Chapter 12
Solar panel installation. The words repeat in my head, like an earworm.
Like the big business you work for. I turn on the radio but it just hisses and I switch it off again.
I want Llew Griffiths to be gone by the time I get back.
How could I have been so foolish, talking to him, even feeling there was some kind of connection, when I have a partner to go back to?
What was I thinking? I let myself be taken in by that charmer.
Or am I just cross that the work I do makes me part of the problem, buying cheaper and selling wider, to all the hotels?
I think about what the letter said. It offered Dad a sum of money, for Gramps’s field, for solar panel installation, offsetting the carbon footprint of Llew’s client, who is doing their bit to give back to the planet.
Could Dad really be thinking about selling Gramps’s field? For solar panels?
I’m desperate to ask him about it, but I have to wait until he’s less exhausted.
I stick the Land Rover key into the ignition.
The engine turns over but doesn’t start immediately.
Finally it shudders into life. I push it into gear and drive, wanting to get away from the farm for a while.
Clear my head. He wants to buy Gramps’s field, cover it with solar panels.
But the money would be good for Dad and he could get Owen back to work on the farm.
But solar panels? There must be another way.
So this was what Dad wanted to talk about.
I head down the drive, checking on the sheep again and that Bertie is still in his own field, where he should be.
I negotiate the gate and drive over the river.
Llew Griffiths’s car is still there, its bonnet buckled.
I swing around it. So that’s what he was doing here: trying to get Dad to seal the deal.
What if I hadn’t been here? Would Dad have just signed without telling me? Sold off the field?
I drive away from town and over the mountain.
Wild ponies are grazing on the common land, together as a family group, keeping close, as if showing there is safety in numbers.
The stallion stands tall and proud, his long mane lifting in the wind, nostrils large as he lets out a loud neigh: he’s here, with his family, and he’s not going anywhere, protecting his patch.
Around here they’re a part of the landscape, along with the sheep. Unlike bloody solar panels!
I watch him as I drive past and I think he may be watching me too.
They’ve always been here, the mountain ponies.
And though many have tried to catch and tame them they have continued to thrive up here, in the hardest of conditions.
And I can’t help but think that that’s how I feel.
There are people like Llew Griffiths, wanting to change the landscape, the way we live, and someone has to fight for it to stay as it is, recreating the past to give us all a future.
If there were fewer coffee bars and fast-food outlets, maybe people would pay a little more for quality produce, food reared well, not just to be cheap.
The past is slipping away, given up to newly built roundabouts next to supermarkets, there for ease and convenience.
Cheap produce is flown in from abroad. The way things are, farmers will disappear.
There has to be a way we can all work together, reducing the carbon footprint and leaving the fields for flocks to graze on and crops to be grown.
How could I ever have let myself become a part of this?
I’m furious. Furious with Llew Griffiths, but furious with myself for helping to create a situation in which farms are struggling to survive while society has forgotten where food comes from and how to cook it.
I’m over the mountain now, continuing towards the coast and the sea, winding down my window with difficulty and breathing in the cold air, salty and fresh.
I pull up and sit for a while to watch the waves by the shingle and sand shore, the seagulls and gannets diving, then start the Land Rover again and head back, away from the second homes and holiday cottages.
As I drive into our little town, up the high street, I know what I want. My stomach is rumbling and I see a parking space outside Beti’s Café and swing into it, with the satisfaction that comes from finding the perfect spot – and that I haven’t forgotten how to park the Land Rover.
I open the creaking door and jump out. As I walk round to the pavement, I remember going to Beti’s after school or on a Saturday.
The outside hasn’t changed a bit. Literally.
The same paintwork is peeling on the door and window frame.
And the i on Beti’s has been missing since I was last here.
But if Beti’s hasn’t changed, lots around here has.
There are closed-up shops all around it.
What were once the butcher’s, the baker’s, the post office, at least two pubs, and a sweet shop on the square have all gone.
I sigh. The holidaymakers are at the smarter town down the road, with its bistro bars and waterside restaurants.
