Page 1 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
1
November: six weeks until Christmas
‘They look as if they want to eat me!’
They sound like a pack of hungry wolves demanding to be fed. I can see that, if you don’t know the farm dogs and how friendly they really are, you could be mistaken for thinking they’re after your blood.
I turn to Matthew and smile. Despite the rain hammering against the windscreen, it feels so familiar and I’m happy to be here. I place a reassuring hand on his knee. ‘They’re just pleased to see us.’ I engage the handbrake on Matthew’s new electric car – he’s finally let me drive it so we can share the couple of hours’ journey from our Cardiff base to west Wales on the dark evening. I took over when we left the main road to do the last few miles along narrow lanes stretchingfrom the coast over windswept common land on the mountain, then lush green fields and eventually the small town where I grew up. We’re making for my family’s farm on its outskirts.
Matthew looks out of the windscreen through the rivulets of rain and the smooth swish of the windscreen wipers, distinctly unsure. I find it quite endearing: I haven’t seen him like this before, out of his comfort zone. In the corporate world he and I work seamlessly together. He manages a hotel in the Catref Group, and I’m the area manager, overseeing all our hotels in the east of the principality. We know what we’re doing, what the other is thinking. We’ve worked alongside each other for two years now, understanding the hotel brand, its emphasis on luxury and fine dining.
Now I know him well enough to understand why he wanted to make this trip to meet my father. It’s his first time here, even though I come home every November for an early Christmas before I get mad busy in work. I’m hoping this Christmas is going to put Matthew’s and my relationship on the next level. We’ve made all the right moves. We’ve climbed the career ladder, even had a conversation about pension plans and retiring somewhere hot, but that’s a little way in the future. But itisin the plans. We may not have much time off at Christmas, what with the influx of hotel guests and seasonal gala dinners, butMatthew has asked to meet my father for a particular reason. I’ve always been very independent, but there’s something touching about Matthew’s idea to ask Dad for my hand in marriage this weekend.
‘Just open the gate. I promise they won’t hurt you,’ I say, looking down at his clean, polished brogues. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I can go.’ I know these puddles so well.
My hand is on the door when he reaches over and smiles tightly. ‘No, no, it’s fine, Jem. I can do it. Got to get used to this if I’m going to be with a farmer’s daughter.’
Sweet, I think. It’s not that I forget I’m a farmer’s daughter, but I’ve been in hospitality for so many years that farming is a long way in the past. A past I left behind when I moved away, and especially since I met Matthew on the company team-bonding weekend. We eat and sleep work. Pillow talk is often about how the rotas are looking, a new chef in the kitchen or plans for the following year’s summer bookings. Yet when I’m back here, like now, I feel like I’ve been away no time at all.
‘Okay. Just watch out for the puddle by the gatepost.’ I point. ‘It’s deeper than you think.’
I see him swallow as he opens the door tentatively. He pushes and the wind sweeps in, the rain rushing to meet him through the crack. I glance at his feet again. When I said bring suitable shoes I didn’t expect him to be in his best brogues.
‘They don’t look pleased to see us, if you ask me.’ Matthew has one hand on the passenger door, but isn’t making a move to get out and open the gate.
I look at the three dogs barking furiously. The ever-feisty, energetic Jack Russell, named after Dolly Parton, Dad’s favourite singer; Dad’s older hardworking collie Ffion; and the younger pup I haven’t even met. Dixie or … I can’t remember what he said. He was the last in Ffion’s litter. I look at the pup, leaping at the gate.
‘I can’t believe I haven’t met him yet!’ It’s been a whole year since I was home. It’s not for want of trying, but Dad keeps insisting that I get on with life where I am. Enjoy myself while I can. Life has been so busy since I got the promotion, travelling to each of the different hotels, overseeing their activities, staffing and service. But now, there’s another promotion on the horizon, and the possibility of a move abroad for Matthew and me. I can’t wait to introduce Matthew to Dad. I’m bubbling over with excitement, like a twenty-year-old not the forty-year-old I am, and hoping that this Christmas Matthew wants to make things more permanent. Why else would he have suggested the trip when work is so busy for both of us? We’re about to start preparing for our big annual events at Christmas and a trip to the States straight afterwards. New year, new adventures.
I look towards the farmhouse at the top of thedrive. I know Dad will have a pot of cawl on the go for when we arrive. It was always a favourite when I was growing up. He had to step up to be Mum and Dad after Mum went off to live her ‘best life’ in Mallorca with a man she’d met on a girls’ holiday, getting away from the winter grey of the farm. Since she left, it’s been just me and Dad, with Gramps and Nan, until they died. In Mallorca Mum had set up a B-and-B. I’ve been there, but it didn’t feel like home. The farmhouse, especially the kitchen, was always home. Then Mum moved on to Australia, got a job as an air stewardess. We stay in touch, birthdays and Christmases. She has a new husband, and a much-cherished child with him. She has a new life without me or Dad in it. I hated the thought of Dad being on his own at the farm, but he insisted I shouldn’t stay. He didn’t want me to feel trapped, as my mum obviously had.
