Page 7 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Pretty much.’
‘No telly?’
‘Oh, yes, we had telly! Colour too!’ I laugh. ‘It wasn’t the land that time forgot. But we were outside most of the time. I’d be helping Dad with the sheep, or with the dogs.’
‘And you didn’t miss other things? Cinemas, bars, shops?’
I smile. ‘Not back then, no.’
I gaze into the fire, remembering when here was the only place I wanted to be. Safe, with Dad and the animals. Until life moved on … I moved on. ‘It’s what Dad always wanted me to do, see the world.’ I smile at the memories. ‘He didn’t want me to end up resenting this place, like Mum had done. Feelingtrapped here. For him this place was everything but he knew it wasn’t for everyone. This was my grandparents’ place before it was my parents’,’ I explain, and start to tell him how things were before we had heating and electricity. What Christmas was like when the new range cooker was put in. I turn, beaming at the memory, but Matthew’s head is on my shoulder, his eyes shut, fast asleep. Like I say, this place isn’t for everyone, but it’ll always be home to me.
5
The next morning, Sunday, when I wake up in my old bedroom in the big brass bed with the thick eiderdown, it’s still freezing. Under the covers, it’s warm as toast, but beyond the warmth of my bed, I can feel the cold nipping at the tip of my nose, making it itch. I remember these mornings only too well. Sometimes there would be ice on the inside of the glass. Today it’s just cold and dark.
I steel myself, push back the covers quickly and dive straight to my case, pulling on as many layers as I can. Matthew seems to have gone to bed in all his clothes, including a smart grey beanie hat, and is still in them, fast asleep.
I take a look at his sleeping face. Dad may not be here, but I really do want to show Matthew where I grew up and why I love this place so much. Hopefully,after breakfast, I can take him out and introduce him to the land, particularly Gramps’s field. It’s the big one just below the house. That field made Gramps want to come to this farm. The views are amazing, and there is a wooden bench where he would sit to look out over the sheep and feel that all was well. It’s always been a special place. It’s the perfect spot.
Now, though, my head turns to hospitality. Breakfast. The last of the bread, and maybe more eggs.
I consider the café in town. Beti’s. That was the place to go around here. She always did a brilliant breakfast. I remember Dad telling me that Beti had died, but her son had taken it over. I hope it’s still as good as it was.
Downstairs, I’m shivering as I pull on Dad’s coat, my old wellingtons, pink with flowers, that have seen better days, a woollen hat, and a head torch that’s hanging on the hooks. I go to check the flock and deliver hay to them from the back of the old Land Rover, which is as reluctant as I am to get going this morning. The rain is back and relentless. I do a tour of the fields, checking for any fences down in the wind last night, and prop them up as best I can. Others will need new stakes and stock fencing and I’ll tackle them when it’s light. I check the water butts, but they’re running clear, no ice yet.
After I’ve fed the ewes, Bertie the ram, his field mate Harriet, a small Welsh mountain pony, andthe three chickens that Dad still has, I drive back to the farmhouse with the dogs. When I was growing up, Dad had lots of chickens and Dad did an egg round.
In the kitchen, it’s still cold. Not like the early mornings I remember as a child, when I would run downstairs and the range would be on, opening its arms and giving me a great big hug. There’s no fancy coffee machine here, I think, with a smile, remembering the joy of the one Matthew bought me for my last birthday that now sits pride of place in our small apartment at the hotel. I love turning it on in the mornings. Now I stand with my back to the range, wishing it would warm my backside, while waiting for the electric kettle to boil. I watch the clock, wondering what would be a reasonable time to ring the hospital to ask how Dad is. The puppy is chasing Ffion’s tail, playfully tapping at it and biting it but she doesn’t mind or even notice, just looks at me as if waiting for news. His energy is boundless, running in and out of the living room, pulling blankets and cushions onto the floor and tossing them around with carefree abandon.
I stare out of the window overlooking the yard, as it starts to slip from darkness to daylight, wondering what today will bring. Wondering if Dad has had a good night, if and how he’s going to recover from this … and where to start trying to help while I’mhere. The fallen gate, the swinging sign, checking the flock. And what happens to Dad when I leave? I look down at the puppy playing. How’s Dad going to cope with all of this when he needs to take it easy and recover? I decide to go and keep an eye out for the oil tanker. I slip into my boots, pull on Dad’s jacket and a woolly hat from the hooks beside the back door. There’s always an odd selection there. I’ve no idea which belongs to whom, but I pull one over my ears, grab the head torch and go to open the door.
There’s a knock and the dogs jump up, barking. I’m hoping it’s the oil delivery.
‘Hi!’ I say, looking at a man in an expensive countryside coat, thick gloves and polished yard boots. He’s fully prepared for the weather by the look of it.
‘Hi,’ he says, raising a hand, and smiling. It’s actually an alarmingly good-looking smile.
‘Er, the tank’s over there. You know it, right?’ I point at the oil tank. He glances over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, I’ll show you,’ I say, glad of the distraction right now.
‘Er, actually, I came to see how Edwin is. Are you his daughter? Jemima?’
That stops me in my tracks. I’ve no idea who he is.
‘Oh, he’s …’ I look at the clock. It’s nine. ‘I’m about to phone the hospital.’ I note the lack of signalon my phone – it’ll have to be the land line. Then I look back at the stranger. ‘Sorry, who are you?’
‘I’m Llew. Llewelyn Griffiths. Your dad and I are talking through some options … for the farm.’
I stare at him blankly. ‘With an oil delivery?’ I look around for the delivery truck.
‘Sorry, no. Erm … Just came to see how he was.’
The dogs give a bark but quickly settle and sniff around his feet, around his clean but well-worn ridgeback ankle boots. Clearly a man used to being outdoors, just not working in it.
‘Oh, no news yet, but I can give you my number if that helps.’
‘Sure.’ He pulls out his phone and types as I say my name and reel off my number. And then, as he’s confirming the details, he says, ‘Actually, sorry, but did you know that your ram is out?’ He points over his shoulder.
I frown. ‘The ram?’
