‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ I admonish. ‘The Hope Farm Open Day and Nativity is rushing up towards us at an alarming rate and we are woefully unprepared.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Lucas says with all the nonchalance of a Gen Z teenager who cares not for traditions. ‘You worry too much.’
He’s right. And I’m the only one that does worry. Everyone keeps telling me it will be fine, but the thought of an open day with nativity combo is already giving me sleepless nights. I don’t know why I let myself be persuaded to do this. I’m too malleable by half. I’m not even a Christmas person. Usually I spend it alone with the animals. I don’t possess any decorations. I’ve never had time for it. Much as I try to ignore it, this year, I fear, will be very different.
The whole open day thing was, of course, the bright idea of my trusty sidekick, Bev Adams. She’s what I like to think of as my link between Hope Farm and the outside world. Bev has been here at my side for years. She’s like a mum and a sister all rolled into one and, with the exception of Lucas, the closest thing to family that I have. When my guardian, Aunt Hettie, died and left me bereft and adrift, Bev was the one who helped to put me back together again. My dear friend is about fifteen years older than me – in her mid-fifties – but is as fit and as strong as a twenty-year-old. If you’d seen her throw hay bales around or wrangle a stubborn sheep, then you’d know. Bev’s an ex body-builder and is still in great shape, although the only exercise she does now is here on the farm.
Even though I’m supposedly banned from taking in more rescue animals, we’ve recently rehomed two donkeys – also Bev’s idea: a mother and daughter called Harriet and Hilda. They are sweetness personified and came from a lady who was too old to look after them any more and wanted a caring home for the pair so they wouldn’t be separated. Cue an invitation to enjoy bed and breakfast on a permanent basis at Hope Farm. I’m so glad that we took them in, though. However, on the downside, our delightful donkeys do seem to have provided the inspiration for Bev’s desire to throw open our doors to the general public and share our work with them in a festive manner. The thought fills me with terror. I’m not what you might call a people-person – unless they are people with troubles.
But there’s no holding it back now – Christmas and our nativity are going to happen whether I like it or not.
Chapter Three
‘I should get on,’ Lucas says. ‘Shit to do involving shit.’
‘You’re mucking out the barn?’
‘Yeah. The joy just keeps on flowing here.’ He pushes his long black fringe from his forehead and his dark eyes look across at me. ‘There are ten kids here today. I’ll take them with me. I’m sure they all need more poo to brighten their lives.’
Lucas gives great sarcasm.
‘Thanks. I haven’t even had time to look at the register today.’ I’m so grateful that Lucas is on top of it. Ten kids is a full house for us and a lot to handle. We need the income, but I like to keep the numbers low so that everyone gets the personal attention they need. We have our regulars and I’d like to say that makes life easier, but you never can tell what the day is going to throw up. If they all decide to kick off at once, then it’s mayhem.
We have some students for a few days; a couple are here all week. Some are long-term and have good council funding. Others come and go or are with us just briefly. We try to cater for as many needs as possible with the few people we have. The funding for Lucas’s apprenticeship is provided by his dad – something that irks him. But then a lot of things irk Lucas, especially if his father is involved.
‘You’re doing a great job.’ Whenever I look at Lucas, my heart squeezes. As I’ve said, he’s not my boy, but I could not love him more. ‘Can I hug you?’
He sighs. ‘Do you have to?’
‘I’d like to,’ I venture.
‘If you must.’ With a great show of reluctance, he surrenders to my embrace. Then he lingers a little longer than he needs to, which makes me smile. Sixteen-year-old boys need cuddles as much as anyone, even though they pretend they don’t. I hold his skinny, all-angles body tightly.
‘Enough,’ he says. ‘You’re breaking my ribs now.’ Lucas peels himself away from me and sets off towards the barn with a casual wave. ‘Laters.’
‘See you at lunch,’ I shout as he goes. ‘Chickpea curry.’
‘Be still my beating heart,’ he shouts back.
