Page 29 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
Chapter 7
Noel promised to pick me up bright and early, although I didn’t bother asking what constituted ‘bright and early’ because I didn’t expect to get any sleep at all. I’d planned to spend the night lying on the airmattress and scribbling down ideas, but by the time I’d retrieved more essentials from the car and snuggled into the fabric conditioner scent of the sleeping bag … the next thing I know, there’s a car horn blasting outside the boarded up window, and I wake up with a leap.
Screech. Screeeech. Screeeeeeeeech. Screech. Screeeeeeeeeech.I think it’s Morse code for ‘I’m a loud and annoying twat’.
I stumble blearily upright, squinting like a mole emerging from its burrow for the first time under the harsh kitchen lightbulb that’s still on from last night.
Screeeeech. Screech. Screech. Screeeeeeeech.
I stumble into the dark hallway and fumble around for the key. I shove it in the lock and twist it harshly – anything to stop that awful noise as quickly as humanly possible – and burst out the front door, only to be greeted by … nighttime.
Screeeeeeeee— ‘Oh good, I was about to start knocking. Good morning, sunshine!’
‘Sunshine?’ I mutter, blinking at the shock of the damp morning air and the darkness. From the noise he’s making, I’d assumed it was about midday. ‘You said bright and early, there’s nothing bright about this, it’s still dark.’
Noel’s leaning out of the driver’s side window of a battered old truck that looks like it might have been yellow once, but is now distinctly patterned by rust and peeling paint. ‘It’s 6 a.m. The sun doesn’t rise until eight o’clock at this time of year. Are you ready?’
‘Ready?’ I ask, realising that I’ve just vaulted out of bed, my hair must be smooshed up in all directions and I’ve probably got crusts in my eyes and drool dried on my chin, but he looks ridiculously good for this time of day. There’s a tuft of a ponytail sticking out under a red and white snowflake patterned beanie hat, a navy flannel shirt covering his arms, and a body warmer which would probably look ridiculous on anyone else, but he manages to make it look sexy.
‘For the market. I have to get there early to set up.’
‘Thisearly?’
‘Yup.’ The grin he gives me is totally smug and a little bit sultry. ‘Look on the bright side – at least you got some sleep.’
‘And I could do with a lot more of it.’
He grins again. ‘Go and get ready. I’ll wait.’
I mumble something unrepeatable about what he can do with his pumpkins, and he gives me another grin that says he heard every word. I turn around to go back inside, ridiculously grateful that the water and electricity came back on yesterday, but before I’ve got the door closed, he screeches the horn again.
‘What iswrongwith you? You’ll wake the neigh … oh.’ When I look back at him, he’s got a travel mug in his hand and a grin on his face.
‘Iamthe neighbour. It’s not bothering me.’ He holds the cup up in an imaginary toast and winks at me.
I close the door with a resounding slam, and I can still hear his laughter from outside.
Inside, I do an excellent impression of a flapping fish as I run up the stairs with a change of clothes and my toothbrush and toothpaste. I will never take running water and electricity for granted again, even though the light shows up how badly the bathroom needs a proper clean. I promise it I’ll get onto it later as I manage to get ready in record time and fly back out the door.
Noel has still got his window wound down and his arm across the gap. He grins over the top of the mug as I close the door behind me and slip the key into my pocket.
‘Nice hair.’
‘I couldn’t find my hairbrush, okay? I’ll put it up now, I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer in case you started screeching that blasted horn again.’
‘It looks fine. Maybe you could stop in one of my fields on the way and scare off a few crows for me.’
I must give him a look that says I want to kill him because he starts laughing. ‘It wasn’t an insult. You’d be the prettiest scarecrow I’ve ever had.’
I try to glare at him as I walk around the truck, but I’m fighting with myself not to smile because no one has ever called me pretty before, even in a scarecrow context.
Faded paint comes off in my hand as I touch the door handle on the passenger side, and the door lets out a groan when I pull it open. The smell of fresh coffee fills the truck and I close my eyes and breathe it in for a moment.
Then I remember that I’m about to get into a death-trap and I haven’t really woken up yet. ‘Is this thing roadworthy?’
‘Define roadworthy.’
‘Has it had an MOT this side of the Eighties?’
