Page 33 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
His eyes cast over me with a contemplative look. ‘You had no trouble giving me a piece of your mind the other day and I was a stranger. Where’s this lack of confidence come from?’
‘Yeah, but you’re infuriating. There’s a difference.’ I don’t give him an answer to the confidence question. If I had time to think about it, I’d tell him about Steve taking advantage of my vulnerability after my parents’ deaths, and that discovering I was one of a handful of women he was sleeping with was enough to make me want to hide away and never speak to another human again.
Except I wouldn’t, because that would be oversharing, obviously.
‘Elffield survives on its community. If you’re going to live here, you’re a part of that. Just go and say hello, tell them you’ve moved into Peppermint Branches and the conversation will flow from there, I guaran—’
‘Don’t do theguarantreething again, it wasn’t funny the first time.’
‘I know. That’s why you laughed.’ He gives me a wink. ‘And I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to tell you to go out on alimb.’
Despite my best efforts, it makes me laugh and eases some of the nerves as he shoos me away.
The market is quiet at this time of day. Most people have finished setting up their stalls and are standing next to them, chatting to other stallholders over cups of takeaway coffee from the hot drinks counter. It’s almost light outside and there’s a cold breeze blowing in through the open front. As I pass Fergus and Iain, Fergus calls across to the man selling hats and scarves at the next stall and tells him that I’ve bought Peppermint Branches, and it makes it surprisingly easy to start a conversation. As the hat and scarf seller asks me where I’m from and what I was doing before, the lady selling Scottish souvenirs catches wind of the conversation and comes over to join in, and then she drags me across to her stall, gives me a fittingly pine-scented air freshener of the Scottish flag, and introduces me to the woman who sells handmade candles on the stall behind her. Before I know it, I’ve been given a sampler candle, a loaf of bread from the breadmaker, the souvenir woman has weaved a string of tiny paper flags into my plait, the bookseller has gone through his stall and handed me a book about Britain’s native trees, and if anyone pays me another compliment on my hair, which I haven’t evenbrushedthis morning, I might burst into tears.
People are sonicehere. Customers have started wandering around the undercover part of the market and are joining in the conversations. I lose track of how many people ask me about Peppermint Branches reopening and tell me how much they’ve missed it and that they’re looking forward to getting their tree there again this year.
There’s an artist who sells framed prints of his work and does bespoke sketches of children and beloved pets while customers wait, who pulls out his phone and shows me a painting he did at Peppermint Branches years ago, and a lady who sells intricate glass art, from jewellery and ornaments to wind chimes and suncatchers, who tells me she used to get inspiration from walking through the Christmas trees.
I feel a fizzle of glee when I spot a shoe seller with a pair of wellies on display, and thankfully he has them in my size. The black rubber boots come up almost to my knee and are comfier than any of the shoes I currently own, even though I’m only buying them as a figurative two-fingered gesture at Noel. As I’m paying, I spot something else. Tucked away right at the back is a little booth with a twenty-something lad and his laptop sat behind it, advertising custom printing, logo design, postcards, flyers, banners, business cards, and other promotional materials. Like a tiny Scottish Vistaprint.
I stand there and stare at him for a moment. I could get business cards and flyers made up, couldn’t I? It’s all very well and good to concentrate on reopening the farm, but it’ll all be for nothing if no oneknowsit’s reopening. On one hand, it’s bound to be a big expenditure, and I might fail. What if Ican’tlearn everything I need to learn? What if I can’t shear Christmas trees? What if I don’t manage to cut them and carry them and the tractor doesn’t start and the wreaths fall apart? What if the insurance is rejected or the seasonal farmhands refuse to work for such a newbie, and it just gets nearer and nearer to December and I can’t open on time?
In my head, I can hear my mum’s voice saying, ‘what if youcan?’
I should ask Noel where he advertises, but he’s already been so helpful, and has promised to come over and board up my empty window frames and roof this afternoon. I can’t rely on him to tell me what to do at every turn. I have to stand on my own – I look down at the bag from the shoeseller in my hand – welly-booted feet.