Watching him walk away, my chest fills with pride. I’m pleased to tell you that Lucas is in a good place. Or as good a place as a slightly surly, overly sensitive, passive-aggressive teenager with authority issues can be.
We’ve been at our new home – which should rightly be known as Hope Farm Two – since the end of summer. As I said, we were ousted from our previous land due to that terrible thing called ‘progress’ when our troubled children and misfit animals were kicked out of the way in favour of HS2. Even now I can’t bring myself to talk to you about it without muttering darkly and using my worst swear words. The diggers rolled in as we moved out and I haven’t been able to go back and look at the scars they will have created on the beautiful landscape. They’ve destroyed ancient woodland and untrammelled countryside, but commuters will soon be able to get from and on to Birmingham twenty minutes quicker, so that’s all right then. That sound is the gnashing of my teeth.
Still, silver linings and all that, this place is amazing. When I feared that, literally, all hope was lost, Shelby stepped in and found us this fantastic replacement. Thanks to him, we have a beautiful slice of Buckinghamshire countryside which we now call home and, dare I say, it’s probably better suited for our purposes than our previous home.
We need somewhere tranquil and private, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes and interference of neighbours. Our kids need peace and quiet while they try to overcome their individual challenges. We attempt to cater for all needs and the kids learn through interacting with our animals. Our daily activities teach them teamwork and allow them to flourish at their own pace in a safe environment. Some haven’t had the best start in life or have come from chaotic backgrounds. They need stability and a place to grow.
The downside of providing this idyll is that it all costs – handsomely – and we’re a teeny-tiny charity always struggling for funds. This new farm was only made possible by our patron and my other half, Shelby Dacre, but we need to raise the money to keep it going.
As I said, at the grand age of thirty-eight I fell in love for the very first time with someone who – given his reputation for dating ludicrously young and beautiful starlets – I’m still astonished even looked my way. Some days, I have to pinch myself to check that Shelby’s actually here and in my life. Except, at the moment, he isn’t. Well, not very much. The soap is filmed every weekday and is, more often than not, starting early and finishing late. Recently there have been a lot of meetings in London, too. Many things, it seems, conspire to keep him away from the farm and, consequently, from me.
Because he’s got so much on his plate, I don’t want to always be calling on Shelby for help to keep this place running, so I know that finding extra cash is essential. Bev is our chief fundraiser – as well as everything else she does to help me out. I just wish that she hadn’t come up with something so . . . exposing. She’s already got us going into care homes with our alpacas and I’ve barely got used to that. The residents, of course, love to see them. On paper, it’s a great idea. But, as you’ve probably already gathered, those guys love to look for trouble and I don’t want to be responsible for having a bunch of traumatised pensioners on my hands.
My default setting is to hide away; I just want to be alone here with the students, my needy animals and my heart-throb boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently so.
Chapter Four
‘I’ll be back to see you later,’ I tell the alpacas. ‘I won’t forget.’
In unison, they hum innocently at me. Not buying it.
It’s a bright, sunny
day and, even though it’s frosty underfoot, it’s the kind of day that makes you feel warm in your heart. The kind of day that makes you wonder why everyone can’t live on a farm. I take a quick tour of our animals to make sure they’re all OK. As dawn is a little later in the winter, we all have a bit of a lie-in and the animal part of the Hope Farm team are just rousing themselves.
All the animals here have been rescued for one reason or another. They’ve been neglected, sometimes abused, or they’ve outgrown their welcome or their cuteness. Most have sad stories in their past. But they’re here now and are treated with care, kindness and respect. Some might say they’re spoiled and pampered. But why not? We all deserve a bit of TLC in life, whether human or animal. The students who come here are taught how to look after the animals and, together, can make the world seem like a better place. Half the kids have never even seen a real hen, let alone cuddled one.
