Chapter Nineteen #3
It’s not productive to annoy the person driving him through a snowstorm, but perhaps it’ll keep him moving.
Alert with annoyance. His barbs are the spark that lights the wick.
After all, he knows that flirting with Christopher makes him freeze up and go all robotic, but annoying him, like when Nash arguably destroyed his kitchen, made him move as if he was on 2x playback.
But then, he’d just really like Christopher to keep concentrating on not driving them into a hedge or a ditch or off a cliff. Who knows if there are even cliffs here!? Well, there is a map on his lap that suggests no, there aren’t any, but what if there’s been some kind of mass erosion incident?
God he’s spent too much time around Christopher. And only two people from his world even know he’s here!
For some reason, he starts thinking about how soft Christopher’s deeply dreaming breaths were this morning. How they woke breathing in sync. How closely curled up together they were, like a pair of commas. As though searching for a moment of greater safety to ground him.
‘I can’t see any turnings off at all,’ mutters Christopher, which startles Nash from his thoughts. He’s frowning so hard that a crease appears between his eyebrows. ‘Am I supposed to be straight still?’
What he wants to say is probably not after last night, but then Christopher would go out of his way to find a cliff to drive them off. ‘Yeah, just keep going,’ he says instead.
The road slowly climbs, then dips and winds as they get deeper into the valley.
It’s bordered by more mountains, which seems like a terrible place to farm, but then again Nash is more familiar with the Dorothy-from-Kansas-esque golden fields of corn than the idea of sheep clinging to mountainsides, which seems to be more the vibe here.
In the distance, Nash thinks he sees a building. He glances back down at the map. ‘I think we’re almost there.’
‘Are you sure?’ Christopher says, squinting at the building up ahead as he slows the truck down. ‘It looks abandoned.’
‘Didn’t the email say his power was out? That might be why.’
‘Good point. Can you see the turn-off for it on the map?’
Christopher slows to a plodding crawl, the kind that reminds Nash of the near-stationary traffic jams of LA and how they make him want to chew his arm off, because he could walk faster than that. Well, maybe not in this weather.
They come across what looks like it could be the entrance – a gate half propped open with a giant stone.
‘I’m going to have to get out and move that, aren’t I?’ sighs Nash.
‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Oh, I really do mind.’
Still, he leaps out of the car, pulling his coat tightly around him as the cold mountain breezes try to tear it away.
The expensive hiking jacket he’d bought for this trip was supposed to be for leisurely wanders up along the beach, not for wading through snowstorms, and its capability to keep him warm in the middle of one is really being tested.
Wading through the white, Nash desperately peers around for signs confirming this is actually the turn-off for Pentre Farm, and not a potentially dangerous mountain road that will lead to their untimely deaths.
Luckily, he spies something attached to the top of the gate.
With the sleeve of his coat, he wipes the snow away to read a sign that says ‘Pentre Farm’.
At least it’s the right place. Who knows, it could still be a terrifying murder road, but what choice do they have?
He moves the rock to the side and opens the gate fully so Christopher can drive straight through.
He’s about to get back in the van when Christopher shouts frantically through his open door, ‘No, you have to close it behind us!’
‘Why?’
‘The Countryside Code?’
Dear God, this country. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Just do it!’
Nash slams the van door again, just for good measure.
He weighs up the risk of breaking some kind of quaint British law against how fun this argument with Christopher could be, and decides to shut the gate behind them.
After all, it is a weather emergency and letting errant creatures wander off in it would probably make this whole situation about twenty times worse.
‘Thank you,’ Christopher says, as Nash gets back in.
‘You owe me for my frostbitten fingers. That must come under short-term lets insurance, right?’
Christopher harrumphs at him, which is enough of a normal Christopher response for Nash to feel relieved that they’re back on semi-familiar bickering ground.
The tiny dirt track opens up to a farmyard containing a small farmhouse, completely blacked out through lack of power, and a few farm buildings.
Nash points at one of the furthest away buildings in the yard, from which emanates a soft golden glow. ‘He must be in there.’
