Page 51 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
I’m quite capable of walking on uneven ground, and could easily cross the stream without assistance, but there’s something about his tone that’s so warm and his open hand looks inviting. Against my better judgement, I slip my hand into his and his fingers close around mine, making another little shiver go through me which has nothing to do with the unending drizzle that’s been gradually soaking through my clothes all morning.
We walk carefully through the rows of Norway spruces and across the wide tractor lane between those and the Blue spruces, and the scent becomes sweeter. Noel’s been talking about the different scents of each species, and I’ve always thought they all smelt the same, the generic pine smell of all disinfectants, but walking among them, stroking my fingers down different branches as we pass – I’m starting to notice each individual scent.
The stream weaves along a jagged line between the Blue spruces and the Balsam firs, much shallower here than at the spot where Gizmo tried to jump in the other day. Noel puts a foot on the crumbling bank and steps across the trickle of water, tightening his hold on my hand and then turning to offer me his other one too. I step across the water easily, and even though I don’t need the support of either hand, I still don’t let go as he pulls me up the bank on the opposite side.
‘Does it ever get deeper than this?’ I ask. ‘The river that ran through the village where I grew up was always bursting its banks.’
‘It fills up when we’ve had a bit of rain, but you know Scotland, we’re usually treated to constant drizzle rather than heavy downpours. The banks could probably do with a bit of maintenance because they’re crumbling away, but generally it’s always been shallow enough no matter how much rain we’ve had. A river’s not the best idea for a Christmas tree farm, but years ago, back when Evergreene’s father was still running the place, the local council decided to put a main road through and had to re-route the river, and he was forced to let it run through his land. That’s why it’s sometimes not marked on maps.’
I nod, still surprised by how knowledgeable he is. He seems to knoweverythingabout this place, and every tree, plant, soil, moss, or type of weed. I learn something every time he speaks. ‘Does it cause problems?’
‘It would be a disaster if it flooded. The land slopes downhill, so you’d lose everything below it. And you wouldn’t even know at first because trees can look like they’ve survived periods of stress, but months down the line, they’ll chuck all their needles off and fall over, and only then do you realise that the roots drowned and they’ve been standing there gradually dying ever since. Even if they did survive, they’d be weakened and more susceptible to diseases and insect attacks.’ He glances at me. ‘But don’t worry about it. It hasn’t happened yet, and it’s been decades since the re-route. If you’re that concerned, you could get someone in to dig it out and reinforce the banks, line a load of sandbags along the side, but given the state of the farmland and the trees themselves, I think the river is the last of your problems.’
We leave the trickling stream behind us as we walk through rows and rows of imposing spruces of differing sizes, across another tractor lane. Eventually we get to the hedge that runs along the line where Peppermint Branches meets Roscoe Farm. He brushes a hand along it until he obviously feels some give, because he moves the branches aside. ‘This is the spot. You go first.’
He holds the branches back and our hands drop so I can climb through the gap in the hedge, getting stabbed and prickled by only a few hundred holly thorns. Of all the things you voluntarily climb through, holly isnotone of them.
‘Welcome to my favourite place on the farm.’ He clambers through after me and sets the hedge branches back into position.
‘Wow.’ I can’t help the intake of breath as I look around. We’re in a clearing surrounded by hedge, the ground under out feet is covered with lush green moss, and in the centre is a tree I’d seen on the horizon but hadn’t realised was quite so close. A huge, gnarled old tree, with a trunk so thick it takes a few minutes to walk around its ginormous perimeter. The bare branches are twisted and curled together but there are still patches of greenery in them, the bark is silvery and flaky as it towers above us, so tall that I can’t see the top from down here. If magic exists in the world, this is the kind of place it would be hiding, and I half-expect to see pixies sitting on toadstools and goblins chasing after gnomes as they dash out of sight.
I can feel Noel watching me as I look around in awe. ‘The middle line of this clearing is exactly the spot where our farms meet. It’s the only spot that doesn’t have a fence, wall, hedge, or border between us. Half of this clearing is yours and half is mine.’
It feels like a magical little hideaway, far removed from the rest of the farm. I follow the invisible line he points out. If it was there, it would run directly through the centre of the tree, cutting it in half.
