Page 65 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘I’ll have to heat the curry too,’ I reply, wrapping my hands around the cooling pot.
Outside people are getting impatient, standing in the wind and rain. The generator noisily does its best to keep up with the portable stove we’ve got there, and the lights and speakers for the music.
I lift my phone to tell people we’re here, what’s on the menu, and that Myfanwy is taking orders for Welsh cakes and sourdough.
‘It’s not like it is on social media,’ I hear someone in the queue say. And I listen. ‘They don’t seem nearly as friendly.’
‘I heard their portions aren’t as big as they make out,’ says another.
‘I heard there’s a big chain behind them and it’s all a publicity stunt.’
I’m about to go out and tell them that’s rubbish, that we’re just trying to do what we can to make a living and keep local business and farming going, when there’s abang.
With that, the generator gives up and everything switches off with an exhausted sigh.
‘Excuse me, are you in charge here?’
‘Yes? Me and my friend,’ I say, looking out into the windswept cattle market at the bottom of the ramp to see a familiar and unwelcome face.
‘I’m Deborah Atkins, from the estate agents who are selling this site.’ She’s the dog-walker from the cottage at the end of the farm drive.
‘I know you,’ I say. ‘You’re the woman staying in the cottage near Hollybush Farm.’
‘God, the place with the vicious ram and horse!’
‘He’s not vicious, and she’s a pony.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m the owner’s daughter. And you’re the woman with the out-of-control dogs you walk in our fields, terrorizing the flock.’
She sniffs. ‘I’m afraid I have to shut down this little hobby of yours. The owners have asked if you could move your lorry. They have an interested buyer for the site and I’ve been sent to arrange for the locks to be changed on the gate.’
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‘That’s it, then,’ says Mae, as we push up the ramp of the lorry and close the doors for the last time.
I’m feeling wretched, but what had I expected? It was never going to be a long-term solution. I just got carried away, with more and more likes on social media, getting the word out there. ‘Looks like it,’ I reply.
‘I’m sorry I got a bit tetchy in there,’ says Mae.
‘Don’t worry. Me too,’ I say, but neither of us has our heart in the apology. I’m cold, tired, deflated and beaten by a woman who seems determined to destroy everything that matters to me. Deborah bloody Atkins. But no matter how angry I’m feeling, I’m sad that this is the end. I have no idea what else I can do. I’m shivering.
‘Will you be okay?’ I ask Mae.
She looks down at the washing basket of unsoldjacket potatoes. ‘Looks like we’ll be having jacket potatoes for a few days.’ She tries to smile. But we don’t laugh like we’d usually do.
‘Yes,’ I reply, feeling I’ve let her down.
We fall into silence and then she asks, ‘Any news from Llew?’
‘He said he won’t call. It’s up to us if we want to call him to sell the land. What about you and the Coffi Poeth man? I thought you were getting on.’
‘Until I stamped on his foot!’
And finally we laugh.
‘Not my finest hour.’
