Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

by Jaimie Admans

  ‘The last thing I thought about was getting rich. I bought it because my parents would’ve loved it.’

  ‘Would have?’ he asks gently.

  ‘They died. Just over two years ago. I had the money from the sale of their house. I didn’t know what to do with it, only that I wanted to keep it for something important, and then I saw the auction and … I don’t know. It spoke to me. My dad always wanted to move back to Scotland. He loved Christmas trees and my mum loved Christmas, and I knew they’d love it. It seemed magical from the pictures.’

  ‘It was, once upon a time. A real winter wonderland.’ He looks around the dingy kitchen. ‘But that was a long time ago.’

  There’s emotion in his words that makes me look at him, really look at him. I take in the slump of his wide shoulders and the sadness in his voice, and he realises it too because he shakes himself. ‘You could replace the windows one at a time to spread the cost. If you want me to, I can come over tomorrow and board up the remaining ones upstairs. And Evergreene had been intending to fix the roof for years, so there’s new roofing felt in the barn. I don’t mind nailing that over the hole as a temporary fix until you can afford to get it repaired properly. It’s a priority because the more water that gets into this place, the more damage is being done.’

  My stomach drops like I’ve just got into a lift. How many Christmas trees will I have to sell to afford this sort of thing?

  ‘And I’ve got a builder who does all my building repairs. If you want his number, he’ll give you a decent price on the roof. Most of the materials are already here. The replacement tiles are stacked in the garden. You probably came across them when you were running from the monster squirrel earlier.’

  ‘It wasn’t the squirrel, it was the shock of the squirrel,’ I say, knowing that I’m never going to live it down, no matter what I say in my defence. ‘I’ve never been confronted face to face by an unexpected squirrel before, okay?’

  He raises both eyebrows with a look of scepticism on his face. ‘From a spectator’s point of view, it was hilarious. I only wish I’d had my phone out to record it. Millions of views on YouTube beckoned. I’ve never heard such a bloodcurdling, ear-piercing scream over something so small and cute before. I thought you’d found Theresa May doing a dance or something equally horrifying.’

  His ability to create the most random mental images is impossible not to laugh at.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say when the mattress starts letting out squeals of air because it’s full. I watch as he gathers up the pump and puts it back with the pile of other things, and sort of hovers next to it, paused halfway between helping with something else and picking up his stuff and leaving.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ I ask, because I don’t want him to leave yet. ‘I’m knackered after all that pumping.’

  He is, of course, not even slightly knackered. He hasn’t broken a sweat and he isn’t gasping for breath or anything. ‘That bodes well for the amount of Christmas trees you’ll have to lug around if you really are going to get this place up and running again.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing out my complete lack of fitness. I’m so glad you noticed,’ I wheeze as I unscrew the flask to refill my empty cup and the other one for him.

  Instead of replying, he gets the sleeping bag out and lays it on top of the mattress. Finally, he throws a camping pillow next to it, and sits down cross-legged on the floor next to the heater.

  I take the two cups of tea across the room and hand him one, his fingers brushing against the back of my hand as he takes it. I wonder how his skin can be so warm when it’s still chilly in here, even with the heater going. I go back and collect the tin with a loaf of pumpkin bread in it. It’s still warm from the oven and the smell of cinnamon and spice that wafts up is mouthwatering. I sit down opposite him on the clean patch of floor, surprised to see the tiles are actually cream and have delicate beige leaf patterns along each edge. Patterns and colours are something that was lost under the grime earlier. I put the bread between us and push the tin towards him, and the way he hesitates before pulling the crust off is quite sweet.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. I want to look at him, to watch that lip piercing because I can see it out of the corner of my eye, catching the glow from the heater as he eats, but I tell myself to stop being weird. I concentrate on the chunk of pumpkin bread in my hand instead.

  ‘Do you think I can?’ I ask when the silence is almost as cloying as the smell of paraffin the heater is giving off. ‘Get this place up and running, that is?’

  ‘If you’re willing to put the work in. You’ve got a good six weeks to prepare for the Christmas rush. It won’t be easy, but if you get out there and shear the trees and dig up the weeds, you could be ready to open to the public in December – assuming you’re planning to run it as a choose-your-own tree farm?’

  ‘As opposed to what?’

  ‘There’s a Christmas market in Elffield. It’s a wee craft market all year round, but in September, it becomes a gorgeous Christmas market. Villagers gather there to sell their local produce, and there are people selling handmade gifts, crafts, and festive food and drink. It’s a real hub for the local community, and it’s popular with tourists too. Evergreene used to cut the trees himself and take them there to sell. When he was older and the work got too much for him, he opened Peppermint Branches up as a cut-your-own farm, but I’d never trust people to walk around my farm unattended with sharp blades. Choose-your-own is great, but you need staff on hand to do the cutting.’

  ‘What do you do with your pumpkins?’

  ‘I do both. I have a stall at the Christmas market so I’m there every morning from September onwards, and then in October, I open as a pick-your-own pumpkin patch. No one needs sharp weapons to pick a pumpkin, and I’ve invested in good fences to keep people out of the growing areas I don’t want them stamping across, so you can generally leave people to their own devices. It’s different to letting people run around a tree farm with saws. Evergreene had all kinds of trouble with it – people would start cutting one down and find it too difficult, or their kid would run off and find one they liked better, and he’d have a load of half-cut trees, and I mean with damaged trunks, not drunk.’