I approach the guy in the booth with caution, but he greets me with such a wide smile that it makes me think he doesn’t get much business. I tell him about Peppermint Branches, and he suggests designing a logo and getting flyers made up, along with postcards to advertise the grand reopening, and a set of normal business cards. I sit behind his booth and watch as he pulls up software on his laptop and throws together some logo ideas. It doesn’t take long for me to settle on a red-bordered one with a few simple Christmas trees in shades of green, that he manages to make look like they’re growing out of the word Peppermint Branches in an earthy font. His prices aren’t too unreasonable, even on my budget, and he tells me they’ll be ready to collect from next Friday onwards.
I feel quite proud of myself as I say hello to owners at a few more stalls on the way back to Noel’s pumpkin stand, my bag gradually getting heavier because I can’t resist buying some of the locally made cheeses, shortbread biscuits, and homemade fudge from the sweet stall.
When I get back, Noel’s wearing the black cargo trousers and navy plaid shirt that he was earlier, but his sleeves are rolled up around his elbows now. He’s taken the bodywarmer off, gone are the hat and ponytail, and in their place is a headband. A black headband with four plastic pumpkins spread across the width of it, standing out on springs and bobbing around with every movement.
‘Wow,’ I say, at a bit of a loss for any other words in the face of a springy pumpkin headband.
He grins and reaches up to a little battery pack behind his ear to flick a switch, and the pumpkins start flashing so brightly that I can see the reflection of the pulsing orange lights in the concrete floor.
‘Amazing, right? They can be seen from right across the market.’
He makes this sound like a good thing. ‘Well, of all the things I expected when I got back, battery-operated headgear wasn’t one of them. Youseriouslywear that every day?’
‘Every day I’m here, aye. If my farmhands cover the market shift then they wear it. I can get you a Christmas tree one, if you want?’
‘Oh, I think I’ve got enough challenges ahead without adding flashing neon hairbands to the list, but thanks.’
The pumpkins jump around centimetres above his head on their springy stalks. It’s like some sort of demented tiara from Tim Burton’sThe Nightmare Before Christmas, and his whole face breaks into a grin as he shakes his long hair back, which shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is. He dips his head towards me, amusement dancing in his blue-green eyes that never leave mine as the flashing pumpkins rattle around. How does he still manage to look gorgeous? I never believed that someone as rugged and effortlessly sexy as Noel would wear neon flashing headgear, but he manages to pull it offandstill look hot.
All thoughts are cut off by a squeal from the bathbomb stall next to us, and a lilac-haired lady in her seventies appears at my side and clamps her hands around my arm.
‘This is Fiona,’ Noel says to me and then turns to her. ‘And this is—’
‘Leah’s coming for a coffee with me and Fergus!’ Her hands tighten around my arm and she drags me away, surprisingly strong for her age. I can’t help smiling as I follow her in all her pastel-coloured glory, complete with bright lilac bob cut, a lemon blouse and pale pink skirt, and neon plastic jewellery.
Iain has left and Fergus has disappeared from his stall as she pulls me across to the far end of hers. It smells like the best Lush shop I’ve ever walked past, and is full of rows of gorgeous-smelling bathbombs, fizzers, butters, and bubblebars.
Fiona sits down on one of her stools and starts filling me in on every bit of gossip about every person in the market, despite the fact I don’t know any of them. She manages to cram an impressive amount into the few minutes before Fergus appears behind us and makes me jump with his sprightliness because I hadn’t heard him approach. Despite the walking stick, he’s managing to carry a tray of three cardboard cups and a biscuit from his stall. ‘Hello, lass. I’m so glad my Iain’s going to be working for you. He missed that place so much when it closed.’
Before I have a chance to reply, he pushes one of the cups into my hand and bashes his own against it like he’s making a toast. ‘A coffee to welcome you to Elffield Christmas market.’ He also hands me the gingerbread biscuit, wrapped in a paper bag and covered by cellophane, and I try to work out what it might be without showing my surprise at the sight of a gingerbread … trombone? It might be a trombone. I’ve never seen biscuits in the form of brass instruments before.
