Chapter 29
‘That’s it, then,’ says Mae, as we push up the ramp of the lorry and close the doors for the last time.
I’m feeling wretched, but what had I expected? It was never going to be a long-term solution. I just got carried away, with more and more likes on social media, getting the word out there. ‘Looks like it,’ I reply.
‘I’m sorry I got a bit tetchy in there,’ says Mae.
‘Don’t worry. Me too,’ I say, but neither of us has our heart in the apology.
I’m cold, tired, deflated and beaten by a woman who seems determined to destroy everything that matters to me.
Deborah bloody Atkins. But no matter how angry I’m feeling, I’m sad that this is the end.
I have no idea what else I can do. I’m shivering.
‘Will you be okay?’ I ask Mae.
She looks down at the washing basket of unsold jacket potatoes. ‘Looks like we’ll be having jacket potatoes for a few days.’ She tries to smile. But we don’t laugh like we’d usually do.
‘Yes,’ I reply, feeling I’ve let her down.
We fall into silence and then she asks, ‘Any news from Llew?’
‘He said he won’t call. It’s up to us if we want to call him to sell the land. What about you and the Coffi Poeth man? I thought you were getting on.’
‘Until I stamped on his foot!’
And finally we laugh.
‘Not my finest hour.’
We fall silent again.
‘Sorry I couldn’t do more, Mae. I wanted this to work.’
‘Me too,’ she says.
‘Well, in a way, it did. We were victims of our own success! If we hadn’t got such a following on social media we might have been able to keep going a bit longer.’
‘At least we know people liked what we were doing,’ she says.
I hug her. ‘Will you be okay, for money?’
‘Yeah. Like I say, we’ve got jacket potatoes for now. Just need to work out how to pay my rent this month. It’s rent or Christmas this year.’
‘If I could have thought of any other way …’
‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Will you sell the land?’
I look at Dad sitting in the lorry’s cab. ‘I expect so. I can’t see any other way. At least the money will come through fairly quickly, and Dad won’t have to sell the farm just yet.’
Myfanwy has loaded her little car with her table and Dad hands her her order book. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he half mumbles to her.
‘Don’t have any more funny turns without letting me know,’ she tries to joke. But I can see that this little project has brought us all closer together, but now things will go back to how they were.
Owen has put the generator into his truck and Jess is sitting in the passenger seat wearing her red and green scarf, with Evie at her side.
At least something good has come of all this, I think.
So good to see Owen and Evie together and them both smiling shyly, like they’re at the start of a whole new adventure together.
I turn away from Mae. ‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye,’ she says, and I climb into the cab and start the lorry. It lumbers into life and I leave the cattle market, with Deborah Atkins holding open the gate for us and shutting it firmly behind us.
Dad is fast asleep in the seat next to me as we make our way back to the farm.
As we head up the drive, I stop off to check on the sheep, then walk over Gramps’s field, still wondering what he would say if he was here now and saw what was about to happen.
Is it a good thing? Is it progress, helping the environment?
Or is it the thin end of the wedge when farming will be lost for ever?
Then I think again of the mother I met, her son struggling after a tough year on the farm.
If others can’t make ends meet, how do I think my being here can help Dad?
Maybe selling the land is the only option we have left.
I turn away from the field, climb back into the lorry and Dad wakes up.
‘Nearly home, Dad.’
‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’ he says. ‘Shame we couldn’t keep doing it.’
‘It is, Dad. And, yes, it was fun.’
‘That’s why I loved this job. Always different, and at the end of the day, putting a smile on people’s faces. Good food, produced well. It’s something to be proud of. You’ve made me very proud,’ he says, and tears tickle the back of my eyes.
Three long lonely days later, with just a week to go until Christmas Eve, I’ve uploaded my Christmas-on-the-farm Advent posts and I’m back in the kitchen on my own, hating the way I left things with Mae.
I’m heating curry for me and Dad from the big pot on the stove when there’s a knock at the door.
The dogs bark as I open it to see Mae, Evie, Myfanwy, Owen and Mae’s boys. Mae is clutching a pile of foil-wrapped jacket potatoes.
