Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm: A cosy and uplifting Christmas romance

by Jaimie Admans

  Whatever it is that I don’t say, Chels hears it anyway. ‘You know, when you called me earlier, I put my legal hat on and tried to remember everything I’ve learned from work about property law. I thought we’d spend this coffee picking through terms and conditions while you begged me to find a loophole to get you out of this contract, but I don’t need to, do I?’

  I think about it for a moment because it’s what I expected too. Chels is an assistant at a big London law firm, she’s the perfect person to ask for legal advice if I wanted to back out of this. ‘I felt like I lit up last night,’ I say eventually. ‘I can’t remember the last time I felt as alive as when I won that auction. I know it’s crazy, but something drove me to stay online and not talk myself out of it. I expected to regret it in the morning, but I don’t. I’m excited, and it’s the first time I’ve been excited about anything in a really long time. Or maybe I’m just jittery from the six bucketfuls of coffee I had before I left the flat.’

  ‘You do know how dodgy it is to buy a property without even seeing it? What about a surveyor? You don’t know anything about this place.’

  I shrug. Honestly, I’ve never bought a property before, I don’t know the first thing about what I should have done before handing over that amount of cash, but it’s a bit late now. ‘There are pictures?’ My voice sounds feeble and pitifully hopeful even to my own ears.

  She holds her hand out for my phone, and I slide my thumb up the screen and go to my most visited browser tab. Over the past week, the auction listing for the Christmas tree farm has been at the top of my internet history. I had a look as soon as I heard about it and spent a few minutes fantasising about owning a Christmas tree farm, instantly dismissed it as a silly daydream and went back to real life. But since then, whenever things have been slow at work or I’ve been on my lunchbreak, I’ve found myself pulling out my phone and going back there, staring at the photos that show fields and fields of uniform green trees, tall ones that tower above the photographer, medium ones, and tiny saplings planted row by row in fields of grass and earth.

  Chelsea scrolls through my phone, expanding the pictures and squinting at them, reading aloud from the closed listing. ‘Twenty-five acres, five species of tree ready for harvesting, dwelling included that needs renovation … Don’t you think “dwelling” is an odd way to describe a house?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ I say because it’s something that’s been bothering me too, but by the time I’d decided I was going to go for it, it was too late to ask any questions. ‘It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Chels. Someone else was bidding as well, and I was going to lose it if I didn’t go for it then and there. How often do you see a Christmas tree farm up for sale and at a price you can afford? I made a split-second decision. It doesn’t matter what state the farmhouse is in. My flat’s not exactly posh, is it?’ I think of the dark stairwells that always smell of pee, and you count yourself lucky if pee is the only stench. It’s got to be better than that. ‘All right, so maybe it needs a bit of cleaning and decorating, but I can do that. There’s no point worrying about it now, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s a bit odd that they haven’t even included a picture of it …’ She looks up at my face and trails off.

  All right, it is an odd way to describe the cute country farmhouse nestled among a garden of Christmas trees that I’m imagining, and it is unusual that there isn’t a picture of it. ‘Maybe they thought the fact it needs renovation might put buyers off? Maybe it’s got, like, boarded-up windows and stuff and they didn’t think it added to the appeal so they left it out of the auction listing?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She sips her coffee in an attempt to hide the look of apprehension on her face. ‘I’m sure it’s not important. At least you know there’s a dwelling of some sort there. It probably just needs a coat of paint. I’ve got some spare Dulux in the shed if you want to take it with you?’

  I love her for being supportive even though she thinks I’m a maniac. Even I think I’m a maniac. But it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I’m not sorry I went for it. I just hope I feel the same once I actually get there.

  ‘You might find your very own David Tennant!’ She squeals out loud at the thought and then ducks her head when several other customers turn to look at us.

