Chapter 35 #3
‘Today has been very happy,’ says Jacob. ‘Can we come back for my birthday?’
‘And feed lambs!’
I laugh. ‘Well, yes, that would be lovely,’ I say, not adding, ‘If we’re still here, me and the flock.’ I think of how lovely it would be to hold children’s parties on Gramps’s field in the spring and summer, with a barbecue going, like last night at the cattle market, but with good weather.
‘What about Hope?’ says Llew, watching the children.
I turn to him. I want to have this man in my life not just for Christmas but for a long time after. ‘I think Hope is a very good name.’ I look around the group. Dad is wearing his napkin on his head like a pirate’s hat, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘Hope is what we all need.’
We move from the kitchen to the living room and I put the lamb, full and sleepy, in front of the fire there and sit on the arm of the sofa.
Llew hands me a drink and sits next to me.
The others follow us in and the boys sit on the floor next to the lamb.
I take a picture of her, and introduce her to my followers on Instagram.
‘Everyone, this is Hope. And hope is what I’m wishing for you all this Christmas,’ I say, into the microphone and post it.
‘So, we were talking while you were bringing a new lamb into the world,’ says Mae, sharing an armchair with Josh.
‘Hope,’ corrects Luke.
‘Hope,’ says Mae. She takes a deep breath. ‘We want to do another food night. Keep doing what we started, keep the idea of the market going.’
‘Well, that sounds good,’ I say, sitting on the arm of the squashy sofa sipping the spicy red wine.
‘But where? We haven’t got the money to buy the lease on the cattle market and I don’t think that woman would agree to us doing another fundraiser. In fact, I’m not sure we’ll see her around here again.’
They look at Dad, then at me.
‘It was your dad’s idea,’ says Mae.
He beams.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Here!’ he says.
‘Here?’ I frown.
‘Yes! On the farm. Or, more precisely, in Gramps’s field.’
‘But the solar panels? I can’t see another way. We’re going to have to agree to sell it.’
‘But it’s not agreed yet,’ says Llew. ‘Not until the new year. You have until twelve o’clock on New Year’s Eve, the last day of the year, to agree … or not.’
I think about the contract on the shelf, waiting to be signed.
‘And if it goes well …’ says Mae.
‘… we could do more!’ My eyes widen. ‘Easter-egg hunts, summer parties for children! Bring in more and more local producers to sell food, hot and cold. Like a food hub. You could have the lorry beside Gramps’s bench and run a daily café there!
You could keep going with the jacket potatoes and I could make the cawl and curry to sell.
Get people to come to the farm for lunch, serving local produce.
It could be brilliant! It’s the perfect spot for the lorry. ’
‘I think so,’ says Mae. ‘And, of course, we’d get the right paperwork and consents and make it all above board.’
‘Gramps’s Field Café!’ I say. ‘You run it and I’ll supply the potatoes and cawl.’
She grins. ‘It could be perfect!’
‘And,’ says Evie, ‘use the barns for producers, like me. A barn to make my dog leads in.’
‘We could do them up!” I say, excited. ‘A proper farmers’ and producers’ food-stall market.’
‘And rent the barns to other food producers, once they’re done up.’
‘But if we use Gramps’s field, where will everyone park?’
‘I’ve got room,’ says Myfanwy. ‘You can use the connecting field at mine.’
‘Yes!’ exclaims Dad. ‘And you can do more of your baking and sell it there. It’ll be delivered straight from your farmhouse to the market.’
‘But!’ I say, and they all look at me.
‘But what?’ Llew asks.
‘But what if no one comes?’ I say, and the room falls flat again.
‘But what if they do?’ says Llew. ‘We’ll get it on social media. Explain what’s going on and what people can expect. What they can get out of coming.’
‘People want to feel connected and that’s what you did,’ says Mae.
‘It’s a risk,’ I say, ‘trying something new. The solar panels would be a safer bet.’ I look at Dad.
‘Maybe this farm has been playing it safe for too many years. Like Myfanwy says, we’re set in our ways, me and her.
We’re so used to our farms being next to each other and being rivals over the ram, we wouldn’t try something new, like getting along.
It took a bout of sepsis to change that!
And the threat of losing the farm! Who’d have thought you talking into your phone and telling everyone about what it’s like on the farm could have made such a difference and touch people’s lives?
’ He gazes at me so proudly. ‘Got to be worth a shot, love,’ he says.
‘But we’ve so much to lose,’ I say, and look round the room. ‘But so much to gain if it works.’
They wait with bated breath.
‘A weekly food-stall market … events here, at the farm.’
‘Bringing farmers back together,’ says Owen.
‘And the people living here,’ says Mae. ‘Getting them eating better food. Knowing where it comes from.’ She turns to Josh. ‘It’s what people want these days.’
‘And comfort food,’ I say. ‘Food that makes them feel good, in a place they can spend time with family and friends that isn’t a brightly coloured fast-food outlet.’
‘Or, worse, a drive-through,’ says Mae.
‘Maybe you could run some rugby workshops, in the summer … get people working out on the farm,’ says Llew, making me smile. ‘You don’t need an indoor gym to stay fit. And it’s so good for the mind too.’
‘Imagine if Gramps could see it. The barns full of people who want to make local produce. The field full of food trucks. We could even do allotments and rent them to people,’ I say, my mind galloping ahead.
‘Get people coming here, instead of heading out of town.’ I look around.
‘It has to be worth a try. I can’t promise they’ll come, but there’s only one way to find out. ’
‘When?’ says Mae.
I smile. ‘A New Year’s Eve street-food festival here at the farm!’
And with that Hope, the premature lamb, gives a little bleat of encouragement and we laugh.
‘We need some Christmas Hope!’ says Dad.
‘Got any more sprouts, Twm?’ I ask.
‘Loads!’
‘Thought we could sell them in paper cones, salted, with butter and a bit of bacon!’
‘That sounds lovely!’ He chortles. ‘I’ll be there for those!’
And Dewi runs in with bits of ripped-up paper in his mouth, tossing it around.
‘What’s that?’ asks Dad.
‘Looks like the solar-panels contract,’ I say. ‘Must have blown down from the shelf when we came in from the barn.’
‘Well, then,’ says Dad, not attempting to get the envelope back from Dewi. ‘Looks like this has to work now.’