Page 22 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘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 saysomething 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 hispatch. 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 windowwith 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 theion 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 outthe 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.’
