Chapter 9 #3
Walsh had closed his presentation folder with deliberate slowness.
‘I understand this must seem sudden. Take some time to consider. But I should mention … the market for traditional cider is volatile these days. Large producers like Crest can weather those fluctuations. Small operations …’ He’d let the implication hang in the air.
‘I know my business,’ Jack had replied, his voice tight with suppressed anger.
‘And I know what you’ve done to the others you’ve acquired.
How many heritage varieties did Green Valley in Kilkenny have before Crest Beverages bought them?
How many now? And how many of their employees still have jobs? ’
The question had hung in the air, unanswered.
‘This conversation is over,’ Jack had said finally.
They’d left behind their business cards and the offer document, Walsh calling a final reminder that the offer ‘wouldn’t remain open indefinitely’ as their car had disappeared down the lane.
‘Jack?’
The sound of his name pulled him back to the present. Patrick stood in the doorway of the press house, two steaming mugs in his weathered hands.
At almost seventy-eight, his great-uncle moved more carefully than he once had, but his eyes remained sharp beneath silver brows. He crossed to where Jack sat and placed one mug on the desk.
‘Staring at those numbers won’t change them,’ Patrick observed, settling into the chair opposite with a soft grunt.
Jack pushed the ledger aside and accepted the fresh brew with a nod of thanks. ‘Just trying to make sense of it all.’
The older man’s gaze was knowing. ‘You’re thinking about those Crest lads again.’
A humorless laugh escaped. ‘Hard not to. Every agricultural magazine I open has another story about a family business being swallowed by corporations. Did you see that the O’Neill’s in Waterford sold last month? Fifth generation, gone just like that.’
‘Times change,’ Patrick said simply, blowing on his tea.
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re endangered – small orchards, traditional methods, varieties that don’t meet the supermarket standard of perfect shiny sameness.’ Jack’s voice roughened with emotion he rarely displayed. ‘Every year, more disappear.’
Patrick nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. ‘Been happening since before I was born, lad. My own father worried about the very same things.’
‘But it’s accelerating,’ Jack insisted. ‘And the pressure’s getting worse.
It’s not just Crest. That developer in the summer, talking about “luxury holiday cottages with orchard views”.
’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘People might want to look at an orchard, but not actually have one functioning nearby. God forbid they smell fermentation or hear a tractor before noon.’
A comfortable silence fell between them as they sipped their coffee.
The older man set his mug down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands; gnarled now with arthritis but still strong, clasped together as he considered him.
‘Goldenridge has weathered far worse than business sharks and property developers,’ he said finally.
‘Blight that nearly wiped out whole sections. The storm of ’86 that took down thirty mature trees in a single night.
Markets collapsing, wars, economic crashes.
’ His eyes, the same deep brown as Jack’s own, held steady.
‘And yet, here we are, still growing, still pressing cider the way we’ve always done.
’ He reached across and tapped the ledger.
‘Numbers are just one part of the story, Jack. They don’t measure what matters most.’
‘They matter when the bills roll in,’ Jack countered, though the tightness in his chest had eased slightly at his great-uncle’s words.
Patrick smiled, the creases around his eyes deepening.
‘Fair enough. But this land has provided through harder times than these. It’s not just soil and trees, Jack.
It’s something in the blood.’ He gestured out the window toward the ancient oak, visible in the distance, above the orderly rows of apple trees.
‘Something that can’t be bought or sold, no matter what numbers they put on their offers. ’
Jack followed his gaze, feeling the truth in the words. The orchard wasn’t simply land or trees or a business – it was identity, heritage, purpose. The thought of surrendering it to men who saw only profit margins and market share was physically painful.
‘Besides,’ Patrick added, his voice lightening, ‘Nellie Flynn would haunt us both if we let Dublin fellas get their hands on her apple trees. Your great-great-granny could hold a hell of a grudge, from beyond the grave even.’
Despite himself, Jack laughed, the sound loosening something that had been wound too tight inside him.
Patrick drained his mug and stood, placing a hand briefly on Jack’s shoulder – a rare physical gesture from a man who expressed affection through action rather than words. ‘Come on now. Rain’s on the way.’
As they walked together from the press house back into the sunlit orchard, Jack felt his resolve strengthen.
Whatever challenges lay ahead, this land was worth fighting for – not just for himself, but for Patrick and every Flynn who had tended these trees before him, and those who might come after.
Some things mattered more than balance sheets and profit margins.
Some things were beyond price.