As well as taking on the new donkeys, I’ve adopted another dog to add to my growing pack. I know. But what could I do? Betty Bad Dog has been in and out of various rescue homes as she proves to be too much of a handful for one family after another. She’s also here as a last resort and, my goodness, is she living up to her name. We’ve tried to re-christen her as Betty Good Girl in the hope she’d turn over a new leaf, but I’m not sure that she’s fully embracing it. She loves to tip over the food bins and tries to lick sheep inappropriately whenever she can. But she’s cute with it – which is a good job. Betty’s still young – an indeterminate age – and has all the ‘exuberance’ of youth. She’s huge, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to sit on anyone and everyone’s lap. She’s pale like a golden retriever, sturdy like a Rhodesian Ridgeback. She permanently has one ear up and one ear down and looks as mad as cheese. Mischief seems to be the only thing on her mind. Her favourite misdemeanours include drinking unguarded cups of tea, chewing tissues, particularly the used variety, and weeing on everything when she gets over-excited, which is quite often. Still, she gets along very well with Little Dog and three-legged Big Dog, so I’ll take that.
Accompanied by my doggie companions, I carry on with my morning round. I’ve brought some pig nuts for Teacup our giant ‘miniature’ pig and I lean over the door of his stall to say, ‘Morning, big guy. How’s it going?’
Teacup heaves his substantial bulk to his feet and I throw him some breakfast and scratch his ears. Our lovely pig came to us when he’d outgrown his owner’s pocket-size garden in Hemel Hempstead. He’s enormous and built like a tank. Not even one of his trotters would fit in a teacup and I’d like to string up any breeder who sells these monster animals to tiny homes. My advice is never, ever get a pet pig unless you live on a farm.
Teacup’s closest companion is our dear little lamb, Fifty, who can often be found sleeping alongside him in his stall. This morning, Fifty is still out for the count, snuggled into the hay, and shows no signs of being ready to face the day. Fifty has the run of the yard. He seems to self-identify as a human or a dog rather than a sheep and we’re happy to go along with that. Gender and, apparently, species are more fluid these days. Fifty is a very handsome sheep with a brown face, doe eyes and large, flappy ears – a sheep made by Aardman. We indulge him, not only because he’s cute, but he was an orphaned lamb with damaged legs who we thought would never make it. He thrived through sheer will and determination, plus daily massages of lavender oil and being fed only the finest of foods. He still limps a bit, but that doesn’t stop him controlling the dogs in the yard – even Betty, to some extent. Occasionally, before I had a soap star sharing my bed, I used to let Fifty sleep with me alongside Big Dog and Little Dog. Now, because Fifty got fed up of being squashed by excess of dogs, he’s happier in Teacup’s quarters, but I do miss him sometimes.
In the next pen along are the other sheep. I don’t even like to count them now as we take on too many waifs and strays. I know it’s more than thirty. I hope it’s less than forty. Our main guy is Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep who has to have his own specially reinforced pen as he is a grumpy, middle-aged man of a sheep and will head-butt anyone he can of any species – humans are a speciality. Many a time, Anthony’s horns have made contact with my rear end, to my detriment. He’ll take any chance to catapult man or beast across the farmyard or field. Even when he’s outside we have to put him in his own paddock for the safety of all concerned. Anthony has to be handled with iron resolve and kid gloves, but I still love him dearly despite his curmudgeonly tendencies. We took away his ‘gentleman’s playthings’ in an attempt to make him less testy – with only limited success. He is more cross with the world than a pampered sheep needs to be.
The rest of the sheep are, more often than not, named by the students. As well as Midnight, Fluffy and Teddy, we’ve got most of Little Mix, One Direction and, from our impressionable young girls, members of Korean pop sensation BTS. We’ve also got a pen full of cuddly bunnies including two Flemish giant rabbits called Ant and Dec who are over a metre long and the size of dogs. Despite their heft, unlike our naughty alpacas, they are no trouble at all. They generally sit there being passive and agreeable in return for lettuce and carrots. The kids, of course, all love them and I have to strictly ration the cuddles otherwise I’d never get anyone to perform any of the other more onerous tasks that need doing as part of their education.
