Page 41 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘It was a car accident.’ I close my eyes so I don’t have to see anything. ‘Dad died at the scene, Mum died from her injuries two days later in hospital. No one’s fault. An accident. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong patch of black ice on a September evening two years ago.’
He nudges his shoulder against mine again and holds it there for a long moment. I don’t open my eyes, just let myself appreciate the silent gesture of warmth and strength.
‘I think the correct thing to say is I’m sorry, and that’s terrible, and that must’ve been so hard to cope with, but I also get the feeling that you’re sick of mindless platitudes, so I’m just going to say that life is unfair and cruel and leave it there. Because it is. Cruel things happen and somehow you have to keep standing up and carrying on, even though it doesn’t feel worth it some days, because horrible things keep happening and there’s nothing you can do to change them.’
I concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. There’s something about his bluntness that’s so real, and so open and honest – I can’t stop myself pushing it. ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘I was 16 when my dad died. Cancer. Months of watching him gradually deteriorate. Being told by well-meaning family how much my mum would need me to be strong. The distance from friends because teenage boys don’t know what to say to other teenage boys whose fathers are dying. The way people don’t understand that sometimes there’s nothingtosay and that’s okay. The awkward silences with relatives terrified of saying the wrong thing because they aren’t sure if you want to reminisce or if you want to pretend nothing’s different. The sheer terror that something might make you cry, and the overwhelming fear that if you start crying, you might never be able to stop.’
‘The way it makes you want to pull out of life and pull away from everything?’ My eyes are still closed and his shoulder has left mine now, but the hairs on my arms stand on end from the closeness of the brushed cotton shirt covering his arm. His hand is resting right next to mine, and if I reached my fingers out, I could probably touch his.
But I don’t, obviously.
‘Exactly. And you wonder what the point in getting close to anyone ever again is because everyone’s going to leave you anyway, it’s better to protect yourself and be alone?’ He finishes the sentence for me in much more eloquent words than I could ever have chosen.
I lean my head back and look up to catch his eyes and he gives me a gentle smile, and a little fizzle of something sparks between us. If I tilted my head just a bit, it would be so easy to kiss him.
He must feel something too because he clears his throat and turns away, looking intently back towards the pumpkin fields.
‘So you were 16 when you took over the farm?’
‘Are you kidding? No. I ran away.’
I look up at him in surprise and he closes his eyes with a sigh. ‘I was determined that my father dying wouldn’t affect my life. I pushed the grief away and pretended I was fine. The only time I let myself grieve was when I hid in the trees on summer nights and no one knew where I was. I spent that summer helping Evergreene out, isolated with just the trees for company because I could pick up a shearing knife and disappear into those fields. Then, in September, I went to college, pushed away friends and did nothing but schoolwork. I got into a university in London, then I got a job and stayed there. It took until I was 28 to stop running and acknowledge the fact my father had died and it had changed me.’
I clench my fingers to stop myself slipping an arm around him and squeezing tight. There’s an edge of disbelief to his voice even as he’s speaking, like he’s surprised at himself for being so open with a virtual stranger.
I look over, and like he can feel my eyes on him, he slowly opens his until our gaze locks again and his mouth quirks up, giving me a tiny smile that looks soft and vulnerable, and I think it’s a smile that not many people get to see under his grumpy exterior.
Chapter 9
‘Now, we’ll have one here and one there.’ Fiona points to a pillar on either side of the entrance to the market building. ‘Oh, and we could do with a couple outside too to draw attention. Not quite as big as the one in the main entrance, but big enough to see. Seven foot should do it.’
Noel laughs at how thorough she is with her commands as we both follow her around the market and I scribble down notes about her list of tree demands. It’s early and we’ve left Fergus watching the pumpkin stall while he sets out his biscuits, although all he seemed to be watching when we left was his fingers in the jar of Glenna’s pumpkin marmalade that Noel gave him.
‘One could go here.’ She points to a space between the used bookseller and a stall that’s reserved for handmade decorations closer to Christmas. ‘And another over there by the craft beers, and one there by the festive food from around the world stall …’
‘We’re going to have more trees than stallholders soon,’ Noel says.
It’s a quiet Tuesday morning and there will definitely be more trees than customers at this rate. ‘Maybe the trees can take over the stalls and give the workers a break.’
‘As long as they haven’t been out on the lash the night before. You can never get trees with hangovers to turn up on time, and no one wants them puking pine needles over the produce and snaffling up fried breakfasts all morning.’
It makes me giggle and me giggling sets him off too, and we don’t realise we’ve missed Fiona’s latest instruction until she stops in her tracks and turns to face us with her arms folded and a pinched look on her face.
‘Sorry, Fiona.’ Noel tries so hard to adopt a serious face that it makes me laugh even more.
‘Sorry, Fiona.’ I giggle and it makes him start up again too.
Fiona raises an eyebrow, but her face changes from annoyed to knowing, and she gets the same look she always gets when she hears a bit of gossip.
Suitably scolded, I take more notes as she walks us through the market, pointing out where she wants the smaller trees, and saying hello to all the stallholders as we pass.
Fiona stops for a chat with her friend at the candle stall, and I take the opportunity to dash towards the back of the market and collect my business cards, flyers, and postcards from the printing stall. They were ready to collect last week, but I’ve been so busy with the farm that this is the first chance I’ve had to get back here and pick them up. Weeding has been top of the agenda. I reasoned that the seasonal workers who have started now will be experts at shearing trees, but it would help if they could actually get to them first.
I squeak in delight when the lad hands me a box and inside is the most beautiful set of marketing materials I’ve ever seen. They’re perfect. The background is so bright white it almost glistens and the dark green of the trees make the red of the border pop. They look simple and professional and make me feel like a proper tree farmer. If I picked up one of these, I’d want to go there.
‘Whatcha got there, love?’ the candlemaker asks when I get back to where Fiona is still gossiping.
