Page 9 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Sorry, you said you and Dad were talking through some options for the farm?’
‘Yes, I’m’ – he corrects himself – ‘we’re working with him, as you probably know.’
‘Working with him? What do you mean?’
‘Well, maybe you’d better speak to your dad.’
‘Okay,’ I say, confused. ‘I’m just waiting to call the hospital. Find out how he’s doing. I’m hoping they won’t keep him in too long. But I do need oil so I can get the heating on before he comes home,’ I say. Heat will make things a lot better.
‘Tell him I sent my best.’ He raises a hand and turns to leave. ‘I brought these,’ he says, handing over the bag and the tray of cups from a big-brand coffee shop he had been carrying when he arrived.
I take them from him. ‘I didn’t even know they had a store here!’
‘Just outside town,’ he says. ‘Drive-through. Quite a few of them popping up nowadays. People like the convenience.’
‘Wow! That’s progress here,’ I say. How different things are since I was growing up: drive-through coffees compared to Beti’s, where the fire would be lit and there’d be the hubbub of chatter, the steamed-up front window and no need for social media because nothing got past Beti: she knew everything that was going on.
He turns to leave, holding up a hand. ‘As I said, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Sure. Okay, thank you,’ I say, thinking again how attractive he is. I’m not at all sure what he’s talking about, but if Dad is getting some help around the place that’s good. I smile. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ I raise a hand back and watch him go, as he gets into his smart, clean car. Not the sort of vehicle I’d expect a farm hand to drive, that’s for sure.
I breathe in the scent of the coffee and croissants.
‘Nice to meet you. Bye,’ he says, as he clicks the car open and steps in.
I can’t help feeling as if I may just have been flirted with, bringing a little glow to my cheeks.
‘Hwyl, bye.’ I find myself slipping into Welsh again as I watch him go, smiling and still glowing from our short meeting. A handsome, polite man bringing coffee and croissants to my door and enquiring after my dad. This could be exactly what Dad needs. Someone to help and ‘work together’ on the farm. Excellent news! I feel my spirits lifting. I grab one of the coffees, step out of the back door and into the yard, pulling the door closed behind me. The dogs are at my feet, Ffion not leaving my side and her pup darting about but not going far. The old Jack Russell, Dolly, has gone back to her bed in front of the range, clearly not happy that it’s so cold.
As the oil men fill the tank, I shove my hands into my pockets and head up to the feed shed, one of themany old barns that stand just above the farmhouse. My phone pings into life, letting me know I’ve got signal there. Inside, I sit on a bale and ring the hospital to ask about Dad’s condition. They tell me he’s had a comfortable night. They’ll know more after the doctor has done his rounds later.
‘Thank God,’ I say to Ffion, who is sitting at my feet, looking up at me, as I come off the phone. I hold my forehead to hers and let a few tears fall into her soft fur. I take a few moments, then sit up, looking out of the dirty window. I lean forward and rub a pane with the sleeve of my coat, as the rain begins to clear and a big fat rainbow appears.
I sip the coffee, although somehow it doesn’t have the same taste or make me feel like it would if I was at home, in my office, getting ready for a day’s work, approving menus, schedules and plans for events, staffing and suppliers. Right now, I want a pot of tea and a thick doorstep of toast, with lots of butter, at the kitchen table.
I pull out my phone and take a picture, through the small square panes of glass in the feed shed, to take with me when I’m back in the office … and even to the States. I think about the meeting I had to discuss the job, the new hotel in Seattle, a flagship hotel, broadening the company’s horizons, with me at the head, if I decide to take it. But I need to talk to Dad about it. Although I know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me to take it.
I shove the phone into my pocket as I watch the oil tanker leave.
Back in the kitchen, I get the range turned on and wait for it to start warming up, then take some coffee, heated again in the microwave, and a croissant up to Matthew.
‘Morning, sleepy head,’ I say.
‘God, it’s freezing,’ he says. ‘Ooh, is that coffee I can smell?’ He opens his eyes and spots the cup I put beside him and the croissant, then pulls himself onto his elbows. ‘Hey, this is looking better!’
‘Dad’s had a comfortable night,’ I tell him, without waiting for him to ask. ‘We’ll know more when the doctor has done his rounds.’
‘Good, good.’ He sips the coffee.
‘Yes. And it looks like Dad’s got some kind of new work colleague he hasn’t told me about yet. Some guy coming to help on the farm. He turned up earlier with the coffee and croissants. Apparently there’s a drive-through just out of town now.’
‘Well, that sounds good. Looks like you and your dad have things to catch up on. You, the job … us.’ He reaches out a hand from under the covers and entwines his fingers in mine. ‘It’s great there’ll be someone here working with him when you go back.’
When I go back, a voice says in my head.The new job … us.It seems a long way from here, from Dad and Hollybush Farm. I just need to be sure he’s goingto be okay and maybe Llew Griffiths is the answer. I kiss Matthew lightly and go back downstairs, where the pup has shredded the delivery note the oil man had pushed through the letterbox. I pick up the pieces and put them into the bin, to the puppy’s perplexity.
‘That’s better!’ I say, heat emanating from the range. I stand with my bum to it as I always did when I came in from school, hands on the rail, leaning into the warmth, and this time it starts to give me something back.
When I’ve warmed a little, I pull the kettle onto the hotplate. Matthew comes downstairs, shivering and seemingly wearing all the bedclothes. ‘This place is freezing.’