The younger people drift to the out-of-town places to get Wi-Fi or sit in their cars eating plastic burgers and drinking sweet milky coffee.
I open the back door of the Land Rover, pull out the sack of potatoes and sling it over my shoulder, then head to the café and reach for the door. It opens and I practically fall into the place. I narrowly avoid running into someone coming out. I jump back, as if I’ve been electrocuted.
I clear my throat. ‘Still here?’ is all I can think of saying to Llew Griffiths, holding a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Like I say, sorting out my car. And then I hope I’ll be on my way.’
Suddenly I’m furious. Everything I’ve been thinking about on my drive tumbles out in one waspish statement. ‘Looking for more hard-working farmers to prey on in the meantime!’
The man I’d thought so easy to be with as we walked across the farm was really there to butter me up to seal his deal with Dad.
His face darkens and he frowns. ‘Look, I’m just offering a lifeline for farmers who are struggling.’
‘But not for the people of the area to help them get cheaper fuel or keep their farms going so that we have food in this country.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can see we’re not going to agree on this.’
‘We are not.’ I glare at him.
‘Have a chat with your dad and I’ll be in touch when he’s feeling better.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble. Don’t bother.’
He sighs and takes a deep breath. ‘And thank you for letting me stay last night. Thank you for making me feel … welcome.’
That wrongfoots me, but I manage to stop myself saying, ‘Any time.’
Because, as nice as it was having him to stay, and as well as we got on, now that I know who he is, and what he’s after from the farm, he’s the last person I want to spend time with. I just wish it didn’t make me feel so confused.
I go to sidestep him as he does the same, then back the other way, like we’re doing some kind of formation dance, before we swerve around each other and I dive through the door, hoping for that feeling of familiarity.
Somehow I can’t help turning to watch him walk away and wondering how he’ll get around, or where he’s staying while his car is being sorted.
I shake myself. Not my business. I do not need to feel compelled to make sure everyone is well looked after.
It’s my job, not something I do with people trying to take over my family home.
My cheeks are flushed. I stand inside Beti’s, and memories flood back. Saturdays in here with Owen, or after the sheep market, with Dad, when it still happened in the town. When he’d sold his lambs and been paid.
The café is practically empty. This used to be the place to go in the town.
Nowadays, it seems it has all but gone. Nothing about it has changed.
The seventies Formica tables from when Beti revamped the place, the old piano that was Beti’s mother’s still in the corner.
The little log-burner. It’s a mix of cosy and kitsch.
‘Hi, I’ll be with you now,’ says the server, younger than me, clearing the table that Llew Griffiths has obviously just vacated in the steamy window.
‘Have a seat by the fire,’ she says mildly. ‘It’s horrid out there. Oh, are they for me?’
‘Erm, if you’re Mae, then yes,’ I say. ‘I’m Jem, Edwin’s daughter. He asked me to deliver them. He’s not been well.’
She looks around as if checking we’re not being watched. ‘I’m Mae, yes,’ she says, and smiles.
‘And this is for Edwin,’ she says, pulling out an envelope from the pocket of her apron. ‘I hope he’s okay. And tell him I said thank you and to get well soon.’
‘I will,’ I say, dropping the potatoes to the floor and putting the envelope into my pocket.
‘Let me get you a cup of tea for your trouble,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’ I sit at the table she’s just wiped, as she takes the potatoes behind the counter, and I pick up the menu from between the ketchup bottle and the condiments.
I look at the familiar wording on Beti’s menu, which is worn around the edges, chewed and abused by children and adults alike over the years.
It hasn’t changed. A bit like the décor.
It’s a bizarre mix but we always came here.
I’m still staring at the menu when Mae comes back to the table.
‘What can I get you? Tea?’ she asks softly, but she’s looking rather fraught.
Her phone rings and she pulls it out. She looks at it, sighs and pushes it back into her jeans pocket.
I have no idea what to order. I can see Mae is feeling a little flustered as the phone rings again. She gets it out once more, hangs up again and puts it away.
‘All okay?’ I find myself asking. ‘I can wait if you need to take that. They seem quite insistent.’