Page 25 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘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?
‘That was great,’ I say to Mae.
Evie is finishing hers too. She pulls out a bag with knitting in it and starts to knit with great big wooden needles.
‘Something special?’ I ask.
‘No, not really. I just like how it makes me feel. It takes my mind off things. When I need to be in the moment and not worry about what’s been or what’s to come.’
I nod. ‘That sounds like a very good place to be. Well,’ I say, as I stand and pull on my coat, ‘I’ll see you again soon.’
‘I’ll be up tomorrow to check on your dad. He’s a great character. He was exhausted and still trying to tell me a joke. How many eggs does a French person eat for breakfast?’ She grins.
‘Oh, I know! One, because one egg is anoeuf!’ I say, and we giggle at the silliness of it. ‘That’s one of his favourites. He must be on the mend!’
I push in my chair and make for the till, where I pay up and pop something in the tips box for Mae, hoping it will help and that she didn’t notice me do it. I know how important those tips can be and the difference they can make to staff. Not just in the pocket but how they feel about themselves too.
I turn to leave and see Owen coming in through the glass door. Outside, his battered old truck is parked behind the Land Rover, his dog on the front seat looking out of the open window.
‘Hi, Owen,’ I say. ‘Look, about when I came for you …’
He holds up a hand. ‘Forget it. How’s your dad?’
‘Home. Tired. But home.’
‘Good.’
There’s a bark from the truck outside and we glance at his chestnut and white collie.
‘What’s her name?’ I ask.
‘Jess. She’s from the same litter as your dad’s Ffion. They’re sisters.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘Glad he’s home and doing okay,’ he says.
‘He needs to take it easy. He still thinks he can take on the world, well, the farm, single-handed. He needs to understand he can’t.’
‘Usual, Owen?’ Mae says, from behind the counter.
‘Please!’ he says. ‘And can you put it on my tab? I’ll be able to pay it off really soon.’
‘Sure,’ she says, and smiles kindly.