  Chelsea’s current sexuality could best be described as ‘David Tennant in Broadchurch.’ She and Lewis missed it on TV and have recently binge-watched the boxset. Their surname is actually Miller, and Chels has never found anything sexier than the way David Tennant says ‘Miller’ in the show, apart from the way he says ‘murder’. Even poor Lewis has been forced into doing impressions. I imagine that all their neighbours hear most days is them shouting ‘Miller’ and ‘murder’ at each other in bad Scottish accents. It’s a shame David Tennant isn’t actually a policeman because I’m sure someone would’ve called him by now.

  ‘Ooh, Richard Madden from Bodyguard. Now there’s a hot Scot if ever there was one!’

  ‘I’m not looking for a man, no matter how sexy or Scottish they may be. Steve was enough of a mistake for one year. I’m going to concentrate on Christmas trees for a while.’ I give her a false grin that she knows is false. ‘Seriously, Chels. Steve was the last straw for me when it comes to men. I need to learn the trade of Christmas tree farming, not lust after Scottish men. That’s my mantra from now on: no men, just trees.’ She goes to protest but I interrupt her. ‘Not even if Richard Madden himself turns up.’

  She sighs like I’m a lost cause. ‘Just find me a sexy Scottish bloke who rolls his Rs and doesn’t mind saying “murder” a lot.’ She drags the R out like a cat’s purr.

  ‘If I find anyone who actually speaks like that, I’m going to call the local zoo to check for missing animals in heat. And you seem to have forgotten that you’re married.’

  ‘I only want him to speak! I don’t want to sleep with the man or anything. Although I wouldn’t mind if you found one with good thighs and a penchant for wearing kilts in the traditional way … you know, sans underwear. Purely for educational purposes, obviously. To learn about Scottish culture.’

  ‘You can find him yourself when you come up to stay with me.’

  ‘Hah!’ She bursts into laughter, causing the customers who looked at us earlier to turn around and peer at us again. ‘It’s October. It’s freezing and we’re in London which has already got a good ten degrees on the rest of the UK. If you think I’m going to the back end of beyond in the middle of winter, you can guess again. Invite me next summer if the stars align and there’s a heatwave, the rain stops, and all the Scottish midges go away. Does Scotland even get a summer? And you’d better check out this “dwelling” before you start inviting visitors, you might only have room for guests of the equine variety.’

  ‘You’re my best friend. You’re meant to be supportive.’

  ‘I am supportive. I’d just be a lot more supportive if you’d bought a vineyard on the French Riviera. Then I’d help you move and probably stay on as your employee to help you out. You could pay me in wine and French pastries. Do you think it’s too late to exchange it for a French vineyard?’

  ‘You should’ve bought a vineyard and I should’ve bought a chocolate factory and then we’d have been set for life. Wine and chocolate, who needs anything else?’ I grin. ‘Don’t you think a Christmas tree farm sounds magical though? Even the name gives me little tingles of joy. It sounds so delightfully festive, and those photos make it look so pretty. All those trees blowing in the breeze … You can imagine it in the snow, reindeer grazing all around, Santa’s elves dancing around the tree trunks while jingle bells ring in the distance …’

  I can tell she’s questioning my sanity. Maybe elves aren’t quite the best thing to base your property-buying decisions on.

  ‘Your mum and dad would be so proud,’ she says eventually. ‘Your dad used to love getting his Christmas tree every year, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, and Mum always used to spend the whole of Christmas mo
aning about pine needles on the carpet, even though she loved Christmas more than any other time of year and always said it wouldn’t be the same without Dad’s tree making a mess in the middle of the room.’ I tear up at the memory and Chelsea reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  ‘They’d love this.’

  I nod and try to will the tears away. They really, really would. Is that subconsciously what drew me to the listing? After they died, I was left their house, but apart from my job and flat being in London, I could never face moving back there with them gone. The best thing to do was to let it be a happy family home for another family, like it was for us when I was growing up. I wasn’t sure what to do when the money from the sale came through. Chelsea’s advice was to get on the property ladder because I’ve moved from rented flat with crappy landlord to rented flat with even crappier landlord for the past few years, but I’ve never found anywhere that felt like home.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving to become a Christmas tree farmer. Talk about random.’ Chelsea sips her latte again. ‘You hadn’t even considered it twenty-four hours ago.’

