Page 23 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
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 theplace 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.’
