Chapter 34
When we finish checking the flock, we return to the farmhouse.
‘I’m going to check messages.’ I hold up my phone.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’
In the feed shed I sit on a bale and look through the window. In any other circumstances this would be the picture-perfect Christmas setting, I think, looking out over the fields on Christmas Eve with the dogs at my feet. I check my messages but there’s nothing from Evie or Owen yet about Jess.
Then I check the crowdfunding page and my mouth falls open.
There are small donations and messages on social media from people saying how much they appreciate what I’ve been doing.
People who have visited and holidayed here want to help, as do van drivers who have visited the food trucks and the biker community, who came tonight to celebrate Christmas Eve together and raved about the shepherd’s pie.
There are big donations from companies based in the area, the largest from Coffi Poeth.
Maybe guilt money, I think, but we’ll take it anyway.
My phone rings with the news I’ve been waiting for.
I walk back to the farmhouse. The windows are full of warmth from the orange glow inside. The dogs run ahead and wait at the door. I let them in and peel off my scarf and hat. An old Massey Ferguson tractor is parked on the yard next to Llew’s car, topped with snow.
Dad and Myfanwy are sitting at the table. Dad has the whisky bottle out. Myfanwy is getting out mugs.
‘Is that your tractor, Myfanwy?’
‘Hadn’t driven one on the roads in years. Felt like we were a proper community again tonight. But what news on Jess?’
There’s a knock at the door.
I open it. It’s Mae, holding the keys.
I beckon her in. ‘Jess needs an operation … as soon as possible.’
‘The crowdfunding?’ says Mae.
I nod. ‘If we need to get more, we’ll find a way to do it.
I’ve explained on the GoFundMe page what’s happened, that this fundraiser was all about community, and right now one of our community needs the money.
Anyone who isn’t happy with us spending it can ask for their donation back, but no one has. It’s the right thing to do.’
The clock slides round to midnight. ‘Let’s have a toast,’ says Dad, pouring whisky into the mugs. Myfanwy is handing them round. ‘To family and friends, old’ – he looks at Myfanwy, who laughs – ‘and new.’
‘And to Jess,’ I say. ‘If I had a Christmas wish it would be for her to get well and go home.’
‘To community,’ says Llew. ‘And remembering what’s important.’
We raise our glasses.
And that night, when the others have left, Dad accompanies Myfanwy back to her farm on the tractor to make sure she’s home safe and sound, and tells me he’ll be back in the morning.
As we watch them go across the field, with the fairy lights sparkling, we shut the door and I look at Llew, then do something I have been wanting to do for what seems like a very long time.
I lean towards him as he leans towards me and feel his lips on mine, soft at first and then becoming more urgent, as I lead him up the stairs to my big brass bed and fall onto the thick eiderdown.
And later that night, as I lie in his arms, gazing out at the falling snow, I realize that hope is always with us: we just have to look for her.