‘Legend has it that a few hundred years ago, long before any of Evergreene’s ancestors owned this land, a boy from this farm was in love with a girl from my farm, but their warring parents forbade anything from happening between them. They secretly met here one autumn, at the point where the properties connect, each bringing a piece of fruit from their respective farms, and both had chosen an apple. They swapped and ate by the light of the moon, and plunged the cores into the earth, where they grew combined, two seedlings sharing their lives to become one huge tree, the only form of togetherness the lovers could ever share.’
‘Aww. You seem like the last person on the planet who’d believe romantic old fairytales like that.’
‘I was just telling you the story behind it. I didn’t say I believed it.’
‘Yeah, but you do. I can tell.’
A grin lights up his face. ‘It’s a nice story. I think if you find a tree that’s stood here for as many years as this one, it’s got to have some history behind it. Why shouldn’t it be a nice fairytale? Evergreene used to say that the apples were poisoned and they died out here, and the tree grew from the seeds in their stomachs when their corpses finally rotted into the earth.’
I laugh at the way his eyes light up. ‘Now that’s more like it.’
‘But my dad always told me the nicer version, so that’s what I’ll stick with. Life is miserable enough without taking the joy out of fairytales too.’ He walks over to the tree, dumps his rucksack on the ground, and sits down on the moss next to the trunk, his back against the aged bark. He looks up at me through his eyelashes and pats the ground beside him.
I don’t hesitate to go and sit there, surprised to find the moss is dry underneath me, the deformed branches and patches of greenery above giving it protection from the drizzle. The trunk is so thick that two of us can easily sit against one side, and Noel wriggles back until he’s leaning on it completely. He lets out a long sigh and tension drains from his body as he relaxes. His eyes drift closed and he inhales and exhales for a few long moments, and my eyes are drawn to him. The way he drops his head back to lean against the trunk, tiny droplets of drizzle coat his dark hair, and the straggly bits blow in the gentle wind, making my desire to tuck them back stronger than ever. I settle back against the trunk, the moss and bark combining to make a surprisingly comfortable seat, and try to follow his lead. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to keep it slow and steady despite the fact that now we’re sitting so close, his aftershave has taken over my senses again. Even the damp green scent of the moss is not as strong as the spicy juniper and patchouli, and the temptation to press my nose into his neck is definitely one better left unexplored.
‘Look up,’ he murmurs.
I tilt my head back and from this angle, I can see that the patches of greenery growing in the knotted old branches have elongated lined leaves with rounded ends and are covered in smooth white berries. ‘Is this a mistletoe tree?’
‘No. Mistletoe doesn’t …’ He shakes his head fondly. ‘Oh, you have so much to learn. Mistletoe doesn’t grow in trees of its own. It’s a parasite that leeches off the nutrients of other trees. This big old thing hasn’t got the energy to produce apples anymore, so the mistletoe grows in it instead. It’s pretty rare in Scotland, but it’s widespread further south.’
‘Wow,’ I mumble, stunned by his knowledge and feeling a bit fluttery at sitting in this beautiful place with this beautiful man who has somehow shared this with me. There’s a sense of magic in the air, a feeling that fairies might flit past our toes at any moment, and I can tell how special this is to Noel.
‘The ancient druids believed mistletoe grew from heaven because it doesn’t have any roots.’ He’s so relaxed that his voice is almost slurring. His hands are limp in his lap, and I wish I could pluck up the courage to trail my fingers down his arm until my hand touches his, but I can’t.
‘Thank you for showing me this,’ I whisper, because speaking normally will break whatever spell we’re under and we’re definitely under some kind of spell because there’s no way I’mreallycontemplating holding his hand or that he’d contemplate letting me.
‘It’s half yours.’ He shifts his head and looks over at me. ‘And just so you know, the only other person I’ve brought here is Gizmo. Well, not person, canine. You know what I mean. Although to be fair, Gizmo’s a better person than most of the humans I know.’
‘Same,’ I mumble, wondering why hehasbrought me here. Surely we both know what you’re supposed to do under mistletoe …
‘There’s plenty of it if you want to cut some and sell fresh bunches this year.’