‘In the barn?’ Christopher pulls on a woolly hat that covers his ears, which have gone a different kind of pink to the more familiar embarrassed scarlet. ‘That seems strange that he wouldn’t be in the house?’
‘Well, but the power’s out, isn’t it? Who knows what he’s up to.’
Nash reluctantly gets back out of the van, which wasn’t warm but was still a darn sight warmer than out in the cold.
He can hear sheep softly bleating coming from the direction of the barn, and the rich, earthy scent of hay fills the air. Hopefully any and all livestock are safely secured and comfortable.
The door to the barn is closed, so Christopher raps on the wood with the back of his knuckles. ‘Hello?’
There’s no answer, and Christopher is hanging back, clearly unsure whether to knock again. It’s far too cold to hang around, and this could be an emergency, so after a few seconds of courtesy, Nash cautiously opens the door, just in case there are animals inside looking to escape.
But instead of animals, he’s met with a tirade of what he can only presume is Welsh from an ancient, tiny man sitting cross-legged in a pile of straw next to a Border collie.
He’s wrapped in several layers of coats, but he looks absolutely frozen, the poor guy.
Well, he’s not frozen solid at least, because he’s very animatedly yelling at them.
‘Hi! Sorry! We’re here to help!’ Nash’s shouts are drowned out by the continued flow of yells from the tiny cold man.
Christopher follows him in and shuts the door behind them. ‘How did you upset him so quickly?’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Nash growls in return. Turning his Hollywood charm back on, he approaches the tiny farmer, who must be Dai Jones, with palms face forward in an I come in peace gesture. ‘Hello,’ he says slowly and clearly. ‘I’m Nash. We’re here to help.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says the farmer in English, peering up at Nash’s face with intense scrutiny. ‘You’re that fella off the telly, isn’t it?’
To say that this was not what he was expecting, especially given the man was up until a few moments ago yelling profanities at him in Welsh, would be a major understatement.
His fanbase are usually married heterosexual women with a kid or two for a start, and then of course there’s the slew of young queers on the internet.
Apparently, he has quite a dedicated TikTok fandom, in fact, but he’s pretty sure this elderly farmer is not part of that crowd. Then again, you never know these days.
‘Nash Nadeau?’ Dai prompts.
‘That’s me,’ he says.
‘Well, good job you’re here. Nessa here needs some help.’
Nessa, who must be the black-and-white Border collie, breathes heavily.
‘I think you’ve mistaken him for someone else,’ suggests Christopher, kneeling down in the hay.
‘I have not,’ says Dai archly, as though Christopher is not paying attention properly. ‘He’s always saving animals, isn’t he? An American vet, but I’m sure you know your way around a farm dog.’
‘Canadian,’ corrects Christopher.
‘Well, technically I usually am playing an American one,’ Nash says.
It’s not just in the Christmas at the Clinic series where Nash plays a veterinarian, now.
He’s played a vet in several TV guest spots too, and a handful of other Christmas films as a background character.
It’s almost become a trope, a kind of meta-joke that nods to the audience – oh look, he’s a veterinarian again, everyone.
It’s one of those Officially Sanctioned romance movie jobs.
After all, who doesn’t love a sensitive man who rescues animals?
‘I’m really sorry, sir, but I’m not really a qualified veterinarian. I just play one a lot. I’m just an actor.’
‘Oh,’ Dai says. ‘I thought it was like The Yorkshire Vet or something, but American. I did wonder why you were always doing things at Christmas, and the sexual chemistry . . .’
He trails off and looks down at his black-and-white collie, whose head is nestled in his lap. Despite how sad she looks, she’s a very beautiful animal. Her fur is long and curls softly, and the pads of her paws and her nose are delightfully pink.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Christopher shuffles closer to the collie. She raises her head with tremendous effort just to shoot Christopher a side-eye, which makes Nash like her even more.
‘Giving birth, isn’t she?’ Dai gently strokes down the centre of her snout.
‘I found her in here last night, and I knew something was up, so didn’t really want to move her until she was ready.
But then the power went out, so we stayed in here because there’s the little heater.
And then she went into labour, but it’s been going on so long. I’m worried something is wrong.’
Shit.