Page 39 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Yes. I’m going to take some more cawl and some of Myfanwy’s Welsh cakes. I’ve made sourdough too. I don’t think it’s come out too badly – hers is better, of course.’
‘I can come!’ he says, pushing the blanket off his legs.
‘Evie wouldn’t approve of that.’ I adjust the blanket. ‘You still need to rest.’
‘But I’ve been sitting here for bloomin’ ages! It’s been nearly two weeks! How do people do it? Just sit and watch TV all day?’
‘It’s not for much longer,’ I say, without knowing how much longer, but I do know I must keep him safe and well. He’s all I have, apart from Matthew and work. And suddenly I’m thinking about a different life, a million miles away from this one. A life I used to live. I’m not sure I want to go back to it.
I put the key into the Land Rover and it seems to take even longer than usual to start. ‘Come on, come on!’ I cajole the vehicle.
I have the pot of cawl on the front seat, with the seatbelt around it.
The engine growls but doesn’t ignite.
‘Woof!’ Ffion barks.
Dad is standing outside, dressed and wearing a pink hat he’s clearly just picked off the hooks. It could be an old one of mine or even Nan’s, with a bow at the front. He’s wearing a big coat, which he used to fill but which now hangs from his shoulders.
I push open the Land Rover’s stiff door. ‘Dad? What are you doing out here?’ I call over the wind and the rain that is freckling my face.
I jump out and run across the yard to him, coat flapping.
‘Coming with you,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘I told you. I can’t just sit around any more. It’s not good for me or my mental health. I saw it on one of those morning TV programmes. You have to keep physicallyand mentally active. I’m going mad with boredom just sitting in the farmhouse. I could do with a bowl of cawl and some company.’
‘You can’t! The café isn’t open. Remember, I told you!’
‘I know. I may have had sepsis, but I’m not going doo-lally. You’ve taken over the café. And if there’s a sit-in going on, the one thing I can do is sit.’ He gives a wonky but familiar smile.
‘Dad, you’re—’
‘Ill? Or sick? Sick of worrying about what I’m going to do with this place? Sick of thinking about solar bloody panels? Or how I’m going to pay for the next oil delivery and feed bill?’
I drop my head.
‘I’m not stupid, Jem, I really am out of options. I don’t know how to make the farm pay any more.’
‘Does that mean we’re going to have to sell Gramps’s field?’
‘I can’t see any other option. I may be a bit creaky in the joints, but my mind is still going. Still whirring. It’ll be good to take it elsewhere for a little while. Be good to see some people. Conjure up a bit of mischief!’
I can’t help but smile: the Dad I know and love is back. ‘Come on, then. But you have to promise to sit and not do anything taxing. Apart from carry the cawl on your lap.’
‘Promise!’ He grins.
I take his arm and steady him to the Land Rover, open the passenger door and help him in, then lay a blanket over his legs. He tells me to stop fussing but lets me do it anyway.
I pull the seatbelt over him and place the pot of cawl on his lap. It’s warm – it’ll be like a hot-water bottle.
‘Right, come on, old girl.’ I pat the Land Rover’s steering wheel, take a deep breath and turn the key again. I press the accelerator and she roars into life.
‘Stay there, Ffion! Guard the house – especially against solar-panel salesmen,’ I instruct the dog, standing in the covered porch. She lies down with Dewi next to her, not minding the wind or rain. She has a job to do.
As I manoeuvre the Land Rover out of the drive, the rain eases and, on the horizon, the other side of the valley, the sun makes an appearance, reminding me of the beautiful days I spent here on the farm growing up. When I imagine it covered with solar panels, my teeth grind, like the gears of the Land Rover.
We bump down the drive to the gates. I get out to open them, drive through, then shut them firmly to keep Bertie and Harriet where they’re supposed to be.
‘Um, talking of Bertie. He got out.’
