Page 49 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
It feels like it’s all starting to come together, but none of it will matter if customers don’t come. It needs to be a good season. Because I don’t know what I’m going to do if it’s not.
Chapter 12
‘Not like that, like this.’
‘Are those your favourite words or what?’ I snap, standing upright to wipe the sweat dripping off my forehead again. It’s three weeks into November now, it’s far too cold to be sweating this much.
Noel grins, his forehead not glistening even slightly, the fit bugger. Another Norway spruce falls effortlessly into his hand and he lays it down gently.
I crouch down and wriggle around the saw that I’ve got stuck in the trunk. Again. My hands stick to the handle because I’m covered in sap. Again.
He stomps over, picks up my gloves from the ground and hands them to me, then he kneels and removes my saw with ease and pats the earth beside him.
It’s drizzling again and the earth is damp, but I reluctantly kneel down and silently apologise to yet another pair of jeans for ruining them. He hands the saw back to me and taps the trunk above the awful hacking half-cut I’ve just made. ‘Try again here, above the damaged bit so you cut it off.’
We’re heading to the market with the first trees this weekend, so it’s my first opportunity to attempt to cut them down. Peppermint Branches opens to the public next weekend, and things are starting to take shape. Between us, we’ve pruned almost two thousand of the spruces and firs, and Iain and the two workers have done a huge amount of the rest. There are only a few hundred overgrown trees left now, and the ground around them is weed-free and solid. We’ve dug up loads and planted them along either side of the lane, and each one is strung with the twinkling outdoor lights I found. The hot chocolate machine and chestnut roaster are installed in the caravan, and Noel and I have been testing them both to ensure quality. Vigorous testing. Multiple times.
But this is the real groundwork – the actual cutting of Christmas trees. Like the shearing, if I can’t do this, I’m going to be a pretty rubbish Christmas tree farmer.
It’s one of the younger spruces I’m trying to cut, but the bow saw grinds to a halt a quarter of the way the through the slim trunk. Again.
Noel rolls his eyes and wriggles the stuck saw until he can get it free.
‘What am I doing wrong?’ This is the third tree I’ve tried to cut this morning and the third one that Noel’s had to rescue from my terrible attempts.
‘No idea. I’m stumped.’ He looks up at me and grins. ‘Stumped, get it?’
‘Your tree puns would be a lot funnier if you didn’t point them out immediately after making them.’
‘You’ve obviouslytwiggedthat my sense of humour is just too sophisticated …’
I do an exaggerated groan. ‘At least that’s a new one. I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve used the stumped one.’
‘Oh, come on. There are prime times for the stumped pun and this is clearly one of them.’ He gestures animatedly at the stumps in front of us and mischief flashes across his blueish-green eyes. ‘At least I’m not making acorn-y joke.’
It should be illegal to laugh at something so terrible, but the look of earnestness on his face makes me guffaw so hard that it takes a few minutes to recover.
He puts the saw back into my gloved hand. ‘Try again. In a straight line. I don’t know why you’re so determined to cut it at an angle. You’re trying to slice it, not hack at it like a chisel. Long smooth strokes. As close to the ground as possible while still giving yourself room to work.’
‘I know,’ I say, because he’s told me ten times, and I’m still cutting too high up, and the saw still inserts itself at a downward angle.
His hand closes around mine. ‘I’d better help. We’re going to run out of trees at this rate. There are only another five-thousand-odd for you to practise on.’
‘Oh, ha ha, almost as funny as the tree puns,’ I murmur as he uses his other hand to push back the lower branches and give me better access to the trunk.
His head is close to mine and his leg is pressed against my thigh as his hand guides mine back to the tree, his fingers covering mine as he makes me hold the saw against the trunk at the correct angle and starts moving it back and forth in strokes much longer and smoother than the ones I was managing. With him in charge, the saw doesn’t catch once, and the narrow trunk is sliced nearly all the way through in seconds.
Noel holds onto a low branch to hold the tree upright. ‘Don’t push it when it starts to lean, that’ll make the bark splinter.’
He jumps to his feet to catch it, and I slide the saw through the last centimetre until the tree falls into his waiting arms and he lays it down.
The tractor is at the edge of the field with the trailer attached for the trees to be piled on and taken back to the barn for netting, before being loaded into Noel’s truck and taken to the market stall on Friday.
I’m quite proud of myself as I stand up and look at the tree lying on the ground. All right, Noel did most of the work, but still. Small victories.
With the next one, he stands at the back to support it and reaches around to hold the lower branches out of the way as I kneel down again and attempt to replicate the sawing movement he’s just shown me. The tree makes some ominous creaking noises, and the saw catches a few times, but after the longest few minutes in history, the blade finally comes out the other side and the tree falls.
Noel lays it down and gives it a not-entirely-disapproving nod.
