has to be a way we can all work together, reducing the carbon footprint and leaving the fields for flocks to graze on and crops to be grown. How could I ever have let myself become a part of this? I’m furious. Furious with Llew Griffiths, but furious with myself for helping to create a situation in which farms are struggling to survive while society has forgotten where food comes from and how to cook it.
I’m over the mountain now, continuing towards the coast and the sea, winding down my window with difficulty and breathing in the cold air, salty and fresh. I pull up and sit for a while to watch the waves by the shingle and sand shore, the seagulls and gannets diving, then start the Land Rover again and head back, away from the second homes and holiday cottages.
As I drive into our little town, up the high street, I know what I want. My stomach is rumbling and I see a parking space outside Beti’s Café and swing into it, with the satisfaction that comes from finding the perfect spot – and that I haven’t forgotten how to park the Land Rover.
I open the creaking door and jump out. As I walk round to the pavement, I remember going to Beti’s after school or on a Saturday. The outside hasn’t changed a bit. Literally. The same paintwork is peeling on the door and window frame. And the i on Beti’s has been missing since I was last here. But if Beti’s hasn’t changed, lots around here has. There are closed-up shops all around it. What were once the butcher’s, the baker’s, the post office, at least two pubs, and a sweet shop on the square have all gone. I sigh. The holidaymakers are at the smarter town down the road, with its bistro bars and waterside restaurants. The younger people drift to the out-of-town places to get Wi-Fi or sit in their cars eating plastic burgers and drinking sweet milky coffee.
I open the back door of the Land Rover, pull out the sack of potatoes and sling it over my shoulder, then head to the café and reach for the door. It opens and I practically fall into the place. I narrowly avoid running into someone coming out. I jump back, as if I’ve been electrocuted.
I clear my throat. ‘Still here?’ is all I can think of saying to Llew Griffiths, holding a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Like I say, sorting out my car. And then I hope I’ll be on my way.’
Suddenly I’m furious. Everything I’ve been thinking about on my drive tumbles out in one waspish statement. ‘Looking for more hard-working farmers to prey on in the meantime!’
The man I’d thought so easy to be with as we walked across the farm was really there to butter me up to seal his deal with Dad.
His face darkens and he frowns. ‘Look, I’m just offering a lifeline for farmers who are struggling.’
‘But not for the people of the area to help them get cheaper fuel or keep their farms going so that we have food in this country.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can see we’re not going to agree on this.’
‘We are not.’ I glare at him.
‘Have a chat with your dad and I’ll be in touch when he’s feeling better.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble. Don’t bother.’
He sighs and takes a deep breath. ‘And thank you for letting me stay last night. Thank you for making me feel … welcome.’
That wrongfoots me, but I manage to stop myself saying, ‘Any time.’
Because, as nice as it was having him to stay, and as well as we got on, now that I know who he is, and what he’s after from the farm, he’s the last person I want to spend time with. I just wish it didn’t make me feel so confused.
I go to sidestep him as he does the same, then back the other way, like we’re doing some kind of formation dance, before we swerve around each other and I dive through the door, hoping for that feeling of familiarity.
Somehow I can’t help turning to watch him walk away and wondering how he’ll get around, or where he’s staying while his car is being sorted. I shake myself. Not my business. I do not need to feel compelled to make sure everyone is well looked after. It’s my job, not something I do with people trying to take over my family home.
My cheeks are flushed. I stand inside Beti’s, and memories flood back. Saturdays in here with Owen, or after the sheep market, with Dad, when it still happened in the town. When he’d sold his lambs and been paid.
The café is practically empty. This used to be the place to go in the town. Nowadays, it seems it has all but gone. Nothing about it has changed. The seventies Formica tables from when Beti revamped the place, the old piano that was Beti’s mother’s still in the corner. The little log-burner. It’s a mix of cosy and kitsch.
‘Hi, I’ll be with you now,’ says the server, younger than me, clearing the table that Llew Griffiths has obviously just vacated in the steamy window.
‘Have a seat by the fire,’ she says mildly. ‘It’s horrid out there. Oh, are they for me?’
‘Erm, if you’re Mae, then yes,’ I say. ‘I’m Jem, Edwin’s daughter. He asked me to deliver them. He’s not been well.’
She looks around as if checking we’re not being watched. ‘I’m Mae, yes,’ she says, and smiles.
‘And this is for Edwin,’ she says, pulling out an envelope from the pocket of her apron. ‘I hope he’s okay. And tell him I said thank you and to get well soon.’
‘I will,’ I say, dropping the potatoes to the floor and putting the envelope into my pocket.
‘Let me get you a cup of tea for your trouble,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’ I sit at the table she’s just wiped, as she takes the potatoes behind the counter, and I pick up the menu from between the ketchup bottle and the condiments.
I look at the familiar wording on Beti’s menu, which is worn around the edges, chewed and abused by children and adults alike over the years. It hasn’t changed. A bit like the décor. It’s a bizarre mix but we always came here. I’m still staring at the menu when Mae comes back to the table. ‘What can I get you? Tea?’ she asks softly, but she’s looking rather fraught. Her phone rings and she pulls it out. She looks at it, sighs and pushes it back into her jeans pocket.
I have no idea what to order. I can see Mae is feeling a little flustered as the phone rings again. She gets it out once more, hangs up again and puts it away.
‘All okay?’ I find myself asking. ‘I can wait if you need to take that. They seem quite insistent.’
She drops her head. ‘Sorry, just school again.’ She sighs. ‘Wanting to know why I haven’t paid for the school photographs.’
‘Ah,’ I say, and then, because I’m not sure what else to say, ‘Expensive, children.’ I try to smile.
