Chapter 12 #2
She drops her head. ‘Sorry, just school again.’ She sighs. ‘Wanting to know why I haven’t paid for the school photographs.’
‘Ah,’ I say, and then, because I’m not sure what else to say, ‘Expensive, children.’ I try to smile.
She nods and I see her eyes fill with tears. Then she says, ‘You got some?’
I shake my head as a wave of something, regret, longing, I’m not sure which, washes over me. I look down at the menu again. ‘Think I’ll just have tea.’
She sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t blame you. The rubbish this place serves.’ She takes away the grubby menu, making me laugh unexpectedly. She joins in. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Just, y’know, one of those days.’
‘I do know,’ I say, and look around. ‘It used to be great when Beti had it,’ I say.
‘Yeah, and when she died her son took over. It’s all microwave burgers and plastic-wrapped pizzas now.’
‘Shame. So how do you know my dad? How did you two get involved in potato trading?’
She chuckles. ‘Actually, I think you and I used to be at school together. You were older than me.’
‘Were we?’
She nods. ‘You wouldn’t remember me. You were one of the cool kids. You lived up the mountain on the farm … and weren’t you with Owen?’
I laugh. ‘I was, but I wasn’t one of the cool kids.’
‘Oh yes, you were. Living up the mountain. No streetlights up there, scary! And you didn’t care what others thought or said. You did your own thing. Loved life on the farm where you lived. And then, of course, you and Owen were the steady couple.’
‘Ah, yes! They were good times. But it’s quiet on the farm now. Not like back then when Dad had help and I’d have friends back, camping in the summer and bonfires in the winter. I don’t know how people do it now, long days on their own.’
‘We all need a little company,’ she says. ‘Owen still comes in.’
‘That’s good.’ I swallow. I feel bad about laying into him at the pub, the fact he’s out of work and with a small herd to sell or get through the winter.
‘He was good to me in school,’ Mae goes on.
‘He probably doesn’t remember, but he stepped in once, when some of the other kids were giving me a hard time, telling me I was poor and smelt, because I was wearing second-hand clothes.
I was in tears and Owen saw them off, telling them they should be ashamed of themselves and that we all looked out for each other around here. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘Sounds like Owen. He’s a good man,’ I say, remembering his kindness, always. He was the one people turned to when they needed a hand.
‘It was such a shame, what happened,’ she says.
‘What did happen?’
‘Oh, it’s … it’s just a tough time out there,’ she says, and then, ‘Bloody moneygrabbers!’ She pulls out her phone and shoves it back into her pocket.
‘How am I supposed to choose between getting a new coat for my kid, because his last one was stolen, and stupid school photos? Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this to you.
You’re a customer. I’ll get your tea,’ and then quietly, ‘I could do you a jacket potato, if you like.’
I smile. ‘That’s just what I’d like! How did you know?’
‘It’s how your dad and I got talking. He came in for tea one day.
He couldn’t find anything on the menu he wanted and said what he fancied was a jacket potato.
I said if he brought in the potatoes I’d make them.
And the following day he did. He liked to come in for a bit of company.
I take them home for the kids too. Way better than all the processed food in the supermarkets. ’
‘You’re right,’ I say, mouth already watering at the thought of a hot, crisp-skinned potato with a steaming, fluffy inside.
‘Butter and cheese?’
‘Perfect!’ I beam.
‘Don’t tell anyone. Just for those who know,’ she says, with a very lovely smile.
‘I put a few on in the oven at home and bring them in with me, put them through the till as the daily special. Beti’s son never asks.
But people want something warming and home-cooked.
And if it helps keep the place open and me hang on to my job,’ she says, ‘it’s win-win. ’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I say, ‘and Dad appreciates the money. Every bit counts at the moment.’ I wonder again what happened to Owen and how he’s coping without work.
The door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air. ‘Hi, Mae,’ says the woman, shutting the door quickly.
‘Hi, Evie … Usual?’ Mae says, from behind the counter, which she can barely see over.
‘Please. With tuna.’
‘Ah, you know about the jacket potatoes too,’ I say, recognizing her name. She’s the nurse from the GP practice who called the house, the one planning to visit Dad.
She strips off her long scarf and coat.
‘Why not sit here, by the fire, keep the other tables clean?’ I offer.
‘If you don’t mind.’ Evie is wearing a cardigan over her blue nurse’s uniform. ‘Are you Jem? From Hollybush Farm?’
‘I am. How did you know?’
‘Your dad said you were out delivering potatoes and would have come here. I’ve just been up to see him. Hope it’s okay, I let myself in.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I pull out my phone and see a missed call. ‘I should have been there.’
‘It’s fine. A man was there. Llew Griffiths?