  I had. I just didn’t realise that my hours of daydreaming about Peppermint Branches were considering it. ‘That’s the thing about fate. Sometimes things happen that you’re not really in control of.’

  ‘Also known as Prosecco? And the things that usually happen are drunken texts to exes and shoes you can’t walk in, not Christmas tree farms.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I say, even though there are hazy memories of us having girls’ nights out which ended in both messy texts and inadvisable shoes. ‘I don’t have any doubt about this. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m doing the right thing.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much I’m going to miss you?’ She bangs her head down on her folded arms on the table and short blonde hair flops over her forehead. ‘I don’t even know what to say, other than good luck. I think you’re going to need it.’

  I grin at her. ‘No, I’m not. It’s going to be perfect, you’ll see. Nothing could possibly go wrong.’

  Chapter 2

  Two weeks later, after handing in notice to my landlord, squeezing all my important belongings into every spare centimetre of my car, and leaving the rest in Chelsea’s garden shed, I’m off up the M40 in my tiny blue Peugeot. Only six hundred miles to go. But the distance doesn’t matter. Nothing has ever felt as right as this. I’m not someone who takes risks or does things without thinking them through, and in the fortnight it’s taken me to pack up my tiny flat and give my keys back to the landlord, no modicum of doubt has crept in yet.

  Even though Chelsea was very keen to let me know there’d always be a place for me on her sofa if it all goes horribly wrong.

  It’s the middle of October, but I’m moving to a Christmas tree farm, so it’s only right to put on my Christmas playlist. The autumn weather is gorgeous as I drive north on a sunny Tuesday morning, listening to a carefully curated selection of Christmas classics. By the time I’ve detoured around Manchester, I’ve been on the road for six hours, and the afternoon light is fading fast. I stop for the night at a B&B before facing another five-ish hours on the motorway the next morning, singing along to Mariah Carey, Michael Bublé, and Cliff Richard, and everything feels different as I cross the border. I grin at the blue and white Scottish flag road sign declaring ‘Welcome to Scotland’ as I pass it.

  Even the endless motorways seem prettier. There are green fields all around and wind turbines spinning in the distance, and the scenery gets even better as I join the traffic towards Aberdeenshire. The sea is far off to my right and the mid-afternoon sun reflects off the water, creating an almost blinding sunburst. As the motorways change into narrow roads, there are fields of lush green trees everywhere I look. The grassy verges at the roadside are a healthy shade of green even though it’s nearly winter, and the farmland around me is all recently harvested fields full of bales of hay, interspersed with patches of uniform dark green fir trees. It gives me a little thrill every time I see them. The roads are lined with a fence of trees towering above the car, a perfect screen separating road and farmland, the remnants of yellow hay peeking through from the other side. I feel a flutter in my belly as I get nearer and nearer to the village of Elffield.

  There are neat patches of evergreen trees in the distance and I keep glancing towards them and wondering if they’re mine. Is Peppermint Branches that close? I have no idea how big the land is in reality. Twenty-five acres sounds like a lot, but how far does that actually stretch? How many trees will be growing in that kind of space? The satnav is beeping and telling me that I’m nearing my destination, but it’s a bit weird because the nearer I get, the more the trees surrounding the road start to thin out. Instead of pretty patches of lush green, the car crawls up a narrow road surrounded by a forest of the skeleton branches of dead trees, fenced in by what looks like shredded chicken wire. Surely I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere? I glance at the satnav but it still shows that Peppermint Branches should be straight ahead.

  This must all be my neighbour’s land. Whoever he is, he doesn’t maintain his trees very well. Any minute now, I’m going to come out the other side and see rows of beautiful emerald Christmas trees.