She nods and I see her eyes fill with tears. Then she says, ‘You got some?’
I shake my head as a wave of something, regret, longing, I’m not sure which, washes over me. I look down at the menu again. ‘Think I’ll just have tea.’
She sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t blame you. The rubbish this place serves.’ She takes away the grubby menu, making me laugh unexpectedly. She joins in. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Just, y’know, one of those days.’
‘I do know,’ I say, and look around. ‘It used to be great when Beti had it,’ I say.
‘Yeah, and when she died her son took over. It’s all microwave burgers and plastic-wrapped pizzas now.’
‘Shame. So how do you know my dad? How did you two get involved in potato trading?’
She chuckles. ‘Actually, I think you and I used to be at school together. You were older than me.’
‘Were we?’
She nods. ‘You wouldn’t remember me. You were one of the cool kids. You lived up the mountain on the farm … and weren’t you with Owen?’
I laugh. ‘I was, but I wasn’t one of the cool kids.’
‘Oh yes, you were. Living up the mountain. No streetlights up there, scary! And you didn’t care what others thought or said. You did your own thing. Loved life on the farm where you lived. And then, of course, you and Owen were the steady couple.’
‘Ah, yes! They were good times. But it’s quiet on the farm now. Not like back then when Dad had help and I’d have friends back, camping in the summer and bonfires in the winter. I don’t know how people do it now, long days on their own.’
‘We all need a little company,’ she says. ‘Owen still comes in.’
‘That’s good.’ I swallow. I feel bad about laying into him at the pub, the fact he’s out of work and with a small herd to sell or get through the winter.
‘He was good to me in school,’ Mae goes on. ‘He probably doesn’t remember, but he stepped in once, when some of the other kids were giving me a hard time, telling me I was poor and smelt, because I was wearing second-hand clothes. I was in tears and Owen saw them off, telling them they should be ashamed of themselves and that we all looked out for each other around here. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘Sounds like Owen. He’s a good man,’ I say, remembering his kindness, always. He was the one people turned to when they needed a hand.
‘It was such a shame, what happened,’ she says.
‘What did happen?’
‘Oh, it’s … it’s just a tough time out there,’ she says, and then, ‘Bloody moneygrabbers!’ She pulls out her phone and shoves it back into her pocket. ‘How am I supposed to choose between getting a new coat for my kid, because his last one was stolen, and stupid school photos? Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this to you. You’re a customer. I’ll get your tea,’ and then quietly, ‘I could do you a jacket potato, if you like.’
I smile. ‘That’s just what I’d like! How did you know?’
‘It’s how your dad and I got talking. He came in for tea one day. He couldn’t find anything on the menu he wanted and said what he fancied was a jacket potato. I said if he brought in the potatoes I’d make them. And the following day he did. He liked to come in for a bit of company. I take them home for the kids too. Way better than all the processed food in the supermarkets.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, mouth already watering at the thought of a hot, crisp-skinned potato with a steaming, fluffy inside.
‘Butter and cheese?’
‘Perfect!’ I beam.
‘Don’t tell anyone. Just for those who know,’ she says, with a very lovely smile. ‘I put a few on in the oven at home and bring them in with me, put them through the till as the daily special. Beti’s son never asks. But people want something warming and home-cooked. And if it helps keep the place open and me hang on to my job,’ she says, ‘it’s win-win.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I say, ‘and Dad appreciates the money. Every bit counts at the moment.’ I wonder again what happened to Owen and how he’s coping without work.
The door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air. ‘Hi, Mae,’ says the woman, shutting the door quickly.
‘Hi, Evie … Usual?’ Mae says, from behind the counter, which she can barely see over.
‘Please. With tuna.’
‘Ah, you know about the jacket potatoes too,’ I say, recognizing her name. She’s the nurse from the GP practice who called the house, the one planning to visit Dad.
She strips off her long scarf and coat.
‘Why not sit here, by the fire, keep the other tables clean?’ I offer.
‘If you don’t mind.’ Evie is wearing a cardigan over her blue nurse’s uniform. ‘Are you Jem? From Hollybush Farm?’
‘I am. How did you know?’
‘Your dad said you were out delivering potatoes and would have come here. I’ve just been up to see him. Hope it’s okay, I let myself in.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I pull out my phone and see a missed call. ‘I should have been there.’
‘It’s fine. A man was there. Llew Griffiths? He was sorting out something to do with his car at the end of the drive. He pointed me in the right direction. Me and your dad had a lovely chat while I gave him a health check. He’s very proud of you. I stayed and made him a cuppa and took him a Welsh cake. They were delicious.’
I smile. ‘His neighbour makes them. And amazing sourdough bread.’
The fact that Llew Griffiths is still hanging around doesn’t surprise me. I hope the car gets picked up soon and he departs for good. He must have come here after leaving the farm. Maybe he’s gone.
‘Here we go,’ says Mae, putting a jacket potato in front of me. The steam curls upwards and I breathe it in. I pick up my knife and fork. The grated cheese is already melting at the edges. I cut into the soft white flesh creating a yellow pool in the middle as the melting butter oozes into the well I’ve made. I load my fork with fluffy potato, creating strings of cheese from the plate to my lips. It’s a reminder of the connection between field, farmer and fork. Simple, home-cooked food. I breathe in, then bite and let the buttery, salty, cheesy mash melt in my mouth. It’s delicious, like a comforting hug. I eat slowly, enjoying every mouthful. When I’ve finished the potato and drunk the tea, I’m suddenly feeling so much better. There must be something I can do to help the farm. There’s always hope, right?