  I once again start giggling at the mental image of drunken trees swaying in the wind, and he laughs too. ‘The funny part is that I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I knew you were going to think it as soon as I said that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what trees get up to in their spare time, do I?’ I try to compose myself. I’ve already cried in front of him tonight, I can’t start a giggling fit too. ‘They could be right old lushes for all I know, off down the pub every night to get blootered.’

  ‘They do that leaping sprint on the way and the wobbly crawl on the way back. Haven’t you ever been to a Christmas tree farm at night? They all disappear down the local and stumble home in the early hours, and by the time you get up, they’re all leaning over groaning and there are pine needles thrown up everywhere.’

  The fit of laughter takes over and I let out a snort even more embarrassing than the snot bubble earlier. ‘Are you still trying to make me feel better or are you naturally this funny?’

  This time, his cheeks definitely turn red, and his hair falls across his face as he looks down. I have a sudden and unexpected urge to tuck it back, and I’ve never had the urge to touch a complete stranger’s hair before.

  ‘This place means a lot to me. To everyone in Elffield.’ His words are quiet and directed at the floor. ‘And it can’t be brought back to life by someone who doesn’t understand that. And I didn’t think you did.’

  ‘But you do now?’

  ‘It’s …’ He pulls his sleeve up and looks at his watch. ‘… Nine o’clock and you’re still here. That’s better than I expected.’ He looks up and grins at me, his eyes flashing with the reflection of the red glow from the heater. ‘We both want the same thing. I’d love nothing more than to see Peppermint Branches up and runn
ing as a Christmas tree farm again. So would every villager in Elffield. Judging by tonight, so would you.’

  I’ve got to admit, there is something about this place. The way I felt when I saw that auction listing for the first time … that feeling I got when I leant on the gate and looked out at the trees in the distance … I kind of understand what he’s talking about.

  ‘How come you have so much camping gear?’ I ask in an attempt to change the subject because the idea of every villager in Elffield being invested in what I do here is a bit unsettling. ‘Do you go camping a lot?’

  ‘Nah, I had some problems with teenagers getting into my land and lighting fires over the summer. They burned down half my sweetcorn so I decided to play them at their own game and sleep out there for a few nights.’ He waves a hand in the general direction of the fields across the road. ‘Caught them red-handed, and they didn’t come back.’

  ‘Sounds terrifying.’

  ‘Aye, for them. You’ve never caught sight of me in the middle of the night without a coffee in me. Believe me, they thought they’d found the three-way lovechild of Nessie, a sasquatch, and a scarecrow.’

  ‘Okay, another question. The last owner … his name wasn’t seriously Evergreene, was it?’

  He snorts like he didn’t expect that question. ‘It was. I’m not sure what came first, the name or the tree farm though. The first trees were planted by his great-great grandfather. I think there was some controversy along the line when his great-grandmother married and refused to take her husband’s name, unheard of in those days, but you can’t own a Christmas tree farm and give up the name Evergreene, can you?’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  He looks at me with a raised eyebrow, like he knows I’m prodding for information and he isn’t sure he trusts me yet. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘I spent my weekends over here from when I was old enough to hold a shearing knife and a saw – not together, that’s a recipe for disaster. My mum and dad were extremely impressed to find out I often cut school so I could come back here and cut Christmas trees instead. Our farm was more of a regular farm back then, livestock and all sorts of produce, but the Christmas trees were so much more exciting. Evergreene was like a grandfather to me, you know, the naughty one who encourages you to do things your parents would never allow you to, and then gives you a cheeky wink, puts on an innocent face and denies all knowledge when caught?’ He puts on a shaky, elderly voice. ‘“What do you mean Noel was in the back cutting Christmas trees when he was supposed to be in maths class? Really? I had no idea. I thought it was an overgrown elf running around with that chainsaw.” Only to be followed be piercing shrieks of “You let him use a CHAINSAW?”’ He looks down at the tiles again and I can feel the sadness settle over him. ‘But many years have passed since then.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He never recovered after a stroke and died a few months later. Over four years ago now.’

  ‘No family to inherit this place?’

  ‘Just one absolute git of a son who was never interested in Christmas trees. When we were younger, he got his jollies off by zooming around the village on his motorbike, deliberately frightening livestock and old ladies. He only saw this place in pound signs, and I hope he’s extremely disappointed with the fifty grand you paid, but I gather the estate agents were at their wits end with trying to sell it. They must’ve been over the moon that an idiot who doesn’t know anything about Christmas trees turned up.’ He looks over with a teasing grin. ‘I bet you don’t even know what type of tree you get every year, do you?’

  ‘Oi. I know exactly what type my tree is – a plastic one.’

