Page 54 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
It’s sunny but still cold and the frost has barely thawed as we leave the farmhouse and the dogs settle in the porch.
‘Careful, Dad,’ I say, as we walk across the yard, carrying the cawl I made last night after dispatching them all to bed and the freshly made bread.
‘Yes, yes, no need for fuss,’ he says, but I can tell he’s somewhat tentative on his feet.
Movement from the field where I put the sheep this morning catches my eye. It’s the sheep, the ewes, running and swinging and swirling like a murmuration of swifts, baaing loudly, calling to each other. They seem to be running from something. And then I see it.
‘It’s her! That woman again, and her dogs! They’re in the field! With the ewes!’ I point and shout. ‘Hey!’
‘Ah, our new neighbour,’ says Dad. His face darkens. ‘Deborah something or other. Staying here, renting and working from home for the month; normally lives in her other home in Cardiff. Works for an upmarket estate agents there apparently.’
‘I’ll go, Dad. You wait here. Oi!’ I shout, but she’s too far away to hear me. I set off across the yard. ‘Oi!’ I shout again, surprising myself at the volume. It’s not something I’d usually be shouting. Everything is done by email and in meetings, calm and organized. But I’m furious, just reacting to the moment. It’s not planned, or measured.
‘Hey! Get your dogs on a lead!’ I yell, and point. But she’s either not listening or ignoring me, just marching through the field. The dogs are running amok. ‘It’s not a playground for your pets!’ I shout. ‘Get your dogs!’
I won’t reach her in time, so I do the only thing I can do and film her as I shout again for her to put her dogs on the lead and run down the drive. But I don’t make it to her. She’s gone and finally the dogs follow her.
I’m puce with rage. How dare she let the dogs scare the ewes like that? This is the farm’s livelihood. It’s Dad’s income, and possibly mine if I stay on. I can’t think what to do. Except this!
I lift up my phone. I start to tell anyone who will listen about the dogs that have just cavorted through the flock and the complete disregard of the owner, hoping I’ve got some signal down here, closer to the road and Gramps’s field. ‘These animals are the farm’s livelihood. They do not deserve to be treated like playthings for pets.’ I’m ranting but I’m so angry. ‘Keep your dogs on a lead if you can’t control them, or if there’s livestock around,’ I finish, push my phone back into my pocket and stomp back to the Land Rover.
Dad is sitting in the front with the cawl and the freshly baked bread. I’m trying to shake off my frustration as I study the flock, settling down now. I can smell the cawl and the bread, and I’m thinking about cheese. Cheese with the cawl and bread would go well. Could we make sheep’s-milk cheese once the ewes start to lamb? I push the thought away. By the time lambing comes round either we’ll have sold out to solar panels or I’ll be looking for a job somewhere.
I nearly said ‘a proper job’ to myself. Isn’t this what I’ve been banging on about on social media, that this is one of the hardest, most proper jobs there is? People need to understand that if farmers can’t make a living, there’s no food to put on their tables or ours. Those turkeys and sprouts have to come from somewhere! And preferably not thousands of miles away when we can produce it all here, on our own land.
I get into the driver’s seat of the Land Rover and slam the door.
No one says a word.
I take a deep breath, put the key into the ignition and turn it on.
The Land Rover’s engine attempts to turn over but doesn’t start.
I squeeze the accelerator. ‘Rrr, rr, r …’ It dies.
‘Damn it!’ I slap the steering wheel. ‘It’s no use, it won’t go.’ I smell petrol fumes and know I’ve flooded the engine.
‘We need to get the cawl delivered somehow,’ Dad says. ‘We can’t let them down. Twm Bach will be wanting his lunch. He doesn’t see anyone if he doesn’t go to the café. And we can’t leave Mae there on her own.’
‘What about a cab?’ says Llew, pulling out his phone.
‘Unlikely. There’s only the one and they won’t come up the drive,’ says Dad.
I look around the yard and an idea springs into my mind. ‘Hang on, wait there.’
‘As long as you’re not going to suggest the quad bike.’ Dad chuckles.
I jump out of the Land Rover, my knees jarring on the frozen ground, hurry back into the house and open the drawer of keys on the old wooden dresser. Then I run back into the yard to the old cattle lorry. Iopen the stiff door and climb into it. In the old days when Dad was going to market, I’d be travelling in the passenger seat, and when I was older I got my licence and drove it myself.
I put the key into the ignition.
‘Come on, old girl,’ I say, patting the dashboard as I turn the key. Slowly, the lorry lumbers into life, like a big old farm cat woken from a long sleep. Grumpy, slow, creaking at the joints, but stretching out with every forward motion.
‘Yes!’ I shout, and punch the air. I climb down from the cab and wave Dad and Llew over, all of us smiling like we’ve won on the scratch cards. It may be a little triumph to some, but it’s made everything possible. And small triumphs add up, I think. I can’t remember when I last felt like this. When did I punch the air with sheer joy in my last job? When was I last so excited, scared, anxious, happy? This life may be hard, but it’s very real. I prop my phone on the dashboard and shut the door.
‘We made it!’ I high-five Llew, then Dad, the three of us grinning like Cheshire cats as we chug down the high street towards the café and see the queue already forming there.
‘Yay!’ Dad cheers with me, as I pull up in front of the café, where I see Twm Bach standing first in line. I yank on the handbrake with a crunch.
