Chapter 9
The next morning I’m up early. It’s a dark Monday, but the farmhouse is warm.
Matthew messages to say he got home safely yesterday.
I can picture him in our apartment in the centre of Cardiff, turning on the coffee machine in the temperature-controlled room.
Unlike here: your comfort depends on whether you’re standing by the range or near the front door, where a draught slips around the frame if the curtain isn’t drawn properly.
I feed the dogs and go outside, turning on my head torch, to check the ewes and load up their rack with hay.
I’ll take the old quad bike, I decide. I pick up a bucket of ewe nuts: I don’t know if they’ve been scanned yet to see who’s carrying multiple lambs and needs extra feed.
I’m slipping back into the natural rhythm of farming life, away from planning wedding fairs and Christmas parties in January.
Ffion jumps up behind me on the seat of the old quad, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be here, driving it.
I also find the tools I need to fix the gate and put them into the front basket.
I can probably deal with the hinges, but may need a hand to re-hang it.
I also consider making a sign that tells people to keep their dogs on leads and stick to the footpath.
Respect our animals. I put a lot of energy into sorting out the hinges.
It’s heavy, hard, wet work, not something I’ve done in a long time.
Later, returning to the farmhouse I’m wet and I ache everywhere.
I’d forgotten how cold and isolated you can feel when it’s just you and the animals in the dark with only the light thrown from the head torch.
Ffion and Dewi are now making for the warmth in front of the range, and Dolly, the Jack Russell, will be reluctant to share the space she hasn’t moved from yet today.
As I ease off my wellingtons I see on the bench in the porch a tea-towel, with a loaf of bread wrapped up in it and a little jar beside it, with a label on it: ‘sourdough starter’.
I’m guessing Myfanwy’s come over the fields and delivered it while I was at the gate.
There’s a tin, too, and I’m guessing it contains warm Welsh cakes.
I lift the bread to my nose and can feel it revitalizing me.
I push my boots under the bench and head into the kitchen.
The bread smells amazing as I slice, then toast it on the hotplate until it turns golden brown. I make tea in the big pot, spread butter on the toast and take it to Dad in bed. He’s looking pale and weak. I put the tea and toast on the bedside table and sit on the bed beside him.
‘Well, that’s a treat,’ he says, trying to lift himself up. I stand, step forward and slip my hand under his arm to help him, then plump up the pillows behind him. ‘I must have overslept. Not like me. Need to get up and check the stock.’
I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s fine, Dad. I’ve done them. How are you feeling?’
‘I’ll be great,’ he says, in his usual no-fuss-needed way. ‘Just a little blip. You should be on your way back to your office. You don’t need to be here, looking after me. I can manage.’ But his voice is thin, and I can hear the shake in it.
‘Well, I’d like to see that for myself before I leave,’ I say, patting his hand, then standing to pull back the curtains. ‘Besides, I’m quite enjoying having you to myself for a few days and being home. I know you’re not going to like this, but you do need to take it easy.’
He gives a phhffff. But I get the feeling he won’t have much choice. His body won’t let him pick up where he left off.
‘Dad, there’s something I want to talk to you about when you’re feeling better.’
He nods and smiles at me, patting my hand on his. ‘Me too, Jem-Jem.’ His pet name for me when I was a child.
‘It’s good news,’ I add.
‘Mine too,’ he says, with a tired smile.
‘Okay, well, just rest. We’ll talk later.’ I lean in and give him a peck on his forehead.
In the kitchen, Llew is gazing at the range. ‘No electric kettle, I take it?’
‘There is, but we use the stove when the range is on,’ I say. ‘Let me.’ I push up the lid of the hotplate and put the kettle on to boil.
‘I don’t want to be any trouble. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I have the car collected and a replacement sorted.’
‘Hmm. Could take a while out here,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. Besides, I’m keen to hear your and Dad’s plans.’
He sits at the table, holding his iPad. His hair is on end, butterfly stitches on his forehead.
I make a pot of tea and put it on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ I say, pushing the milk jug and a mug towards him. He looks at me and I can’t help but think how attractive he is, with his hair standing up in places.
He picks up the mug. ‘That’s kind. Thank you. You didn’t have to.’
‘No, but I wanted to. Like I say, it’s the least I can do. And hospitality is my thing, so it’s nothing.’
He pours the milk into his mug, then the tea. ‘You work in hospitality?’
I nod. ‘Area manager for the Catref Group, a hotel chain.’
‘I know them.’
‘They’re doing well, expanding now.’
‘Sounds good,’ he says.
‘I’m hoping to take up a new post in January. Just visiting Dad before the Christmas rush.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he says, sipping the tea.
For a moment we say nothing more. Something makes me want to sit and ask him to tell me his plans for working with Dad, knowing I’ll feel better about leaving once I know Dad has help. But it can wait. I’m just glad, that’s all.
‘I have some more chores to do outside. Help yourself to toast and Welsh cakes. They’re in the tin on the kitchen table.’
‘Any chance of the Wi-Fi code?’
‘Ah … No Wi-Fi, and I’m afraid the phone signal isn’t great here. Dad’s quite hard to get hold of, unless it’s on the landline. Best place for signal is up at the feed shed or on Gramps’s field on the bench there.’
‘I know it. Thank you. I’ll get on to my company. Have the car replaced.’
‘Take your time,’ I say, desperate to hear about his and Dad’s partnership but forcing myself to wait until they’re both downstairs and awake.
I go into the little living room and give it a quick tidy.
Puff up the cushions and empty the ashes from the fire into the bucket there, then lay another with scraps of paper and kindling.
I stand up just as Dewi, the pup, comes in to jump at me, knocking over the little table with Dad’s phone on it, next to his chair.
The pup bounces around in delight, making me laugh.
‘Whoa!’ I say, picking up the table, the phone and the letter under it and replacing them on the table.
Then I walk back into the kitchen. ‘I’m going out to check the fences now,’ I tell Llew, ‘but I could do with a hand re-hanging the gate, if you’re feeling up to it.
I can show you where we get signal in the feed shed. ’
He looks up at me and I feel a little spark flicker inside me. ‘Fresh air is exactly what I need,’ he says. ‘Especially after such delicious toast. That would be great. I’ll get my coat.’
I find myself feeling quite pleased to have Dad’s new worker here to help me, wishing I didn’t find him so attractive.
I must remember I’m only here for a few days.
Then I’ll be back at the hotel with Matthew …
the man I’m planning to get engaged to and move to Seattle with!
It’ll be a long way from Hollybush Farm …
I suddenly wish it wasn’t, or that Matthew and I aren’t miles apart, in distance and in how this place makes me feel.
I’m falling in love with the farm all over again.
I give Llew a sideways glance and meet his eyes.
One thing I do know is that I’m not going to fall in love with this man.
He’s here to help Dad, and I’m grateful.
The last thing I need is for him to look at me like that.
He’s just a helping hand on the gate and the farm. I need to remember that.
I pull on my pink wellingtons, to his laughter. ‘What? I loved these boots!’ I remonstrate, looking down at them.
‘I can see why! Colourful!’
‘Individual!’ I say. ‘A bit like this place. They make me happy!’ I try not to feel that little connection between us when he smiles at me, and fail. But it feels nice. And he likes my boots. Unlike Matthew. In fact there’s a lot about Llew Griffiths that’s very different from Matthew.