Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

by Jaimie Admans

  ‘A tree stand would be wonderful!’ Fiona calls as we back away. ‘I can make a pretty skirt for it, don’t you worry about that!’

  At the pumpkin stall, Noel picks up the stack of two empty wooden crates and carries it with one hand, swinging it along beside him like it weighs nothing as we walk towards the side entrance of the market where his truck is parked.

  ‘You got totally taken advantage of there, you know that, right?’

  ‘What, for the tree?’ He nods and I shrug. ‘I don’t mind. It’d be nice to get off on the right foot with the locals. Besides, the market is gorgeous, it deserves a real tree, and I can easily spare one.’

  ‘And some little ones for the corners. You’d be surprised how many “corners” Fiona can find in this market.’

  ‘It’s fine. I have thousands. I don’t need them all.’

  ‘The generous spirit of a terrible businesswoman.’

  ‘You can talk. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard about you doing things for the community this morning. I think they’re petitioning to get you a knighthood.’

  His cheeks redden as we walk along in the middle of the lane, dodging shoppers at the stalls on either side, but he doesn’t say anything else.

  ‘So, magical mince pies, huh?’

  ‘Aye, and the only thing magical about them is that no one’s died after eating one.’ He glances at me. ‘Yet.’

  He looks behind us to check no one’s listening and gives Fergus a wave over his shoulder. ‘Every year, he gives ‘em away to anyone who comes past because he’s long since given up on finding any poor unsuspecting soul gullible enough to actually pay for them. His wife used to do all the cooking and he ran the stall, but she passed away eight years ago, and he took over doing both jobs. He got her gingerbread recipe right, but god knows where he’s gone wrong with the mince pie recipe because each year they’re systematically worse than the year before, bless him. He was thinking of quitting a couple of years ago but then Fiona came along and gave him something to stay for.’

  I look behind me to see Fergus and Fiona deep in conversation by the bathbomb stall. ‘Why do I get the feeling you have a little something to do with that?’

  ‘Me? Meddle in pensioners’ love lives?’ He does a gasp of mock indignation. His truck is on the pavement outside the trade entrance, and he swings the crates up into the empty bed and walks round to the driver’s side. ‘I don’t know where you’d get an idea like that.’

  ‘Yeah, who knows.’ I hop into the passenger side and grin at the way a smile creeps onto his face while he crawls down the main street in Elffield, which is full of people on the pavements, all heading towards the market.

  ‘What did you wish for?’ he says, out of the blue as we turn onto a country lane surrounded by green fields.

  ‘Am I allowed to tell you or will that mean it won’t come true?’

  ‘Do you really think any wish on that mince pie is going to come true?’

  ‘For things to get better,’ I say without really thinking about it.

  ‘What things?’ He pauses. ‘Sorry, that was intrusive and insensitive. It’s nothing to do with me. Most people wish for avoiding a trip to the dentist after one of Fergus’s mince pies. Not getting food poisoning is also a useful wish.’

  I grin at the joke, but there’s something about him that makes me feel like I could share anything and he’d understand. ‘I feel like things haven’t been … right … for a couple of years now.’ I struggle to find the right word. ‘It’s why I’m here, why I bought the tree farm. Because I was desperately searching for a way to make things feel right again.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ he says quietly.

  I wait for him to expand, but he doesn’t, and I’m not sure what else to say without breaking down in tears, and Noel’s seen me cry enough for one forty-eight-hour period.

  ‘So,’ he says after a long silence, and I realise I’ve just been staring at his hands and the way his forearms flex every time they tighten on the steering wheel. ‘I know why Fiona drags people off for cups of coffee. What strands of gossip do I have to clear up?’

  ‘Well, the woman who runs the children’s clothing stall’s guinea pig has just had babies but they aren’t sure which male guinea pig is the father, and someone’s hairdresser saw one of her client’s husbands out with another woman, and he said it was his sister but no one believes him.’

  He laughs. ‘Yes, and?’

