Page 20 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘But you do now?’
‘It’s …’ He pulls his sleeve up and looks at his watch. ‘… Nine o’clock and you’re still here. That’s better than I expected.’ He looks up and grins at me, his eyes flashing with the reflection of the red glow from the heater. ‘We both want the same thing. I’d love nothing more than to see Peppermint Branches up and running as a Christmas tree farm again. So would every villager in Elffield. Judging by tonight, so would you.’
I’ve got to admit, there is something about this place. The way I felt when I saw that auction listing for the first time … that feeling I got when I leant on the gate and looked out at the trees in the distance … I kind of understand what he’s talking about.
‘How come you have so much camping gear?’ I ask in an attempt to change the subject because the idea of every villager in Elffield being invested in what I do here is a bit unsettling. ‘Do you go camping a lot?’
‘Nah, I had some problems with teenagers getting into my land and lighting fires over the summer. They burned down half my sweetcorn so I decided to play them at their own game and sleep out there for a few nights.’ He waves a hand in the general direction of the fields across the road. ‘Caught them red-handed, and they didn’t come back.’
‘Sounds terrifying.’
‘Aye, for them. You’ve never caught sight of me in the middle of the night without a coffee in me. Believe me, they thought they’d found the three-way lovechild of Nessie, a sasquatch, and a scarecrow.’
‘Okay, another question. The last owner … his name wasn’t seriously Evergreene, was it?’
He snorts like he didn’t expect that question. ‘It was. I’m not sure what came first, the name or the tree farm though. The first trees were planted by his great-great grandfather. I think there was some controversy along the line when his great-grandmother married and refused to take her husband’s name, unheard of in those days, but you can’t own a Christmas tree farm and give up the name Evergreene, can you?’
‘You knew him well?’
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow, like he knows I’m prodding for information and he isn’t sure he trusts me yet. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘I spent my weekends over here from when I was old enough to hold a shearing knife and a saw – not together, that’s a recipe for disaster. My mum and dad wereextremelyimpressed to find out I often cut school so I could come back here and cut Christmas trees instead. Our farm was more of a regular farm back then, livestock and all sorts of produce, but the Christmas trees were so much more exciting. Evergreene was like a grandfather to me, you know, the naughty one who encourages you to do things your parents would never allow you to, and then gives you a cheeky wink, puts on an innocent face and denies all knowledge when caught?’ He puts on a shaky, elderly voice. ‘“What do you mean Noel was in the back cutting Christmas trees when he was supposed to be in maths class? Really? I had no idea. I thought it was an overgrown elf running around with that chainsaw.” Only to be followed be piercing shrieks of “You let him use a CHAINSAW?”’ He looks down at the tiles again and I can feel the sadness settle over him. ‘But many years have passed since then.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He never recovered after a stroke and died a few months later. Over four years ago now.’
‘No family to inherit this place?’
‘Just one absolute git of a son who was never interested in Christmas trees. When we were younger, he got his jollies off by zooming around the village on his motorbike, deliberately frightening livestock and old ladies. He only saw this place in pound signs, and Ihopehe’s extremely disappointed with the fifty grand you paid, but I gather the estate agents were at their wits end with trying to sell it. They must’ve been over the moon that an idiot who doesn’t know anything about Christmas trees turned up.’ He looks over with a teasing grin. ‘I bet you don’t even know what type of tree you get every year, do you?’
‘Oi. I knowexactlywhat type my tree is – a plastic one.’
He doesn’t hide the look of horror on his face, and I hold up a hand to stop him. ‘I know, I know, it’s an affront to all of Scotland. I sent it to the tip before I left London. We used to have a real one growing up but not since …’ I swallow hard, unable to tell him that I only had a plastic one in the flat because I spent Christmas at my parents’ house, and since they died, I haven’t felt much like celebrating Christmas. ‘Well, a plastic one’s easier, isn’t it?’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. What kind did you have when you were younger?’
‘A green one.’
‘Oh, come on. Blue spruce? Fraser fir? Nordmann fir? Balsam? Pine?’
‘I don’t know, my dad always chose it.’
The look on his face leaves me in no doubt about what he thinks of me.
I drop my head into my hands. ‘Iknow, okay? I’m fooling myself here, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. If Mr Blobby can have a fanbase … anything’s possible.’
‘Now there’s a vote of confidence if ever there was one …’ I struggle to take my eyes off that lip piercing as a smile spreads slowly across his face, laughter lines crinkling up around his eyes and replacing the tautness.
‘What do you do after Halloween? Is the pumpkin market big year-round?’ I ask becausesomethinghas to distract me from his upper lip, and I’m already thinking about seasons and how in-demand Christmas trees are between January and October. I suspect the answer is ‘not very’.
‘I keep my market stall. In December I dig up the winter veg that people want for their Christmas dinner, and then in January, I sell cut winter flowers like snowdrops and primroses. In spring I sell the first earlies that have overwintered in my polytunnels, and in summer I sell whatever’s ripe. Then in autumn, I sell the corn ears that haven’t been cut, I raid the apple trees and wrestle my hazelnuts from the squirrels, and then it’s pumpkin season again. Pumpkins are my main crop. I have loads of varieties spread across many acres. Everything else is kind of a “whatever fits in around them” crop. The business is seasonal so you have to fill every available space to keep yourself ticking over throughout the year.’
‘I hadn’t thought about that aspect of Christmas tree farming …’ I say, because let’s face it, it’s one ofmanyaspects I hadn’t thought about.
He looks towards the front door like he can somehow see the farm through it. ‘You’re going to get one income a year and you’ve got to make sure it’s big enough to last until next Christmas. For now, you’ve got more than a year’s worth of work to get this place back up to standard. The trees need a lot of looking after during the year. They need herbicide and fertiliser put down, you’ll have to inspect them all the time for diseases and insects, they all need some serious shearing, arrangements need to be made for however you’re going to sell them, seeds need to be collected from between the scales of pinecones, and saplings need to be planted, and if things were up and running as they should be, then cutting should begin in November …’ He must notice the blank look on my face because he trails off. ‘Too much for the first night, aye?’
I pull my ponytail around and pick a stray dust-bunny from it. ‘I only understand approximately 38.5 per cent of what you just said.’ I sigh and flip it back in frustration. ‘What have I got myself into here, Noel? Seriously. Does someone with no experience have a hope in hell of making this work or should I give up now and go home with my tail between my legs?’
