Page 46 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘Howare you doing that?’ I haven’t even got to grips with the one-handed method yet and he’s twirling both two-foot long blades around like a demented hairdresser.
‘Like this.’ He executes another perfect swish and unwanted branches spray from the tree in a snowstorm of green needles that make the balsam scent even stronger and drop to the ground in a perfect circle.
‘You’re just showing off now.’
He grins. ‘I’m not. But I’ve been doing this for twenty-something years, andyouthought Christmas trees naturally grew in a perfectly symmetrical cone shape.’
I watch as he demonstrates again, but watching Noel is never conducive for concentration, and what I find myself watching is the way his biceps move, straining against the cream and brown flannel shirt with every flick of his knife. He’s wearing faded, holey work jeans and that navy padded bodywarmer again, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, despite the fact there’s a fine mist of drizzle in the air.
He gestures towards the tree in front of me, indicating that I should try again, so I point the knife at the Christmas tree.
‘My name is Inigo Montoya …’
I burst out laughing so hard that I have to drop the knife for safety reasons.
‘Will youstopdoing that?’ I rasp at him. It’s not the firstThe Princess Bridereference he’s made today and I have no doubt that it won’t be the last. ‘Are you trying to make sure I’m terrible at this so I have to beg you for help or what? Are you secretly looking for another job?’
‘I love doing this.’ He shrugs. ‘This is not work to me. You have alotof trees to prune and, no matter how quickly you learn and how many workers you employ, you’re not going to get them all done with less than three weeks until December. Although, like I said, it’s completely the wrong time of year for pruning. We need to do only the ones you intend to sell this year and the rest can be tackled in the spring. The spruces and firs can survive being pruned now, but the new growth becomes harder and more difficult to shape in the future, so you’re setting yourself up for problems down the line, but it’s a choice between that or absolutely no trees for sale this year, apart from the Peppermint firs, and with only those to offer, the crop will be decimated too quickly.’
I pick up the knife again and aim it at the tree, holding it sideways on. I try to mimic the downwards slicing motion he makes look so effortless. There are plenty of branches sticking out from the dense body of the five-foot tall tree in front of me. It cannot be that difficult.
‘Aaargh!’ I decide a battlecry will help as I swoosh the knife down the edge, determined to nip at least a few surplus bits off, unlike the last attempt in which I took a huge chunk out of the poor undeserving tree but somehow managed to avoid all the bits thatshouldhave come off. This time, what actually happens is that I miss the tree completely, and the knife slices down and thwacks blade-first into my shin pad. Maybe they weren’t such a bad idea after all.
When I look up, Noel’s bent double with laughter. I raise an eyebrow because it’s notthatfunny, and eventually he stands up and throws both of his knives onto the ground. ‘Come on, we’re going to have to do theGhostthing.’
‘I don’t think pottery is going to help in this situation.’
‘I don’t think anything’s going to help in this situation.’ His boots make imprints in the freshly weeded earth as he walks towards me. ‘It’s no wonder these trees need to drown their sorrows. Poor buggers. Look what you’ve done to that one.’
He points out my first attempt from earlier, in which I aimed the knife the wrong way and embedded it directly into the heart of the unsuspecting tree’s trunk.
‘Right, c’mere.’ He steps up behind me and the closeness sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with Christmas tree shearing. ‘Okay to touch you?’
I nod, afraid that if I try to talk, it’ll come out as ‘ahrumguurrgh’ or something that makes equal sense.
His chest presses against my back and his hands slide over the protective pads on my arms until his skin touches mine and his fingers cover my hands. He squeezes gently in a way that I’m sure has nothing to do with tree cutting as his elbows fit underneath mine and he somehow uses the strength of his arms to pull me closer. Every inch of his body wraps around me and his chin lands on my shoulder, his barely-there stubble brushing against the side of my neck, and I wish that his bodywarmer wasn’t there because it provides a padded barrier between us.
And that aftershave. I havenevermet a man who smells so good. An earthy mix of juniper and dark patchouli, with a hint of cinnamon that smells different depending on whether he’s warm or cold.
He’s murmuring something about the knife in my ear but I haven’t heard a word of it, and it strikes me that maybe I shouldn’t spendquiteso much time thinking about his aftershave.
His fingers curl around mine and he angles my hand, pressing his head against the side of mine to tilt it sideways. He picks up my second knife and holds it up so both blades touch at the tip, forming a triangle. ‘The branches need to come out in a conical shape from the leader, hold your knives like this as a guide at first, but eventually it’ll be second nature and you can easily eyeball it.’
He lets his knife drop and uses his hand to move mine, pointing out a rough line to follow and the branches that need to come off. ‘Usually there’s much less than this to take off, but you should only have a year’s worth of growth. This time round, you’ve got four years’ worth.’
His voice is barely above a rumble in my ear, and I’m thinking about doing it wrong just so he stays there.
He guides my hand softly until his fingers tighten and he shows me how to angle the knife against the tree and how to judge what needs to come off. All I can think about is the feel of his warm and deliciously solid body pressing against mine.
Comeon, Leah. Christmas trees. Knives. Not hot Scottish pumpkin farmers. I think he must wear that aftershave to make sure it’s impossible to concentrate onanythingaround him.
‘You’ve really got to swing it.’ He manoeuvres my hand in the direction I need to cut. ‘Strong, firm strokes from left to right across your body. Don’t be afraid of getting it wrong. This is something that can’t be taught from a book. The only way you can learn is by doing it. Yes, you’ll lose a couple of trees in the process but that’s part of it. You ready?’
I nod and feel his chin shift against my shoulder. His fingers tighten around mine and raise the knife, bringing it down in a smooth, swift motion, and the tips of the unwanted growth drop to the ground like fallen limbs. He does it again and again, using his feet on either side of mine to gradually shuffle us around the tree, swooshing the knife in downwards strokes, over and over until the overgrown tangle of branches begins to look like a nicely shaped Christmas tree.
Once I’ve got the motion going, his fingers loosen and although his hand stays on mine, he’s no longer guiding the knife, and I’m not sure what feels better – to be doing something worthwhile or to have him standing so close.
When Noel’s satisfied that the tree looks reasonable, he murmurs in my ear again. ‘Now pick your leader and chop the other top branches off. It encourages the tree to grow up nice and straight, and you only need one for the star to go on, so choose the sturdiest and then lop off the rest.’