‘“Silent night, holy night …”’ they sing, recreating the jolliness of us arriving at the café when the locksmiths moved in until we realized that meant she was out.
I smile and open the door wide so Dad can hear them and let them carry on singing until they peter out.
‘No point in having all this food left and not sharing it,’ Mae says, with an apologetic smile. ‘I felt dreadful the way we left things in the cattle market. You did so much to try to help me. I really am sorry we argued.’
‘Quite right about the food,’ I say, ‘and no need to apologize. Like I said, we were victims of our own success! If I hadn’t done the posts, drawing so much attention to us, then been excited by the response and the long queues, we might have been able to keep going a bit longer, at least until the other side of Christmas.
I’m sorry.’ I hug her, even though she can’t hug me back.
‘So not only have we brought dinner,’ says Owen, ‘we picked Myfanwy up on her way over too.’
‘I brought Welsh cakes.’ She hands me the tin. ‘Once I started baking I couldn’t stop. That woman at the market was a right piece of work.’
‘Come in, the fire’s lit. Dad, we’ve got company!’ I call to him in the living room. ‘Go on through.’ I shut the front door and usher them in towards the fire.
‘Drinks,’ says Dad, delighted to see everyone. ‘What about that whisky you brought me for Christmas, Jem? Now seems as good a time as any to break it out!’
Everyone pulls off their coats and their cheeks glow in the light from the fire blazing in the little hearth. Even Dolly the Jack Russell perks up at company. She jumps onto Myfanwy’s lap and settles in for a cuddle.
I see Dad and Myfanwy share a smile. ‘Good to see you here again,’ he says quietly.
‘Good to be here, Edwin.’
The boys sit on the floor and play with Dewi and a leaf he’s chasing, filling the room with fun and laughter.
I go to the kitchen, open the whisky and pour it into glasses, with a bowl of ice on a tray and a little jug of water, then take it into the living room. ‘I’m just heating some curry. Would you like some?’
‘Yes, please,’ they all say.
‘With jacket potatoes!’ says Owen.
‘Do you want to bring Jess in?’ I ask Owen.
‘She won’t come. She’s happy in the truck or in the field. She’ll be watching the ewes.’
‘Would you boys like milk to drink?’ I ask.
‘Please!’ they say.
‘Perfect.’ I trot into the kitchen to put the potatoes into the range to warm.
Just as I’m back from handing out two glasses of milk and starting to set the table, there’s another knock at the door.
I can’t think who would have come up here in this vile weather, and hope it isn’t someone to tell me that Bertie and Harriet have broken down the fence and are out running wild again.
I pull back the door and stare. ‘It’s you!’ I finally say.
‘Yes, me.’ His nose is red from the cold and his hands are shoved into his pockets.
‘I thought you’d gone back to Cardiff.’
‘Er … so did I. I was out, driving, and found myself heading this way.’
‘I see. Look, if it’s about the contract …’
He holds up his hands. ‘I told you, I won’t ask. I’m not here because of that. I just couldn’t stay away.’ He looks over my shoulder into the kitchen. ‘I just wanted to tell you that what you did at the cattle market was great.’
I tilt my head to one side. ‘Thank you.’
‘I heard you got closed down there,’ he says, moving from one foot to the other, clearly cold.
‘We did. How did you know?’
‘Social media, of course!’ He smiles, making my insides zip and twist and twirl.
‘Been checking out my feed, have you?’
‘I have. I heard what happened.’
‘It was sad, but kind of inevitable. It wasn’t our land. We just went with it for as long as we could.’ I remember the woman who came to thank me. ‘But I think we did some good while we were there. I heard they’ve got a buyer interested.’ I look hard at him. ‘It’s not you, is it?!’
He shakes his head. ‘Although now you mention it …’
We laugh.
‘You could take it on,’ he says. ‘Raise the money to lease it. That’s what I really came to say.’
‘I need to get another job. Getting fired wasn’t the best Christmas present to give myself. And losing my biggest promotion to date to my ex was not in the game plan.’
