Page 74 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Here. The price of my pitch.’ She holds out an envelope.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, taking the envelope. ‘I hope you sell out.Gelatowould be perfect with Christmas pudding.’
‘Actually, we have mince-pie-flavouredgelato, and Christmas pudding.’
‘It’s got brandy and raisins in it,’ says the younger man with her.
‘It sounds delicious. Save me a pot,’ I say. ‘I’ll pick it up later.’
He takes out a pad from his rucksack, makes a note, and Beca looks on with pride.
‘I love the bicycle,’ I say, gesturing at the big freezer compartment at the front.
‘It’s like the one Beca’s grandfather had before they opened the ice-cream café,’ he tells me, and the slightly older young man smiles at his brother.
‘It looks fantastically festive,’ I say. It’s decorated with fairy lights and tinsel and pride is beaming off the three proprietors.
‘They’re our own recipes. Well, I say ours, but Blake is our recipe creator.’ She waves at him. ‘It’d be great if this could become a regular thing. Keep going!’ she says.
‘We will, thank you.’
As I begin to set up the lorry, with fairy lights, the straw for seating and our table, I’m looking out for Mae, who isn’t here yet.
More and more trucks arrive and start setting up. There’s a toasted-sandwich van, selling golden, crispy sandwiches with a choice of fillings, a pulled-pork-baps stall and another selling macaroni cheese, made with soft, stringy local cheese and pasta from a trailer, and Pizza on the Hoof in an old horsebox,with the chef and owner in a black bowler hat wearing Italian and Welsh scarves around his neck.
Dad and Myfanwy have found their way into the old auctioneer’s booth and have been testing the microphone with lots of ‘Hello? Hello?’ I wonder if he’ll tell her how he feels, or if it’s just too much of a risk for him. Christmas music is playing over the Tannoy now, carols, Frank Sinatra and Neil Diamond, clearly a favourite with them both. Everyone is smiling, snow is falling steadily and the air is filling with the most amazing smells of barbecuing sausages, wood-fired ovens and the spices from my curry. But there’s still no sign of Mae and I’m worried. I pull out my phone to see if she’s messaged me.
Where are you? All okay?I ask.
I’m here!I look up and around but still can’t see her – and then I do! She’s waving manically at me from another horsebox, decorated with homemade bunting and paper chains. The kids are there too.
I run down the ramp. ‘Where …’ I’m lost for words in the excitement of it all. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Owen knew someone. Said he was happy it was being used. I’m just borrowing it. We scrubbed it, me and the boys.’
‘Best time ever!’ they chirp.
The other is finishing writing on a chalkboard: ‘Hot potatoes, with cheese, beans and veggie chilli’.
‘We’re calling it the Spud Family,’ says Mae. ‘Even Mum’s come to join us.’ She points to her mother, sitting in the back of the trailer on a camping chair.
‘I’m so happy! This is brilliant! And from the way the crowdfunding is going, there’s a chance this could happen,’ I say. ‘Have you checked the page?’ On my phone I show her how we’re doing, and we let out squeals of excitement and hug.
‘This would never have happened without you,’ Mae says.
‘It wouldn’t have happened without you!’ I tell her. ‘You’re the one who staged the sit-in and made us all realize we needed to see what was important around here.’
‘But you’re the one who made it happen.’
‘Not yet I haven’t. But maybe, fingers crossed, by the end of the night. Best I put something up on social media and let people know we’re here.’
‘Get posting!’ Mae instructs, with a pointed finger.
‘Considering I was the one hiding behind the corporate suit, who would have thought I’d end up being the Social Shepherdess?’ I put up a picture telling everyone where we are, that they should like and share the post.
There’s music playing but I haven’t seen Dad or Myfanwy for some time.
‘Everything okay?’ Mae asks.
