Page 24 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
She sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t blame you. The rubbish this place serves.’ She takes away the grubby menu, making melaugh unexpectedly. She joins in. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Just, y’know, one of those days.’
‘I do know,’ I say, and look around. ‘It used to be great when Beti had it,’ I say.
‘Yeah, and when she died her son took over. It’s all microwave burgers and plastic-wrapped pizzas now.’
‘Shame. So how do you know my dad? How did you two get involved in potato trading?’
She chuckles. ‘Actually, I think you and I used to be at school together. You were older than me.’
‘Were we?’
She nods. ‘You wouldn’t remember me. You were one of the cool kids. You lived up the mountain on the farm … and weren’t you with Owen?’
I laugh. ‘I was, but I wasn’t one of the cool kids.’
‘Oh yes, you were. Living up the mountain. No streetlights up there, scary! And you didn’t care what others thought or said. You did your own thing. Loved life on the farm where you lived. And then, of course, you and Owen were the steady couple.’
‘Ah, yes! They were good times. But it’s quiet on the farm now. Not like back then when Dad had help and I’d have friends back, camping in the summer and bonfires in the winter. I don’t know how people do it now, long days on their own.’
‘We all need a little company,’ she says. ‘Owen still comes in.’
‘That’s good.’ I swallow. I feel bad about laying intohim at the pub, the fact he’s out of work and with a small herd to sell or get through the winter.
‘He was good to me in school,’ Mae goes on. ‘He probably doesn’t remember, but he stepped in once, when some of the other kids were giving me a hard time, telling me I was poor and smelt, because I was wearing second-hand clothes. I was in tears and Owen saw them off, telling them they should be ashamed of themselves and that we all looked out for each other around here. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘Sounds like Owen. He’s a good man,’ I say, remembering his kindness, always. He was the one people turned to when they needed a hand.
‘It was such a shame, what happened,’ she says.
‘What did happen?’
‘Oh, it’s … it’s just a tough time out there,’ she says, and then, ‘Bloody moneygrabbers!’ She pulls out her phone and shoves it back into her pocket. ‘How am I supposed to choose between getting a new coat for my kid, because his last one was stolen, and stupid school photos? Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this to you. You’re a customer. I’ll get your tea,’ and then quietly, ‘I could do you a jacket potato, if you like.’
I smile. ‘That’s just what I’d like! How did you know?’
‘It’s how your dad and I got talking. He came in for tea one day. He couldn’t find anything on themenu he wanted and said what he fancied was a jacket potato. I said if he brought in the potatoes I’d make them. And the following day he did. He liked to come in for a bit of company. I take them home for the kids too. Way better than all the processed food in the supermarkets.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, mouth already watering at the thought of a hot, crisp-skinned potato with a steaming, fluffy inside.
‘Butter and cheese?’
‘Perfect!’ I beam.
‘Don’t tell anyone. Just for those who know,’ she says, with a very lovely smile. ‘I put a few on in the oven at home and bring them in with me, put them through the till as the daily special. Beti’s son never asks. But people want something warming and home-cooked. And if it helps keep the place open and me hang on to my job,’ she says, ‘it’s win-win.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I say, ‘and Dad appreciates the money. Every bit counts at the moment.’ I wonder again what happened to Owen and how he’s coping without work.
The door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air. ‘Hi, Mae,’ says the woman, shutting the door quickly.
‘Hi, Evie … Usual?’ Mae says, from behind the counter, which she can barely see over.
‘Please. With tuna.’
‘Ah, you know about the jacket potatoes too,’ I say,recognizing her name. She’s the nurse from the GP practice who called the house, the one planning to visit Dad.
She strips off her long scarf and coat.
‘Why not sit here, by the fire, keep the other tables clean?’ I offer.