He was sorting out something to do with his car at the end of the drive.
He pointed me in the right direction. Me and your dad had a lovely chat while I gave him a health check.
He’s very proud of you. I stayed and made him a cuppa and took him a Welsh cake. They were delicious.’
I smile. ‘His neighbour makes them. And amazing sourdough bread.’
The fact that Llew Griffiths is still hanging around doesn’t surprise me. I hope the car gets picked up soon and he departs for good. He must have come here after leaving the farm. Maybe he’s gone.
‘Here we go,’ says Mae, putting a jacket potato in front of me.
The steam curls upwards and I breathe it in.
I pick up my knife and fork. The grated cheese is already melting at the edges.
I cut into the soft white flesh creating a yellow pool in the middle as the melting butter oozes into the well I’ve made.
I load my fork with fluffy potato, creating strings of cheese from the plate to my lips.
It’s a reminder of the connection between field, farmer and fork.
Simple, home-cooked food. I breathe in, then bite and let the buttery, salty, cheesy mash melt in my mouth.
It’s delicious, like a comforting hug. I eat slowly, enjoying every mouthful.
When I’ve finished the potato and drunk the tea, I’m suddenly feeling so much better.
There must be something I can do to help the farm. There’s always hope, right?
‘That was great,’ I say to Mae.
Evie is finishing hers too. She pulls out a bag with knitting in it and starts to knit with great big wooden needles.
‘Something special?’ I ask.
‘No, not really. I just like how it makes me feel. It takes my mind off things. When I need to be in the moment and not worry about what’s been or what’s to come.’
I nod. ‘That sounds like a very good place to be. Well,’ I say, as I stand and pull on my coat, ‘I’ll see you again soon.’
‘I’ll be up tomorrow to check on your dad. He’s a great character. He was exhausted and still trying to tell me a joke. How many eggs does a French person eat for breakfast?’ She grins.
‘Oh, I know! One, because one egg is an oeuf!’ I say, and we giggle at the silliness of it. ‘That’s one of his favourites. He must be on the mend!’
I push in my chair and make for the till, where I pay up and pop something in the tips box for Mae, hoping it will help and that she didn’t notice me do it.
I know how important those tips can be and the difference they can make to staff.
Not just in the pocket but how they feel about themselves too.
I turn to leave and see Owen coming in through the glass door. Outside, his battered old truck is parked behind the Land Rover, his dog on the front seat looking out of the open window.
‘Hi, Owen,’ I say. ‘Look, about when I came for you …’
He holds up a hand. ‘Forget it. How’s your dad?’
‘Home. Tired. But home.’
‘Good.’
There’s a bark from the truck outside and we glance at his chestnut and white collie.
‘What’s her name?’ I ask.
‘Jess. She’s from the same litter as your dad’s Ffion. They’re sisters.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘Glad he’s home and doing okay,’ he says.
‘He needs to take it easy. He still thinks he can take on the world, well, the farm, single-handed. He needs to understand he can’t.’
‘Usual, Owen?’ Mae says, from behind the counter.
‘Please!’ he says. ‘And can you put it on my tab? I’ll be able to pay it off really soon.’
‘Sure,’ she says, and smiles kindly.
‘Really, I’ll pay it off soon.’ He’s frowning and I wonder if I should offer to pay, but, knowing Owen, that would only offend.
My phone rings. ‘Oh, it’s Matthew,’ I say, but it stops. I’m keen to hear his voice.
‘Good to see you, Jem,’ says Owen.
‘Give my best to Rhi and the girls,’ I say, not knowing his children’s names.
‘Yeah,’ he says, frowning again.
He takes the jacket potato in silver foil and leaves, climbing into his truck.
Evie and the waitress are looking at each other.
‘Did I say something?’ I ask.
‘Owen … Rhi left him. About a year ago now,’ Mae says quietly.
Evie nods. ‘Before Christmas. Took the girls. Went off with someone else’s husband,’ she says.
Mae’s face darkens. ‘Just like mine did.’
‘He’s finding it hard,’ says Evie.
‘Aren’t we all!’ says Mae. ‘While Rhi and her new man are planning trips to Disneyland Paris in the new year, we’re having to check the times at the food bank.’ She peers at her phone.
‘I didn’t know. But it seems there’s a lot been going on here I didn’t know about,’ I say, remembering Llew Griffiths and his attempts to buy Dad’s land.
‘You planning on staying around?’ asks Evie.
I shake my head. ‘Just until Dad is on the mend, and I know everything is as it should be at the farm.’
‘It’s tough out there at the moment.’
‘But at least the house is warm again and he’s happy there,’ I reply. But for how much longer? I should do something I should have done ages ago. It’s time I took a look at the farm accounts.