  But my satnav is repeatedly telling me that I’ve reached my destination, and in a big driveway set back from the road, there’s a man in a smart suit leaning against the door of the shiniest black car I’ve ever seen. He pushes himself upright and steps forward as I approach, like he’s waiting for someone. But it must be a mistake. He couldn’t possibly be the estate agent I was supposed to meet here and there’s no way he’s waiting for me, because this is not Peppermint Branches.

  Peppermint Branches was all green trees and Christmassy goodness. It looked like somewhere you’d sing Christmas carols and hear the jingling of Santa’s elves. If you heard any jingling around this place, it would be because the elves were running away as fast as their jingling little feet could carry them.

  And that … dwelling … behind him. It couldn’t be the dwelling, could it? It’s only got half a roof and its windows are a thing of history. There’s green ivy scrambling up one side that looks like it’s doing a better job of holding the building together than the crumbling bricks themselves.

  I’m so distracted that I nearly mow the man down as he starts walking towards my car. He’s definitely coming over with intent. Surely this is all some terrible mistake and whoever he’s really waiting for will be along any second. My satnav must’ve made a mistake bringing me here. I can ask him for directions and be on my way.

  I stop the car and don’t bother to turn the engine off, I’m not staying. I roll my window down as he approaches.

  ‘Miss Griffiths?’

  I freeze. He knows my name. That’s not a good sign. This can’t actually be Peppermint Branches … can it?

  The building was a cute farmhouse once, but not for many years. No wonder they described it as a dwelling, and that’s pushing it a bit. I don’t think even bats would fancy dwelling in it. And the trees. Where are the trees? There are fields of trees on both sides of the road, but not one of them looks like it’s still living.

  ‘Miss Griffiths?’ The man in the smart suit leans down so his head appears in the car window, not looking too happy about having to repeat himself. ‘Welcome to Peppermint Branches. Congratulations on your purchase.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ I turn the engine off and swing my legs out of the car door. One foot sinks immediately into a muddy puddle. Congratulations, indeed.

  I squelch as I try to heave myself out of the mud and onto the weed-covered gravel driveway. God, it’s grim. The sunlight from earlier has faded to a dull grey sky that looks like it’s considering getting dark even though it’s only half past three. The endless skeletons of dead trees rise up against the horizon. I glance behind me at the ‘dwelling’ and look away quickly in case I burst into tears, because tears seem like a distinct possibility. It was supposed to be a flourishing little
Christmas tree farm. This looks more like someone’s done the place up early for Halloween. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He sounds like he doesn’t understand why I’m questioning it. ‘I’m from Scottish Pine Properties. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘This is nothing like it looked on the website.’ I struggle to find words for how shocked I am.

  ‘Well, it does say that we encourage viewings. We recommend all potential buyers pop by for a look around before making a decision.’

  ‘Pop by? I live six hundred miles away!’ I snap, feeling a bit guilty because he’s not exactly wrong, is he? It’s what Chelsea tried to say before I stopped her. Who would be stupid enough to spend their entire life’s savings on a property that they’d never even seen?

  ‘Yes, I’m glad you’ve arrived, I’ve been waiting for ages. Here’s the paperwork.’ He pushes a clipboard towards me with blue page markers at the places I need to sign.

  ‘The photos made it look different.’ I ignore the clipboard in his hand. ‘What happened to the trees? They’re all dead.’

  He glances behind him like this is surprise news. ‘Well, it’s winter, isn’t it? Trees drop their leaves at this time of year.’

  ‘They’re meant to be Christmas trees. They’re evergreen by definition.’

  ‘Not these ones.’ He gives me a cheerful shrug and looks at the field of bare branches to our left again. ‘I suppose the photos may have been a little outdated …’

  ‘A little outdated?’ I repeat. ‘Judging by the state of the trees, it looks like they were taken centuries ago!’

  ‘They were taken when the property went on the market, and it’s been on the market for a very long time. No misrepresentation here.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I say, is that the time? It really is late, isn’t it?’ He feigns a look at his watch, completely ignoring my question.