Page 3 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
What if I hadn’t been there?The thought runs round and round in my head.
I slide into the car, where Matthew has been napping most of the evening. Everything seems a bit surreal. He puts out a hand and rubs my knee.
We drive back to the farm in silence. All I can think about is how pale and helpless Dad looked in the hospital. So different from the big, strong farmer who usually comes to mind when I picture him.
I get out of the car and lift the listing gate open for Matthew to drive through, then prop it shut and jump back in. He drives us up to the yard in front of the farmhouse, with the familiar red front door.
Matthew looks up at the house from behind the windscreen. ‘You know, we could get a hotel for the night. Somewhere … a little more luxurious. You deserve to be pampered, what with the shock of finding your dad like that. We don’t want to put any extra strain on him by having guests.’
I stare at him, wondering if I’ve heard all the words in the right order. ‘I’m not a guest, Matthew.This is my home, and my dad has sepsis. I need to be here for him once he’s been discharged from the hospital.’
‘Yes, of course. I can always find somewhere else. Just to stay out of the way.’
‘There’s only one pub in town with accommodation, and I’d hardly call it luxurious. To be honest, I’m not even sure they offer the rooms any more.’ I pause, thinking about everything that needs to be done. ‘I need to stay on for a night or two. Check all the animals. Find out where Owen is. After all, he’s supposed to be the farm manager. Why didn’t he find Dad?’
‘Of course you need to get everything sorted. I can always come back once your dad’s better. Like I say, maybe this isn’t the best time. Don’t want to add to any stress’ – he gives a gentle laugh – ‘by asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage!’
I smile at him, but right now, there’s no excitement. I’m tired and I’m worried. I look up at the farmhouse again, in need of attention, like the rest of the place. ‘That’s kind of you … Maybe we should just hold off telling him all our news right now. About the new job and everything else going on, the move across the Pond.’ I lay a hand on his forearm. ‘You understand?’ I ask gently. ‘Just until things are a little more settled. Until he’s feeling better.’
I have an urge not to overwhelm Dad with allthe changes I’ve been talking about – new job, new country, engagement – to protect him. I’m feeling apprehensive about it all and if it’s me who’s strangely overwhelmed by everything. But why? This is all Dad has ever wished for me. To get out, see the world and find someone special to share my life with. And I have, in Matthew. He’s the perfect fit, and just the person for me to be making this new leap with.
He nods a lot.
‘Of course, I totally get it,’ he says warmly, and then, ‘I can shoot off whenever. Like I say, I don’t want to be in the way.’
‘I need to know he’s going to be okay, when or if …’
‘When,’ he says, with a firm smile.
‘… if I accept the job and move stateside. Part of me wishes he could come too,’ I say. ‘But I know he won’t leave this place. He loves it.’
And just for a moment I wonder if I hear Matthew sigh. I snap my head round to him and half laugh, half frown. ‘Was that a sigh of relief?’
‘No, no … God, no,’ he says. ‘Just tired. You must be shattered. Let’s get you inside,’ he says, pushing open the car door into the familiar rain.
In the chilly kitchen, the dogs are quieter, much quieter. I pat them and thank them for their good workand hand out the Christmas dog treats, handfuls at a time.
‘Could you light a fire in the living room, Matthew, while I get the range going?’ I ask, pulling open the door with the temperature control in it.
‘Sure,’ he says, sounding doubtful.
I stare at the button, but it’s already on. I pull open the front door and march to the oil tank in the yard.
‘Out of oil!’ I stare at the gauge on the oil tank in dismay. I hurry back into the kitchen and go to ring the number on the wall. The calendar has this day circled, many times, and my heart twists.
Suddenly the phone rings, before I have a chance to dial the number. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh … hi. I was looking for Mr Edwin Jones. It’s Llew, Llew Griffiths, tell him.’
‘It’s not a good time,’ I say, quickly and efficiently. ‘He’s been taken ill. I need the phone. I’m sorry. Please call back later.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, sorry. I hope—’ I cut him off before he has a chance to finish and surprise myself with my curtness, but I’m really worried about Dad. And why on earth he’s been left without oil and heating.
I ring the oil man quickly from the landline phone, with its long curly cable.
‘Unpaid bill?’ I repeat, and look over at Matthew, who is standing in the kitchen in a dark blue blazer,looking very over- or perhaps under-dressed. I point to my handbag and he hands it to me. ‘I can pay that now. It must have slipped Dad’s mind,’ I lie.
He never lets bills slide. He always pays straight away because he knows how tough it is to be kept waiting. For a self-employed farmer, getting a payment can be the difference between the weekly grocery shop or not.