‘Neither was doing what you’ve done. Helping raise awareness of where food comes from, young farmers, and young people in the hospitality industry. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘Actually … I am. And what about you? Have you really not come for a decision on the land?’
‘I told you, I’m not going to mention it.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘You’re not the only one thinking about where they’re going in life. I’m handing in my notice. I need to do something a bit more worthwhile.’
‘But … Really?’ The cogs whir in my head. ‘Does that mean the offer is off the table? We haven’t made a decision yet!’
‘I know. And it makes no difference to me now. This is a copy of the contract. It’s valid until the end of the month, like I said.
It’ll still stand. I’ve made sure of that.
But now that I don’t have an interest in the company, you can make up your own minds about what’s best.’ He holds out a brown envelope to me.
‘I know you wanted to save the farm and keep it how it was. I thought solar panels might be the way. But maybe there’s a different way.
Think about the cattle market. It was good while it lasted.
I really admire what you’ve done, standing up for what you believe in.
Maybe you could try to raise the money for the lease. ’
‘I wish we could. It would be perfect. Bringing back the old cattle market would be amazing. It would mean so much to so many people. Bring the community back together again. Stop so many people feeling alone. And help people understand there’s more to eating than going to the nearest drive-through.
’ I wish I could make an offer on the cattle market.
‘While I’ve been here, on the farm and at the café, I’ve realized I spent so much time telling people how enticing food should look and bringing in customers …
Now I know that what matters is where the food comes from, how it tastes.
Keeping it simple is far better than filling the pockets of people who don’t care about the food chain. ’
‘It made me see it’s time for a new chapter for me too. I don’t have to do a job I’m not a hundred per cent invested in.’
He hands me a bag with two bottles of wine inside it, as laughter filters through to us from the warmth of the living room.
‘What’s this?’
‘Call it a leaving present. Something for you to share this evening with everyone. A little thank-you for having me and helping me see I need to do something that has meaning for me … I’m scared of, well, failing again.’
I reach out and take the bottles. ‘You didn’t fail in rugby. You got injured,’ I tell him. ‘But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t part of the journey.’
He nods. ‘I’m thinking about other sportspeople who have had injuries or setbacks, and getting them outside, like being here on the farm. It’s as good as any gym, and in the outdoors. Win-win.’
I look out onto the yard. ‘It is! I’m finding muscles I’d forgotten I had!’
‘Persuading people to work together, mending fences and shifting straw,’ he says, as the idea grows, ‘is good for the body and the mind.’
‘Great!’ I say. ‘You could offer week-long boot camps, working out on a farm.’
‘Maybe one day,’ he says. ‘Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book and go for it. Well, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Thank you.’ The hospitality habit in me jumps into action. ‘Won’t you come in, stay?’ It’s actually the farmer in me who wants him to stay. I pull the door so it’s almost closed behind me.
He shakes his head. And I notice the snow starting to fall, heavier than before, and settle on his hair.
Suddenly I want to tell him everything I’ve been desperate to say since before he left.
And for someone who usually knows what needs to be said, I’m at a loss.
I have no idea how to put what I’m feeling about him into a coherent sentence.
He looks at me and I try to work out what he’s thinking.
What if I make a complete fool of myself?
What if he doesn’t feel the same? We stand and stare at each other as the flakes of snow fall around him.
He gives a little cough. ‘Happy Christmas, Jem. I hope it’s everything you wish for.’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There must be something I could say to make him want to come in.
But this was closure for him. He doesn’t need to be here or come back again.
And then I say the only thing I can think of.
It’s not like I know him well. I can’t just tell him how I feel about him, that I think about him all the time, keep wishing he was in the kitchen when I get up in the morning.
Wishing he was joining us now, around the little fire, to eat hogget curry and baked potatoes. I just can’t risk it, can I?
‘And you, Llew,’ I say, and watch as he walks away, his car lighting up with a bleep. I’m thinking about him leaving, but also his words: could we really try to raise the money for the lease on the cattle market? Could we make it something more permanent for all of us?