The sign over the farm gate is swinging in the wind. Older and creakier than I remember. How can it have weathered so much in the time I’ve been away? I peer at the familiar fields around me in the dark afternoon. I know every dip, curve and run on them, every tree on the skyline, bending in the wind. And I’m right back to being a child, coming home from school into the warm kitchen where there was a pot of tea on the table. Dad would stride in from the yard in his boots and overalls and try to hug me, making me squeal with delight. I’d dump my bag and tellhim about my day, then head out into the yard with him to help feed the animals. Despite Mum leaving, this was always my happy place.
I look again at the cream sign with black writing: Fferm llwyn Celyn, Hollybush Farm. It has always been there, and Dad has always given it an annual spruce. Maybe he’ll still do it before Christmas. He liked to push the boat out for Christmas, when it was the four of us, and even when it was just him and me. Christmas always felt special at Hollybush Farm, with carols in the church and the Christmas fair in town. Other farmers would drop in, making the effort to be with each other and not on their own in their farmhouses. I’m surprised Dad’s not outside to greet us, wearing a Santa hat or maybe just one from the eclectic mix that has accumulated over the years by the back door.
The dogs seem particularly worked up. I push my door open and step out into the rain. ‘I’ll go,’ I say, dodging the deep puddle, which is definitely wider than it used to be, and put out my hands to the dogs. ‘Hey, come on, settle down,’ I say, as Dad would. But they keep up their noisy greeting, barking loudly. I hear the sign squeak on its hinges as I step forward to the gate, feeling the rain on my face. After a long drive with the heating on, it’s cold, but refreshing and familiar. I’d forgotten how wet dark afternoons could feel on the farm.
When I was a teenager, Dad couldn’t wait to encourage me out into the world, to see what was there. Hospitality was a great way to enjoy the lights and fun of city life. He wanted me to live away from the farm. He didn’t want me to resent it, like Mum had. She’d found a way out with bar work and followed her dream of living in the sun. But right now, as I breathe in the cold, wet air, it feels good to be home. Even if a few jobs around the place have been missed. I’ll need to speak to Owen, Dad’s assistant. If Dad’s paying him to help, these things should be done, I muse, with a flash of irritation. I’m not having him take advantage of Dad, being paid and not putting in the work. He’s always relied on his cheeky smile and sparkling eyes to get him whatever he wants in life. I push open the gate, which promptly falls off its hinges to a cacophony of dogs barking even louder.
2
‘Dad?’ I shout, getting out of the car, which I’ve parked in the yard, next to his old Land Rover.
The dogs don’t give up their incessant barking, circling me, despite my best efforts at being strict. Matthew hasn’t even got out of the car yet.
‘Dad! We’re here!’ I call again, hauling my well-travelled case from the back seat, and the bag of Christmas presents. A new jumper and socks. ‘What’s Christmas without new socks?’ he would always say, when I asked him what he wanted. I’ve brought festive food and drink for him too, to enjoy after we’ve gone.
Usually he’d be standing on the front-door step, in the open-sided wooden porch, under the lantern light, his smile as wide as his open arms, waiting to hug me. I may be all grown-up now, but I still wantmy hug. The sort of hug that tells you, whatever is going on in your life, it’s all going to be okay.
‘Dad? Where are you? We’re here!’ I call into the rain that’s sliding sideways across the front of the farmhouse, exposed but with a clear view over the fields below and the stock. There isn’t even a light on outside. Or in the kitchen. Don’t tell me he’s forgotten what time we’re due and nipped into town. I say, ‘nipped’: it’s down the drive, then the twisty lane, which holidaymakers attempt to drive along as a shortcut when they’re towing caravans and boats, and onto the main road that finally leads to town. But the Land Rover is there, so he must be too.
‘Dad?’ I hurry towards the front door, which is part-open, as it often is, the dogs coming in and out. ‘We’re here!’ I call, carrying my case and the festive treats for Dad. A bottle of his favourite Welsh whisky, a tin of shortbread, some local cheese, a bottle of red from our suppliers, some posh dog treats for the gang, who are still running around barking like they’re possessed, and a jar of spicy, pickled onions with a real kick. They’re made just down the road and I stopped off to buy them, as I always do when I come home.
‘Matthew, grab your case and the onions and bring them in,’ I call over the rain. ‘And the wine from the boot. This way!’ I point towards the door and run on ahead.
In the kitchen, it’s cold. Despite the front doorbeing open it’s usually warm in here. The range is always on. I look around. No sign of dinner waiting. No cawl on the go – he’ll make a batch that lasts him for days. It’s that or fried eggs on toast when the hens are laying. I frown. I touch the range as I pass it on the way to put my bags down. It’s stone cold.
Ffion is running to and from the living room barking, as if she’s telling Dad I’m here … or, and I go cold, even colder than I was, telling me that Dad is there.
