Page 4 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
I pull out my credit card and pay the bill, which makes my eyes water. ‘And you’ll have a delivery here as soon as possible?’ I say. ‘Dad’s in hospital. I need to get the house warm for him coming home.’
‘Sorry to hear that. We’ll get it there tomorrow. Your dad’s a good customer. No idea why he didn’t order before he ran out. He knows we’d cut him some slack on the payment,’ says Alun the oil man.
‘Like I say, it must’ve … slipped his mind. He has sepsis,’ I say. ‘Sorry about that. Anddiolch, thank you,’ I say, slipping into Welsh without thinking about it, unable to imagine Dad needing to have any slack cut. His finances were always well organized.
I hang up, then go through my phone and find Owen’s number. I ring it, but it goes to voicemail. I look around the cold farmhouse kitchen. I open the cupboards. There are eggs from the hens, I’m guessing, which are clearly still laying. Some bread, that is past its best and will need toasting.
‘Looks like it’s eggs on toast,’ I say to Matthew, whois shivering. ‘And red wine and cheese.’ I reach for the treats I’ve brought with us for Dad. ‘How’s the fire coming on?’
Matthew grimaces. ‘Not so good,’ he says. ‘I’m not a real-fires man. More used to the fake ones at the hotel.’
I put down the eggs and bread, and head into the living room to get the little fire blazing in next to no time. I sit back on my haunches and smile, staring into the flames. Everything about sitting here like this says I’m home.
I turn back to Matthew, who doesn’t look as pleased as I am to have the fire blazing and looks frozen. ‘Let’s get some jumpers and blankets. The oil will be here tomorrow and it’ll be much cosier after that.’
He nods, turning a shade of designer blue to match his blazer.
‘Now, how do you like your scrambled eggs?’ I ask. ‘I can microwave them or microwave them.’
He looks at me as if I’ve gone mad.
‘It’ll be fun, I promise. But first we need to head for the pub. I need to find Owen and ask him what’s been going on around here. Or not. I should be able to track him down, find out where he’s living now, if we ask behind the bar.’
4
Stepping into the pub is like stepping back to my youth. The wave of warmth from the fire, stoked up and burning brightly, greets us. The Shepherd’s Rest was always the hub of the town, especially when there was something to celebrate – Halloween, Bonfire Night, and Christmas Eve after carols in the little church.
Although it all looks the same, something’s missing. I look around. People.
‘Gosh, it’s quiet,’ I say to Matthew.
He shrugs. ‘It’s the industry all over. People aren’t going out like they used to. You know that better than anyone. You have to pull them in. That’s why your gala nights and weekday getaway specials are so good. You give people a reason to want to come to the hotels. Make it an affordable treat, while offering something a little extra.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘But the margins are still slim. We have to make savings wherever we can.’
‘And that’s why you’re so good at your job. Buy in bulk for the lowest price. Running the same menus in all the hotels at the same time means you’re making it work when the small businesses can’t.’
I look around the quiet pub. ‘It’s hard out there right now. Unless you’re a big company like us, it’s pretty brutal for independents. But that’s enough shop talk. This weekend was supposed to be a break from work.’
‘You’ll never be able to stop talking shop.’ He grins. ‘You live and breathe it. It’s one of the things I love about you, your commitment to the job. And that you’re so good at it.’
Right now, I need to be committed to sorting out Dad and finding Owen. Unless I give Owen a piece of my mind and get him to pull his weight at the farm, I won’t be able to go back to work with peace of mind … and I need to be able to do that, with the busiest time of the year coming up. I want to know that Dad has all the help he needs.
‘Jemima,’ says a small man, sitting at the bar, using my full name, reminding me that I’m home again, with half a pint cradled in his gnarled hands. ‘I heard about your dad.’ It’s Twm Bach. He was always a little man, hence his name – twm means ‘small’ in English – fit as a fiddle. Now he’s much smaller and not lookingas fit as usual. His family had a big dairy farm once upon a time, but none of the children wanted to take it on, so it was sold, Dad told me. ‘My grandson Pedr works at the hospital. Said he’d been taken in. How is he?’
‘He’s okay,’ I say, feeling a sense of relief as I say it and slightly tearful at the same time. ‘I mean, he’s been better but he’s in the right place. It’s sepsis. Probably from a cut in the palm of his hand. Hoping to bring him home soon.’ I attempt to smile again, like I would to reassure hotel guests that there’s nothing that can’t be sorted, but with all sorts of worries at the back of my mind about how he’ll be when he comes home. Will he be able to manage the stairs? Make his own food? Should I look at getting someone in to look after him? I guess I won’t know anything until he’s home.
‘Sepsis. Can be nasty if they don’t catch it early enough! Give him my best. Haven’t seen him in a while. None of us seems to get out like we used to,’ says Twm Bach. ‘Years ago, we’d have been meeting up on one another’s farms. Nowadays we only see each other at funerals, it seems like.’
‘Actually I’m looking for Owen,’ I say to Twm. ‘Owen Rhys.’
‘I know who you mean.’ He scoffs. ‘You two used to be inseparable! Back to look him up, are you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. This is my partner.’ Iintroduce Matthew, standing beside me at the bar. ‘But I need to find Owen.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Matthew, holding out a hand for Twm to shake, which Twm does, warily, without returning the sentiment. ‘Yes, I’m the lucky fella,’ he tries to joke to Twm, who still gives nothing back, like a tennis ball hitting a wet blanket and falling to the floor.
Twm turns back to me. ‘I’ll give him a text message,’ he says. ‘Tell him there’s a pint waiting for him. Although he may not get it. His phone’s been cut off for a while.’
