Page 29 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Anyway, I just wanted to tell someone how it feels out here. People are buying cheaper meat … processed foods. Try a jacket potato. Or cawl.’ That makes me smile. ‘It’s really easy. And if I can make it, you can.’ That’s why I’m saying this: because someone may hear it. It may make this job worthwhile to those working in the rain, the mud, feeling underpaid and undervalued. That is exactly how I’m feeling, how Dad must have felt for years. I’m angry about it. Someone has to hear this and it may as well be the internet. But a real person may hear my frustration.
‘Try to remember how it feels to eat something that makes you feel good. And then remember who’s making it happen. Remember the farmers, because without them there’s no food, no jacket potatoes, no cawl, no shepherd’s pie …’ I may be wandering off the point now. ‘Just don’t forget where your food comes from. Don’t forget your roots.’
I stare at the screen and try to see the off button, put on my reading glasses and screw up my eyes to see out of the rain-splattered lenses, steaming up with condensation. Finally, I tap it. Everything has gone quiet and I’m here again on my own. No idea why Idid that. I doubt anyone will hear it. I lean back on the sheepskins draped over the bales. I feel better for saying it. It feels cosier here now. I take a deep breath and message Matthew:I’m not going to let Dad sell the land, not if I can help it. I want to find another way!I press send, then try to lighten the mood by adding #onceafarmersdaughteralwaysafarmersdaughter. And a laughing smiley face.
He messages back with half a dozen question marks, as if suggesting I’m mad.
I wonder how to reply, then watch the dancing bubbles on the screen telling me he’s typing.
You need to be back here soon. They want you back. They need you! They’re talking about bringing in a replacement to cover Christmas. And then there’s Seattle.
Would they actually notice if it wasn’t me? With all the systems I’ve put in place to make the hotels work seamlessly to a routine, budget, schedule and brand. To a script even! Telling the receptionists what to say, the waiters and housekeeping staff. I’ve made us all faceless. Would anyone notice if I wasn’t in charge as long as the systems work? It’s like the menus: all the same, the same suppliers. When did we forget about the people behind the food, the faces and families that bring the Christmas feast to the table, from the farm to the fork? When did I?
14
It’s Friday. Dad is insistent on getting up and dressed and coming downstairs. Even if he does fall asleep in his armchair once he’s down.
I check and feed the ewes, then clean the henhouse, and let the birds out to peck around the yard. I check for more wobbly fence posts that need securing. After I’ve done that, it’s nearly lunchtime. I decide to go into town, bring something back for Dad. It’s the end of the week, I’ve made it, and I feel the need to celebrate my little successes.
I shove my phone into Dad’s old coat pocket. The dogs settle in front of the fire at his feet where he’s dozing in the armchair and I pick up the Land Rover keys. One of Mae’s jacket potatoes could be just what I need right now. That and a bit of company.
Evie the nurse is already in Beti’s, her knitting on her knee. She and Mae are looking at Mae’s phone. They turn and smile at me when they hear me come in. The warmth from the fire hits me and it feels good to see some familiar faces.
‘Well, if it isn’t our local celebrity!’ Mae says, looking up from her phone.
‘What?’ I laugh. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You!’ says Evie.
Mae waggles her phone in its case. ‘Your post!’
I’m confused. ‘My post?’
‘It’s sharing all over the socials! My son just sent it to me from his phone,’ she says.
‘Oh, my post?’ They’re not talking about what the postman brings. Life has moved on since I left school.
‘And one of the other nurses saw it and sent it to me, asking if I knew you.’ Evie grins. ‘I said I did. I hope that was okay.’
I sit down next to Evie, haul off my coat and look at Mae’s phone. I frown. Then I pull out my phone. The screen is spattered with mud and there’s a chip in the corner from when I was driving the quad bike and it fell out of my pocket. I know that social media is part of business these days, but I’m still finding it hard to keep up. With working on the farm all day, I’ve barely had time to log in, let alone do any scrolling. I look at the insights. There must be some mistake, or I’mnot reading things properly. I point. ‘All those people have liked it?’
‘Yup!’ says Evie, stopping mid-stitch to look at me and smile.
‘And commented. Telling you to keep going. Keep your chin up. Saying thank you to you and other farmers.’ Mae’s fingernails click on the screen and she shows me the answers way quicker than I could find them. ‘And look at the followers you’re clocking up!’
Evie’s knitting again. ‘Looks like you’ll have to keep posting now,’ she says.
‘You’re like a cheerleader for the young farmers out there,’ Mae says.
‘Women farmers too!’ says Evie. ‘Loads of them! You said what they’ve all wanted to say! They’re sharing it like mad!’
I stare at the screen, seeing a different me. No makeup, sodden, anxious. Where did the other me go? The one who arrived full of happiness to see her dad and her home, to tell him she’s moving to Seattle. Now I’m just worn out and worried.
The door of the café opens and two schoolgirls, skirts short, blazers practically touching the hems, come in. One is staring at the screen of her phone. ‘Hey, look, that woman shepherd. It’s someone from round here!’ she says, showing it to her friend, who turns down the corners of her mouth.
‘No one knows where here even is!’ she says.
‘They do now,’ say two more girls coming in behind them, also with skirts so short their bits must be freezing.