I open the door to the barn and there’s a frenzied dash for the door that we call the morning ‘rush hour’. The ducks, hens and geese that are kept in there overnight scuttle to freedom as if they’ve never seen daylight before. Dick the Cock struts out and stretches as if he’s only just woken up. He treats me to an ear-splitting crow.
‘It’s nine o’clock, Dick,’ I point out. ‘We’re all up before you.’ So much for him heralding in the dawn. Since we’ve moved to our new premises, our cockerel does like a lie-in. Though, once he starts to crow, he never stops.
We have two guard geese, Snowy and Blossom, who patrol the farmyard on a daily basis and nip the legs of anyone who disses them. Sometimes they wear jaunty neckerchiefs, courtesy of Bev, when the mood takes them to let her tie them on. If they’re not in the mood, you can’t get near them.
Our dear hens are a motley crew too: there’s Bouncer, the matriarch of the hen house, one-eyed Mrs Magoo, Peg the one-legged hen and Gloria Gaynor who is a champion of surviving fox attacks. They’re all ex-battery hens so they are extra spoiled now they’re here. We’ve got a few dozen at the moment and I’m not sure that any one of them has a full complement of legs, eyes or feathers. When they arrive they’re in a terrible state – devoid of plumage and hope – and require a lot of nurturing.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I catch the occasional glimpse of Phantom – our feral farmyard cat with half a face who lives in the barn. Occasionally, I’ll see him skulking along the hedge or sitting in the rafters. I’ve given up trying to tempt him into contact with cat food as he seems to prefer surviving on the rodents he catches – and I’m glad to have such an energetic mouser as he saves me a fortune in pest control. We didn’t adopt Phantom, he chose us to move in with. Neither I nor the vet have managed to get close enough to him to manage a proper examination. He must have had a road traffic accident or something to cause the loss of his face and he walks with a goose step. Occasionally, I’ll see him having a fit in the barn, but I daren’t approach. He always seems to recover and, despite his issues, he seems in reasonable shape. I just wish he’d let me get closer to him.
As I’m checking our pygmy goats, one of our students comes wandering into the barn. Penny is one of our newer arrivals and has a very difficult home life. She sidles up beside me and stares over the fence at Dumb and Dumber.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Thought you were helping Lucas?’ Like most of the teenage girls we have here, she likes Lucas – a lot.
‘I’m too tired.’
None of them particularly like mucking out and some will do anything to get out of it – which is fine – but I can tell that Penny’s not trying to pull the wool over
my eyes. There are shadows like bruises under her eyes and her face is paler than normal. She does look exhausted and world-weary.
‘Lucas said you were in the barn and to come and find you.’
‘What can I help with?’
She shrugs at me.
‘Trouble at home?’
‘Yeah. Usual.’
Penny’s father likes to use her mother as a punchbag and, when it gets too bad, Penny’s disruptive at school or, if that doesn’t work, she runs away. Who can blame her? Would you want to live like that? Her father is a management consultant and her mother works for a small double-glazing company in the local town who don’t seem to mind her frequent absences due to her ‘clumsiness’. They live in a nice home with a manicured lawn and dark secrets. Bev goes along to the meetings with social services and tries to explain that it’s not Penny who’s the root of the problem. We have her for three days a week, so we do our best to pick up the pieces and be kind to her.
Penny looks so lost and lonely that it breaks my heart. I want to scoop up all these waifs and strays and hold them close. Some people just don’t deserve the kids that they’re blessed with.
‘You could do my rounds with me,’ I say. ‘If you want to.’ Little Dog bares his teeth in his mad grin. ‘He’d like it.’
Penny bends to fuss his ears and I see a solitary tear fall. ‘OK.’
So, I put my arm rounds her insubstantial shoulders and we head off towards the fields.
Chapter Five
Penny and I climb over the stile which is set into a thick hawthorn hedge. The dogs squeeze through a low gap in the hedge and are already running ahead of us, sniffing at the grass, the trees, tails wagging. Occasionally, they come back to herd Penny and me, to make sure that we’re following. They must walk twice as far as us.
Christmas for Beginners: Fall in love with the ultimate festive read from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 2