  I give him an innocent look.

  ‘I know Fergus and Fiona. What did they tell you about me?’

  ‘You were a Londoner once.’

  He doesn’t react. ‘Yes, once. And I’m 38, single, my shoe size, the results of my last blood test, the date of my last haircut, the brand of bathroom cleaner I buy every week … I know what they’re like.’

  ‘You buy bathroom cleaner every week? Who cleans their bathroom that often?’

  He bursts out laughing. ‘It was a metaphor for their pushy oversharing. I promise I don’t buy bathroom cleaner every week.’

  I laugh too. ‘Oh, thank god. I’d started to get worried there for a minute.’

  His tongue twiddles the lip piercing because it moves, glinting in the autumn sun shining through the window, and I suddenly feel hot and flushed. Thinking about Noel’s tongue is seriously hazardous to health.

  I force myself to look away and think of something else. ‘What Fergus said earlier – is the market really in trouble?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of. It’s great at this time of year because it’s a buzzing Christmas market. It’s on a couple of “best of’” lists online so tourists come, people come to the UK and do tours of all the best Christmas markets, and that’s great, but from January to September, it’s not like that. It’s quiet, the only people who shop there are loyal locals and the other traders. It’s a big space and it’s only profitable for four months a year, so the council have been making noises about relocating the traders and flattening it to build a new bus interchange. There’s one in Peterhead that’s being demolished and local councils are competing to be the new location.’

  ‘Bus interchange?’ I say in surprise. ‘Aren’t the roads too narrow? Your truck barely fitted down the main street. How would that work?’

  ‘Exactly. How do you widen roads without taking down the houses on either side? There’s already talk of compulsory purchase orders on the people who live there. If we lose the market, Elffield as we know it will literally be flattened.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ There’s a pang in my stomach and my heart speeds up. Surely it’s not normal to feel this attached to somewhere you’ve only been once?

  ‘Funding has been cut further every year, to the point where there’s no money for anything now, not even the most basic of repairs. We have to club together and pay for essential maintenance ourselves, which is another chunk out of our earnings that most of us can’t afford to lose, and people are seriously starting to consider giving up. Lots of them have been there since the early days and are long past retirement age, and there comes a point when the work on their products, the setting up every day, the early mornings, the cold weather … it’s not worth it anymore. I’ve had a feeling for a while now that this will probably be the last year that Elffield market exists as we know it.’ His voice breaks and I look over at him, but he keeps his eyes resolutely on the road.

  ‘What about the relocation?’

  ‘There’s nowhere to relocate to. If they relocate us, it’s going to be to some industrial estate a couple of miles away, somewhere that no one walks past and little old ladies can’t toddle down to with their shopping trolleys. The whole point is that the market is local and convenient, anyone who pops to the post office or needs a pint of milk wanders in because it’s on the doorstep. If they make it a car journey, a parking fee, or a bus ride away, who’s going to bother?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘It’s been coming for a long time no
w. If we have an amazing Christmas season, we might be able to delay it for another year, but we’ve all been trying to figure out how to add year-round interest and none of us have managed it yet. We’d need sponsors or local businesses advertising or something, and that’s fine when you’ve got Christmas tourists coming in, but impossible during the months that you haven’t.’

  ‘People keep mentioning me selling trees there … I was surprised by how many pumpkins went this morning, but are people really going to buy trees like that?’

  ‘You’ll be surprised. Peppermint Branches is the only tree farm for miles. People have got to drive a heck of a long way to get a real tree since Evergreene died. Most don’t bother. You’ve already got more of a fanbase than you realise, and Fiona is right that having a huge tree right in the entrance of the market with a Peppermint Branches sign next to it will be amazing advertising.’ He looks over at me and quickly swivels his eyes back to the road. ‘And half the stall is yours from mid-November.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one buys pumpkins once Halloween is over. From mid-November, I use the stall only to sell my mum’s baked goods and a crate or two of culinary pumpkins and a bit of winter veg. You’re far too late to get a stall of your own now, they’re in high demand and the last space for rent had sold out by March, so you and your trees can take the space of the pumpkins until after Christmas. I’ve got a good spot and I don’t need it all. Why shouldn’t we share it?’

