Page 14 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
I reach into Dad’s coat pocket, for what I’m expecting to find there, and pull out the packet of Polo mints he always carries. ‘You never know when they might come in handy,’ he would tell me, when I was little. And he was right.
Harriet turns her head towards my outstretched hand and snaffles up the Polo, taking a feisty nip at my fingers.
‘Ouch!’
I pull out another Polo and hold it in front of her. She starts to move in the right direction, back towards the gate that had clearly been left open. Frankly, with the state of the fence, they could probably have got out without needing the enticement of an open gate.
Bertie is chasing the woman, trying to butt her in the back of the shins, when he sees Harriet leaving, turns and hurries after her. Clearly, where Harriet goes, Bertie follows. And with a couple more Polosfor encouragement, I have the two of them back in their field, the gate closed firmly behind me.
The same can’t be said of the woman and her dogs. She is shouting at them, ‘Lie down!’ as they bounce around her. Eventually, she manages to grab one and flick a lead around its neck. And, in a stroke of what looks more like luck than judgement, she catches the other between her legs and clips on his lead. Then, with barely a backward glance, she lifts her chin and walks to the end of the field and the stile.
I watch her go, replaying her threats about suing for out-of-control animals. While I don’t think she would and know that she has absolutely no right to, any kind of threat like that is a worry. I walk back to the Land Rover, which has stalled. I open the gate, lifting it on its hinges, and drive through, then close it carefully. It’ll need fixing before I go, I think, and start making a mental list of things to be mended, including the gate and the listing fence on Bertie and Harriet’s field. How long has it been like that? Has Bertie been able to get into the ewes’ field and run free with them whenever he liked? It could create havoc around lambing if any of them have caught at the wrong time.
Just what I didn’t need today. I pull my seatbelt around me, start the engine and put my foot on the accelerator, keen to get to the hospital and see Dad. I’m furious with the dog-walker for not respectingthe footpath or our livestock. The Land Rover lurches down the final part of the drive, windscreen wipers working fast, and I’m about to swing out into the road, just as another car comes towards me at speed. The driver sees me, hits the brakes and slides off the road into the stone wall of the farm.
BANG! I hear, then the hissing of the airbags from the other car.
8
‘Are you okay?’ I jump out of the Land Rover and run towards the buckled car. ‘I didn’t see you. Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied.’ I attempt to pull open the buckled door. ‘A woman with her dogs loose!’ I jabber, as I pull back the door and recognize the driver as Llew Griffiths.
‘Oh, you’re bleeding!’ I say. Blood is oozing from just above his eyebrow. He must have hit the window when the car crashed into the wall. I dig into my pockets again for a tissue but instead I find a sock. Not very hygienic to put on the cut.
‘I’m fine,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Left my phone in your kitchen when I took your number.’
I look at the front of the car. No wonder it was a loud bang. The wall has shifted and some of it has tumbled into the stream, which is flowing fastin the rain. ‘Do you want an ambulance?’ I pull out my phone, hoping for signal and holding it up as the rain pours down.
He waves a hand. ‘No ambulance, thank you. I’ll be okay.’
‘Really?’
‘No ambulance. Let’s not make it more than it is.’
‘I wasn’t expecting someone to drive in. We don’t get many visitors. Sorry.’
‘You were going too fast,’ he says. ‘On the wrong side of the drive.’
‘I – I was. Sorry. Like I say, I was in a rush.’
‘I hit mud, I think. Wet road, slippery.’
I look down. There is a big skid in the mud on the road. ‘You did.’ I wince. ‘Your car is pretty messed up.’
My heart is thudding, like horses’ hoofs: I’m reminded of cantering across the fields when I was a child. Endless long summer holidays riding my pony Shadrach over Gramps’s field, where Dad had made little jumps for me, and his collie would follow.
Llew Griffiths runs his hands through his hair and sees the blood from his forehead. ‘I’ve got some tissues in the glove box,’ he says. ‘Could you help?’ He points to the passenger side.
‘Sure,’ I say, and run round, but I can’t get into the glove box due to the inflated airbag. ‘Look, I’m going to the hospital to pick Dad up. Let me take you there. Just to check you’re okay. I’d feel a lot happier.’
He attempts to move and winces. ‘Maybe just a quick chat with a doctor,’ he says, to my surprise. I’d thought he’d put up more of fight and I’d have to be firm about it.
‘Okay, let’s get you into the Land Rover.’
Again he tries to move and winces. The rain is rolling down my forehead, cheeks and face from my sodden hair.
He looks up at me and something inside me skips. It has to be the stress of the accident. ‘I may need help,’ he says.
‘Sure,’ I say, holding out a wet hand. He takes hold of it firmly and it feels very different from Matthew’s soft hands. It’s strong and powerful. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m thinking this when I’m partly to blame for his car coming off the road. He pulls on my hand and I lean back to help him to his feet. He hauls himself out stiffly, until he’s upright, brushing at the gash on his head again.
