Page 35 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Sorry, excuse me,’ I say, pushing my way through.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just how it is. The café has been sold,’ says a young man in a suit and a smart woollen coat, the sort you wear for best or funerals. The sort Matthew wears whenever we go out.
‘It’s been sold. By Beti’s son!’ Mae shouts to me, clearly furious.
The young man in the suit and big woollen coat pulls up his collar, uncomfortable with all the attention on him.
‘By the previous owner’s son, that’s right,’ he says steadily.
‘But I’m owed wages!’ Mae shouts.
‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak to him,’ the young man says.
‘I need that money! I have a coat to buy, a school trip … and what about Christmas?’
I can’t stand by and do nothing. I step forward. ‘Hang on, you can’t just shut it down with no notice.’
He turns to me, shoulders up against the cold. His eyes narrow: he’s clearly seeing me as another complication in his day. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just doing what I was sent here to do. Everyone who works here is on zero-hours contracts.’
‘Because we need the work!’ Mae shouts. ‘I have to make a living!’
For a moment, he’s like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He gives a little cough and pulls himself up taller.
‘And it’s nearly Christmas!’ someone calls from the group.
‘Yeah!’ shouts another.
‘Boo!’
‘Shame on you!’ yells a voice from the back of the crowd. It’s Myfanwy, who’s come out of the hairdresser in her foils, with a towel wrapped around her shoulders, to see what all the fuss is about.
Twm Bach joins her and steps towards Mae, thegroup standing aside to let him through. The chatty group goes quiet. Twm looks at the café window, and then at Mae, shivering in her worn, thin coat. ‘So, it’s not opening today, then,’ he says.
‘Not today,’ says Mae. ‘Sorry, Twm.’ She glares at the man in front of her. ‘There are new owners. They want to redecorate. Put their stamp on the place.’
Twm shakes his head and turns to walk away. I watch him go up the high street, past the closed shops and To Let signs, the scaffolding with the promise of work to be done that never happens, and I wonder where he’ll eat that day.
‘That’s the only café, unless you go to the out-of-town place!’ shouts the young hairdresser, with blue and pink stripes in her hair.
The young man turns to us and holds up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’
Someone else is standing next to me. It’s Llew Griffiths. My hackles rise. ‘I suppose you think it’s the right thing!’
‘No,’ I hear him say. His voice makes my nerve endings stand to attention. ‘We all need to eat. They could have given notice,’ he says, and I soften just a bit.
‘Yes, it’s not fair. Zero hours or not, you should have given notice! It’s no way to treat people,’ I call, and move closer to the door, where I can now read the ‘Closed with Immediate Effect’ notice more clearly.
I stand beside Mae.
‘So, you’ve been sent by the company, have you?’ I say, feeling as if I’m looking at myself in the mirror. Sent in to close down the old place and make it the same as all the others they’ve bought. I’ve been ironing out any individuality from hotels. It’s why they want me to go to the States. I’ll make another for the chain, where the reputation matters but the source of the restaurant’s food doesn’t. I’m suddenly angry that I’ve been a part of this. Destroying lives, businesses and communities so that I could work my way up the hospitality ladder. For what? ‘Going to be another Starbucks or Costa, is it?’
‘Actually, I like Starbucks,’ says one of the schoolgirls.
‘And me,’ says another.
‘Brilliant!’ says a third.
I frown. ‘Not brilliant!’ I say, then turn back to the man, a younger version of me. ‘The older generation won’t come to Starbucks or Costa. Not least because it’s too expensive! And it’s faceless!’ I’m on a roll, with nothing to lose. ‘Mae and her jacket potatoes are holding this community together right now, what’s left of it. Not least my father, who earns a small amount of money from growing the potatoes. Enough to help him keep going with the veg he also produces.’