  ‘Why?’ I say, so surprised by such a kind gesture that I can’t find the words. ‘Why would you do that? I mean, I’ll pay you whatever the rent is, but I don’t … I didn’t know they were in such demand—’

  ‘Lee, it’s fine.’ He reaches over and touches my hand where it’s resting on my thigh, and I wish the warmth of his fingers would linger before he quickly pulls them away. ‘And I’m paying the rent anyway because it’s too good a spot to give up, so don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ He looks at me and quickly back at the road again. ‘My wish on the mince pie was that Peppermint Branches would be a success. I’ve thought for years that the place would be demolished, and if you’re not going to do that, then I’m going to do everything in my power to help you, because Evergreene was like family to me. It’s what he would’ve wanted, and it’ll be good for Elffield.’

  We’re coming up to the first of his pumpkin fields and I can’t take my eyes off them as we pass. They look like someone’s about to sing ‘Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo’ and turn them all into fairytale carriages, and it makes me feel more positive than I have in years. ‘Then you know what? Let’s make this the best Christmas that market has ever seen, even if it’s the last one. Let’s make it a Christmas to remember.’

  ‘To a Christmas to remember.’

  I’m grinning wider than I have for months as we drive towards the sun twinkling in the sky, making the trees in the distance look dark green and perfect.

  Chapter 8

  ‘And you had the nerve to insult my neon flashing pumpkin headband,’ Noel says as I open the door.

  ‘I’m cleaning.’ I become the epitome of sophistication by poking my tongue out at him as he stands on the doorstep.

  ‘I see that.’ He reaches over and plucks a dust bunny from my hair, which has started to tumble down from the knot I tied it in.

  I pull away but I don’t know why. He saw me first thing this morning; Marigolds up to my elbows and messy hair aren’t any worse than that sight, which was terrifying enough to send even the most haphazard of scarecrows running for cover.

  He’s got boards of wood under his arm, a huge toolcase in his hand, and a holdall slung over his shoulder. Glenna appears behind him with Gizmo under her arm, carrying her own bucket of cleaning products and rubber gloves. ‘Come to help, flower.’

  ‘Gizmo’s going to help too,’ Noel says. ‘Assuming a vital job is keeping a Chihuahua-sized spot on your sofa warm.’

  ‘Giz!’ I pull the gloves off with my teeth and push past Noel on the step to get to the little dog when he starts wagging his tail so hard that it looks like Glenna’s having trouble keeping hold of him. I offer him my hand, which he sniffs and licks, and then I give him a double ear rub when he moves from sniffing to trying to nudge my hand onto his head. He strains in Glenna’s arms to get closer, and I can’t resist his happy little brown and white face. I bend down to rub my nose against his, but accidentally get a bit too close and a slimy doggy tongue swipes across my mouth.

  As I splutter, Noel’s laughing so hard he has to lean against the doorframe. ‘I know which member of the Roscoe family I’d rather kiss too.’

  I follow him and Glenna inside, glad the farmhouse is looking marginally better than it did on the first night. After coming back from the walk with Noel and Gizmo yesterday, I found my way to the nearest supermarket to buy food and just about every product in the cleaning aisle. I spent the rest of the evening scrubbing, mopping, turning furniture the right way up, hoovering with a vacuum cleaner I found in the cupboard under the stairs, washing out the fridge and kitchen cupboards so I could actually put my food away, cleaning the bath so I could wash after such a sweaty day, and not worrying about how much water and electricity I was using until the bills come in next month.

  I didn’t expect any help with cleaning, but seeing Glenna and Noel come to help touches me in a way I’ve never known before, and I have to turn away for a moment and blink furiously to stop tears forming.

