Page 20 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘And … how did—’ He starts to cough.
‘Take it easy, Dad. Honestly, everything is fine, I promise. I like him. He seems nice. Getting him on board to help here could be great. Bring some fresh ideas to the farm. Owen’s good, but I can see why you might be open to listening to some new ideas.’
‘But—’ He coughs again. ‘I need to explain …’
‘Dad, plenty of time. I’m pleased – really. Now, drink your tea and stay in bed. At least for today.’
He leans back on the pillows, all the energy knocked out of him. I give his legs another little push back into the bed and pull the covers over him.
‘Take it easy, Dad. I’m here to help.’
‘But you need to get back. You have Christmas coming! And your holiday!’
‘I know, I know. But work will cope. I’ve been planning this Christmas since January. Everything’s in place, running like clockwork. It’s what I do. I put the hard work in early on to make sure it all runs smoothly when the time comes.Mise en place!’ I say, smiling. ‘Everything in its place. Just like they taught us in hospitality at college.’
‘But I need to make a delivery. From the shed. Potatoes, from the allotment.’
‘Dad, this is not the time to be worrying about your potatoes.’
He shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand. I have to deliver a bag to the café, in town.’
‘Beti’s?’
He coughs. ‘Yes,’ he says, sounding weaker. ‘We have … an agreement.’
‘What kind of agreement?’
‘I take in potatoes to Mae, the waitress. She pays me cash in hand.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’ll be waiting for them.’
‘No worries. I can do that.’
‘Every little helps, these days,’ he says, and closes his eyes. I know he’s exhausted: he’s not arguing that he needs to get up.
I head out of the room, pull the door to and head downstairs into the warm, cosy kitchen. All of a sudden I get a wave of longing, of homesickness, oras we say in Wales,hiraeth. A sense of belonging. I wish I wasn’t leaving and heading back to Christmas at the hotels. I wish I was here, having Christmas with Dad in the farmhouse kitchen, like we always did.
I decide to do some tidying up before Dad refuses to stay in bed any longer, gets up and tells me not to fuss, like I know he will. He’ll want me to sit and tell him about the hotels and the plans made for Christmas. Now is my chance to get as much done as I can, while he’s sleeping, occasionally waking and letting me know he’s happy I’m here. And right here is where I need to be. I can’t believe I’ve left it so long to come home. I shouldn’t have listened when he kept telling me he was fine, that I should go and enjoy myself. But first I’ll find the potatoes.
I go out to the shed, which is next to the vegetable plot. His pride and joy, and Gramps’s before that. I pull open the door to the whitewashed stone shed and smile. I should have known Dad wouldn’t be living on fresh air and mouldy bread. The smell is wonderful and earthy. In front of me there are sacks of potatoes, onions plaited up and hanging from the ceiling, next to strings of garlic, all home-grown. There are carrots too, and I’m thinking they might need using up, along with turnips and swedes. I grab a bag of potatoes, put it over my shoulder, then take some carrots and a swede.
I close the door behind me, walk to the Land Roverand put the sack of potatoes into the back. Then I return to the warm kitchen. I begin by wiping out the cupboard. Not that there’s much in there, but that’s because Dad has been eating, as we always did, from the vegetable garden, and the eggs from the hens. We’d have bacon from the farm next door, when he and Myfanwy were speaking still, and ham. Ham, egg and chips is still one of my favourites and I wonder when I last ate it, my mouth watering. I wipe down the surfaces and wash the floor.
Then I fetch some logs in from outside to stack beside the living-room hearth to light the fire later. A lot has happened since Matthew and I sat here on the sofa and I had plans to show him around the farm, introduce him to Dad, and warn him about his corny jokes, his wicked sense of humour and strange collection of hats.
I find the vacuum-cleaner in the cupboard under the stairs, along with the box of Christmas decorations that hasn’t seen the light of day this year … or for a while, I’d imagine. I can’t think Dad’s decorated the place when I haven’t been able to get back for Christmas. My heart twists at the thought of him here alone, the memory of finding him so sick in the chair coming back to haunt me. I need to find a way to change this. Maybe invite him away with us, but I’m not sure how Matthew would feel about that, or if Dad would ever leave the farm. But he has help nowin Llew so he could come and stay with us in Seattle. Start to take things a bit easier.
I plump up the worn but comfy cushions on the sofa, then turn on the vacuum-cleaner. Dewi leaps about with shock and excitement, barking.
‘Sssh! Sssh!’ I laugh. But he runs around the room, bouncing off the sofa and Dad’s chair. I try to move the vacuum-cleaner but he barks and whizzes about some more, knocking over the side table next to Dad’s chair in a cacophony of joyous barking and playfulness.
‘Whoa!’ I say, switching off the vacuum-cleaner. The barking stops.
I see Llew standing in the doorway, practically filling it. ‘Oh, hi! I’m just trying to get things sorted here.’ I stretch my arm for the upturned table.
He steps forward, crossing nearly the whole room in one stride. ‘Can I help?’ He reaches out towards the toppled table.
