Page 83 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Have a drink,’ I say. ‘And happy Christmas. Why aren’t you with the family?’
‘They invited me. But I couldn’t face the journey in this weather. Think it’s going to close in again.’ He looks around at the sky. ‘Brought you some sprouts. Had them growing in the garden. Shame for them to go to waste.’
‘Well, take off your coat and sit by the fire. Someone pour this man a drink,’ I say. ‘And lay another place at the table.’
Llew smiles at me, making my insides melt and reminding me of last night …
He pours Twm Bach a glass of fizz, hands it to him and shows him to a seat by the fire with Dad and Myfanwy. He’s not like Matthew, who liked to show off his hospitality skills. He’s just one man, caring for the others he’s with. And we all seem content to bein each other’s company, waiting for news of Jess on Christmas Day.
Lunch is a quiet affair. Llew helps me in the kitchen as we serve up slow-roasted hogget, soft, flaking and full of flavour, with rosemary and lots of thick dark gravy. There are roast potatoes, crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy within. The Brussels sprouts from Twm Bach have been steamed and tossed in melted butter with some of Myfanwy’s bacon, peas from Dad’s freezer and roasted carrots. Not your traditional Christmas dinner, but so full of flavour and grown right here on the land. Despite the delicious food, no one really has much appetite today.
It’s snowing again. ‘Good job you stayed put, Twm, and you, Myfanwy,’ says Dad.
‘I could smell the snow in the air,’ says Twm.
‘It’s good to have you here,’ says Dad to Myfanwy, and they clink glasses gently.
We’re just finishing lunch, putting the plates on the side and Myfanwy’s Christmas cake in the middle of the table, with a pot of tea for those who want it, when a car I don’t recognize comes up the drive. It pulls up close to Owen’s truck, and out gets Mae, with the boys, opening their mouths to catch snowflakes on their tongues. She hurries to the front door.
‘Any news?’ she says, flinging it open.
Owen repeats he’s ringing the surgery at five.
Josh is joining in with the boys, catching snowflakes.
Something strikes me. ‘Wait a minute, I thought you and Josh – I thought you were out for a posh lunch.’
‘We were, and it was incredible. I’m really grateful to him. But I couldn’t get hold of anyone, so we finished pud and came straight here after dropping Mum off at her flat. She had a lovely time, but was ready for a nap. So, this is Josh, everyone,’ she says, officially introducing him to us as he stands in the doorway covered with melting snowflakes.
‘Hope we’re not intruding,’ he says shyly, stepping in through the kitchen door. ‘I brought some wine.’
‘Not intruding at all!’ I say. ‘Come on in. You’re very welcome.’
‘I know things haven’t been easy, what with the café closing.’ He turns to Owen. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about your dog. I have everything crossed for her.’
Owen looks up at him. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he says.
‘How about a game of cards while we wait?’ says Dad, gently. ‘Game of sevens!’
‘Yes!’ say the boys. And then one says, ‘I hope Jess is going to be okay. I like her.’ He gets something out of his pocket, wrapped in a paper napkin. ‘I saved her my sausage and bacon from lunch,’ he says, holding out the parcel to Owen, who looks as if he might weep all over again.
‘She’ll love that, thank you,’ says Owen, with a crackin his voice, taking it. ‘I’ll tell her you saved it for her.’ I know he wants to say, ‘If she makes it home …’ but doesn’t. Instead he says, ‘Right, let’s set up the cards.’
We cut the cake, which is dark and full of fruit, and has a hint of brandy under the layers of soft yellow marzipan and sweet white icing.
‘I make one every year. No idea why. No one to share it with, and I’m still eating it at Easter.’
‘It’s habit … tradition,’ says Dad. ‘It’s hard to let go of the past,’ he says, his eyes on me.
‘It is,’ she says. ‘Stubbornness,’ and they both laugh.
‘Sometimes you have to find a way to make new ones. New memories.’
They’re staring at each other and I’m thinking this may be the start of a very different new year.
I consider what Dad said about letting go of the past.
‘Well, I’m hoping you’ll be sharing this cake with me again next year,’ says Dad, and Myfanwy beams.