  They both have their own work to do – Noel has made no secret of how busy he is in October more than any other month – but they’ve both come to help me because some people are just that kind.

  Even though this farm is more isolated than I’ve ever been, and I’ve left all my friends and colleagues six hundred miles away, for the first time in the two years since my parents died, I feel like I’m not alone.

  ***

  While Noel’s upstairs hammering boards across the window frames, Glenna and I tackle the rest of the kitchen, and it turns out she’s an expert cleaner with tips and tricks for everything, and between us we make fairly quick work of the kitchen and bathroom, to the soundtrack of Gizmo’s adorable snores as he sleeps on the sofa with Noel’s jacket covering him.

  Noel’s moved onto the roof when Glenna and Gizmo leave. I’m on a roll with cleaning now and want to keep up the momentum because I know I’ll probably fall asleep if I sit down. I tell Noel to shout loudly if he falls off, slip my welly-boots on and grab one of the garden forks and a scythe from the barn, and head out to tackle some weeding, pulling on gardening gloves as I walk.

  One of the books I bought says that Nordmann firs and Norway spruces are the most popular trees sold in Britain, so I decide they’re the two fields I need to get ready to open first. If that’s all I can do, then it’ll be better than nothing for this year. With Iain starting next week and the seasonal workers in November, if we can get all of them sheared and the two fields weeded between us, that’ll be a good enough start for this year, especially with the Peppermint firs as well. The balsams and the spruces will have to wait.

  I try not to acknowledge how daunted I feel as I open the gate and look out at the vast forest that greets me. It looks so much bigger now than it did with Noel explaining things and Gizmo running around tree trunks. Now it looks like there are at least a thousand firs spread out in front of me, the staggered planting making them all different ages and heights, branches so overgrown that they’re tangling with the branches of the next tree, and so many weeds that I can barely get near some of them.

  I knew it would be a challenge. I wanted it to be.

  I just didn’t expect it to be such a jungle that I half-expect Ant and Dec to pop out looking for some celebrities.

  I take the scythe out of its sheath and start where I stand inside the gate, slashing away at the taller weeds, knowing I can’t even begin to start digging their roots up when they’re at this height. I’ve never used a scythe before, b
ut I’ve watched the topless scything scene in Poldark many times, and that’s pretty much the same thing. Who says television isn’t educational? Aidan Turner looks a lot better topless than I do though, and he doesn’t have to worry about boobs getting in the way. I’m not going to try it, but I suspect boobs would be hazardous to topless scything.

  After I’ve cut down a huge patch along the edge of the field, I gather up the limp weeds and pile them in a heap beside the gate. I’ll get a wheelbarrow later and take everything to the composter between two of the tin sheds on the scrubland. I get the fork and push it into the earth, driving it down with my foot, and levering a huge clump of roots out of the soil. I shake the loose mud off and then toss the roots onto the pile too. I move over and heave out another clump, and another, and another, until there’s a space of fresh sandy soil and I’ve freed a couple of metres of the holly hedge from weeds.

  I try not to look at how far I’ve got versus how much there still is to do, and this is only one field. If I think of it as a whole, it’s too much. One step at a time. One patch of weeds and then the next. One tree and then another.

  I run my arm across my forehead to wipe sweat away and stop for a minute to get my breath back. I’ve barely stopped moving all day. It also feels quite … good? My lungs feel full of fresh air and greenery, a healthy feeling, as opposed to the body odour and pollution they feel full of when I get off another crammed train in London. I know I’ll ache tomorrow but I ache at five o’clock when I get up from my desk after a long day of sitting still, and this feels like a much better ache, if aches can be divided into categories of desirable and non-desirable. A much healthier ache.

  I tell myself that as I swish the scythe through another load of stalks and dig up their roots, and another, and another. I know this isn’t the end of it. I know I’ll need to put down herbicide to stop them coming back, and flatten the newly-dug ground enough for customers to walk on it when the farm opens, but for now, it feels good to be outside and doing something productive – something towards making the dream of this farm a reality.