  He doesn’t hide the look of horror on his face, and I hold up a hand to stop him. ‘I know, I know, it’s an affront to all of Scotland. I sent it to the tip before I left London. We used to have a real one growing up but not since …’ I swallow hard, unable to tell him that I only had a plastic one in the flat because I spent Christmas at my parents’ house, and since they died, I haven’t felt much like celebrating Christmas. ‘Well, a plastic one’s easier, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. What kind did you have when you were younger?’

  ‘A green one.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Blue spruce? Fraser fir? Nordmann fir? Balsam? Pine?’

  ‘I don’t know, my dad always chose it.’

  The look on his face leaves me in no doubt about what he thinks of me.

  I drop my head into my hands. ‘I know, okay? I’m fooling myself here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. If Mr Blobby can have a fanbase … anything’s possible.’

  ‘Now there’s a vote of confidence if ever there was one …’ I struggle to take my eyes off that lip piercing as a smile spreads slowly across his face, laughter lines crinkling up around his eyes and replacing the tautness.

  ‘What do you do after Halloween? Is the pumpkin market big year-round?’ I ask because something has to distract me from his upper lip, and I’m already thinking about seasons and how in-demand Christmas trees are between January and October. I suspect the answer is ‘not very’.

  ‘I keep my market stall. In December I dig up the winter veg that people want for their Christmas dinner, and then in January, I sell cut winter flowers like snowdrops and primroses. In spring I sell the first earlies that have overwintered in my polytunnels, and in summer I sell whatever’s ripe. Then in autumn, I sell the corn ears that haven’t been cut, I raid the apple trees and wrestle my hazelnuts from the squirrels, and then it’s pumpkin season again. Pumpkins are my main crop. I have loads of varieties spread across many acres. Everything else is kind of a “whatever fits in around them” crop. The business is seasonal so you have to fill every available space to keep yourself ticking over throughout the year.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that aspect of Christmas tree farming …’ I say, because let’s face it, it’s one of many aspects I hadn’t thought about.

  He looks towards the front door like he can somehow see the farm through it. ‘You’re going to get one income a year and you’ve got to make sure it’s big enough to last until next Christmas. For now, you’ve got more than a year’s worth of work to get this place back up to standard. The trees need a lot of looking after during the year. They need herbicide and fertiliser put down, you’ll have to inspect them all the time for diseases and insects, they all need some serious shearing, arrangements need to be made for however you’re going to sell them, seeds need to be collected from between the scales of pinecones, and saplings need to be planted, and if things were up and running as they should be, then cutting should begin in November …’ He must notice the blank look on my face because he trails off. ‘Too much for the first night, aye?’

  I pull my ponytail around and pick a stray dust-bunny from it. ‘I only understand approximately 38.5 per cent of what you just said.’ I sigh and flip it back in frustration. ‘What have I got myself into here, Noel? Seriously. Does someone with no experience have a hope in hell of making this work or should I give up now and go home with my tail between my legs?’

  He glances over at me. ‘Where’s the annoyingly perky made-for-TV movie character who tried to kidnap my dog earlier?’

  ‘That’s twice now you’ve referenced those made-for-TV rom coms. Don’t tell me you watch them?’

  ‘My mum watches them. If I’m in the room, I try my best to ignore them, but the main characters are usually so annoyingly shrill that their voices penetrate even the most industrial of headphones, and then I end up getting sucked into them. There you go, judge me.’

  ‘I would never judge you for that. In fact, I think that might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.’ The harder I try to stop myself smiling at him, the more he makes me smile. ‘I love them too. I record them when I’m at work and watch them in the evenings and weekends. I can get through five on a Sunday if I try really hard.’

  He bursts out laughing. ‘I don’t have weekends
off, but I try to marathon a couple in the evenings. One of my guilty pleasures is lying in bed with a tin of Christmas chocolates and watching them.’ He’s gone so beetroot red that even the semi-darkness of the kitchen doesn’t disguise it. ‘And I can’t believe I just admitted that. Even my mum doesn’t know that.’

  ‘Nothing to be embarrassed about. In December, I turn down invitations to go out for Christmas drinks with work colleagues in favour of curling up on the sofa with a hot chocolate and as many romantic comedies as can reasonably be fitted into a weekend. I like escaping into the perfect fantasy life that none of us can ever hope to live. You can believe the world is a better place for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why you bought a Christmas tree farm? That’s exactly the kind of thing one of the annoyingly squeaky main characters would do. Or inherit one. The busy marketing executives usually inherit unexpected things, don’t they?’

  I grin because I’ve never met a guy who likes these films before. ‘And of course they meet the gruff but sensitive, slightly grumpy and disapproving guy who rescues them and shows them the ropes, and you know they’re going to fall in love from the moment he steps onscreen in some adorable accident where she pours coffee all over him or something.’

  ‘Hah.’ He scoffs. ‘Well, we can be certain that’s not going to happen here. Unless there’s a sheep in a nearby field you fancy.’

  ‘I did pass some very handsome cows on the drive up …’

  ‘And on that note, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet and gathers up his stuff.

  ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says as I hover in the hallway, watching him shrug his coat back on and pull the hat down over his thick hair.

  He must sense my sudden nervousness at being alone again, because he looks up in the middle of pulling his boots on. ‘Don’t worry too much. Things will look better in the daylight.’