Page 73 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘I’m sure they will, love. You’ve done so well, telling everyone about it.’
I open the computer. ‘A quick look at the GoFundMe page before we go.’ It’s become something of an obsession, watching the figures mount up and reading the good-luck messages, saying what a good ideait is and how more communities should do it. ‘Loads of people have got behind the idea!’ I smile.
‘It’s great, love. Really proud of you.’ And Dad drops a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Following your heart is always the best option,’ he says. ‘That and remembering there’s always hope.’
‘You could remember that too,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Myfanwy.’ I grin. ‘Maybe you should tell her … you like her.’
I wait for him to say something jokey, to tell me they’re too old for that kind of thing, but he doesn’t. Instead he pats my shoulder and turns away. ‘Maybe I should. Or maybe she’ll just laugh at me and I’ll be making a complete fool of myself, thinking I could have another chance at finding someone.’
At the cattle market, Deborah Atkins is looking as if someone has stolen her Christmas turkey. Neither of her dogs is in sight.
‘Just make sure you’re out of here by midnight,’ she says. ‘It’s a one-off.’
‘Thank you for the opportunity,’ I say politely.
‘I didn’t have much choice. Just have your party and I can close the deal on this place in the new year.’
‘But you agreed to give us first refusal,’ I say firmly, slipping into business mode.
‘Yes,’ she says, as she rolls her eyes. ‘But I reallycan’t see that happening, can you? A few hot dogs and Welsh cakes? You’ll have to sell an awful lot of cups of tea and jacket potatoes to raise the money to secure this place.’
‘We are,’ I agree, with a smile. ‘And I think that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
She sniffs. ‘I have friends coming for Christmas, so I need to get off.’
‘You not joining us, then, Deborah?’ I ask, with my best difficult-customer hospitality smile. The sort they can’t help but respond to although underneath it says, ‘I want to throttle you!’
‘No. It’s really not my thing,’ she says.
‘I thought I saw you last time we were here. My mistake.’
‘We have a hamper from Harrods,’ she says quickly. ‘Brought it with us. I like to know where my food comes from.’
And that, I think, is an argument for another day. Today, Christmas Eve, is about celebrating those who are here and want to be a part of this, with home-reared food, and spend time with friends, neighbours and family. We’ve done it. We’re here, and it feels great.
The market is already a hive of activity. Owen is guiding the trucks into position, creating a horseshoe shape. ‘Saved your space for you!’ he calls up to me, in the cab of the lorry, and directs me to where we pitched before.
‘Wouldn’t it be great, Owen, if we could make this work and get the lease?’
He chuckles. ‘You’d need a site manager I’m thinking.’
‘We certainly would! Know anyone?’
‘I think I do …’ He beams, and it’s lovely to see the old Owen back, with those dancing eyes. Evie might have something to do with that.
I park and go to the back of the lorry to drop the ramp down.
‘Hi, are you, Jem?’ I hear, just as I’m lowering it. I turn to see a woman with a bicycle, but not just any old bicycle. ‘The Social Shepherdess? I recognized you from your post the other day.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am.’
‘I’ve been following you on social media. You’re great. I’m Beca and these are my boys. We live over the mountain at Ty Mawr. We have agelatobusiness. Milk from our cows.’
‘I know yourgelato! And I remember your grandparents’ ice-cream parlour. It’s great to have you.’
