It’s exactly what my mum used to say and a lump forms instantly in my throat and I have to swallow it down. I can’t possibly cry any more tonight. But somehow hearing it makes me feel better too. A little reminder that life goes on tomorrow, even without my parents here. Peppermint Branches is mine now, and I owe it to them to be brave and do the best I can with it, come what may.
Even if it’s mountain lions.
Chapter 6
I might not know much about Christmas trees, but for the past few years, I’ve been inputting sales figures from retail shops so someone more qualified than me can analyse them and present the retailers with facts and figures for maximising profit. I’ve spent most of the night lying on the air mattress, formulating a sort of business plan on the back of the estate agent’s map and when I wake up after a couple of hours of disturbed sleep, I’m feeling a lot more positive about things. This is a business, a retail establishment like any other. To make enough profit to live on, I have to bring in more money than I fork out. Simple.
I’ve been studying the map too, trying to work out how many fields there are and divide the six thousand trees Noel mentioned into some kind of number that makes sense. This is simply a matter of numbers. Trees grown per square acre versus trees sold. I don’t feel as out of my depth when I think about it like that.
I sit up and look around the darkened kitchen, wrapping the sleeping bag around my shoulders because the heater has burnt itself out overnight and the chill in the air is back with a vengeance. I’m excited to get out there. It doesn’t feel as overwhelming as it did last night. It feels like the first day of the rest of my life, and I feel like I can face anything as I pull on some clothes and run upstairs to wash my face and clean my teeth, using only the two-litre bottle of water that Noel brought last night. I eat the last of the pumpkin bread for breakfast and pretend that yesterday’s water is my usual coffee. I promise myself several cups of tea later when the water and electric are back on and I’ve got the kitchen box out of the car.
I’ve got a plan. Noel’s right in that I have absolutely no idea what I’ve bought, so the sensible way forward is to start by making a full inventory of everything I’ve got and everything I’m going to need, and prioritising the budget for it.
Outside, the sky is blue and bright, and I take a picture and send it to Chelsea to prove that we get sun in Scotland. There’s a patch of land behind the farmhouse that’s home to several outbuildings – a huge barn and a handful of tin sheds in varying states of decay, and I decide to start there. The grass is a grey-ish brown and overgrown to knee-height, tangled and flopping over, and there’s an unsteady stone wall separating my land from Noel’s, with half the top fallen away and stones missing, leaving gaps of weeds poking through. It’s mostly shaded by the buildings and a tall hedge, and even I can tell that nothing but the couch grass is going to grow here.
At least I understand why there are so many keys on the keyring the estate agent gave me now. I start with the big barn first, trying different keys in the rusty padlock until finally one turns.
The double doors are so heavy that it takes all my strength to haul them open, then I realise that I need the light from outside, so I have to let them close, find a stone fallen from the wall and kick it across to use as a prop when I’ve dragged them open again. As I stand in the doorway, panting from that tiny bit of effort, I’m surprised that a swarm of bats don’t swoop out. It looks like the kind of building that would have bats hibernating in it. The stench that hits me is damp rotting wood, rusty metal, and leaking petrol. It’s definitely a machine graveyard, because there’s a tractor and trailer parked in the middle, surrounded by other bits of metal machinery, none of which I can identify.
There are tools too – an array of shovels, spades, forks, rakes, and a huge pile of saws in all shapes and sizes. There are wooden holders nailed to the brick wall with long knives hanging from them in sheaths. A rusty push-along lawnmower. Shears, strimmers, hedge trimmers, and all manner of equipment that I don’t recognise.
I feel my confidence ebbing away as I step inside and wander around the damp barn. How the heck am I supposed to take an inventory if I don’t have a clue what half of this stuff is or what it’s used for?
My eyes fall on the tractor. I know what that is. And it doesn’t look like it’s in bad condition, apart from a few cobwebs. I imagine myself bouncing along on the red tractor, cheerfully waving to passersby as I drive it around the farm. I wonder if it starts? At least it’d be one thing I could tick off the list. I give it a wary glance. The spiders have certainly had a field day with it. I brush cobwebs away as I climb up onto the seat, find the ignition key on my keyring and push it in. It’s going to be like the manual car I learnt to drive in. It won’t be a problem. I use my feet to press down on the clutch and the brake as I turn the key, and the tractor rumbles underneath me. Just as I think it’s about to start chugging merrily, it lets out a huge bang and the engine cuts out as the barn fills with smoke.
Perfect. I cough and cover my mouth to avoid breathing in the fumes.
‘That went as well as I expected.’
I jump and spin around in the seat to see Noel standing in the open door, waving smoke away from his face. Gizmo is on a lead beside him, peering worriedly in from a safe distance.
Perfect. Again. He’s definitely got radar for the worst possible timing. Couldn’t he have come five minutes later when I’d tried it again and it miraculously worked this time? Which it is definitely going to, because I can not afford a new tractor.
I clamber off the tractor and duck past him in the doorway to get outside into the fresh air. Gizmo looks up at me and wags his tail, and I kneel down on the concrete ramp to the barn door and give him a scritch. He’s wearing a hand-knitted blue hoodie with a paw print pattern around the edges and the hood tucked back under his harness. Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly be any more adorable.
I squint up at Noel in the morning sun. His hair is loose again, and the sunlight is picking out strands of golden brown that I hadn’t noticed yesterday amongst his mass of dark hair. His soft flannel shirt is red and grey plaid today, and he’s wearing black cargo trousers tucked into brown work boots laced up above his ankles. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was walking Gizmo and I heard the distinct rumbling of some idiot trying to fumigate themselves by starting a tractor that hasn’t been started for over four years indoors.’
‘How was I supposed to know it was going to do that?’
‘Common sense? It’s been sat there for years. At the very least it needs an oil change and checking over by someone who knows what they’re doing. You don’t just ram the key in and try it. And you need some instruction on how to drive it. They’re dangerous things to operate and you’ve clearly never seen one before in your life.’
I mentally add Tractors For Dummies to my list of books I need to order the moment I can get a Wi-Fi signal. ‘I was trying to be proactive. I can’t do much unless I know exactly what the situation is here.’
‘Killing the tractor is not going to help.’
I glare up at him without taking my hands out of Gizmo’s short fur, and he leans against the doorframe and hooks one leg over the other and nods into the barn. ‘I’m impressed with your progress. So far you’ve managed to open the barn door. Even that would prove too much for some city girls.’
‘What have you got against people from cities?’ I say in babytalk as I make faces at Gizmo.
‘Nothing. I just don’t believe in worlds colliding. You’re a …’ He gestures towards me, waving his hand around like he can’t find the right word. ‘You’re a shopper. No matter how good your intentions might be, you don’t even own a pair of wellies. How can you attempt to be a farmer when you don’t own a good pair of stomping boots?’
‘Did you come out of the womb wearing welly-boots? Which would’ve been really weird. And really uncomfortable for your poor mother,’ I snap because he seems to have completely
missed the fact that these things can be bought.
He lets out an unexpected burst of laughter and hands Gizmo’s lead to me, then he strides into the smoky barn and comes back out with the notebook I was using. ‘Your inventory-taking skills are enviable. Tractor. Lots of tools. Metal thingies. Long sharp knives.’ He reads aloud from what I’ve scribbled down so far. ‘Otherwise known as shearing knives – your most important tools during shearing season. Lots of saws. Strimmer. Hedge cutter. Chainsaws. Big metal frame thingy with wheels and blades.’ He’s laughing to himself as he reads it.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say to Gizmo, who leans up to lick my nose.
‘No, it’s hilarious that someone who wants to be a Christmas tree farmer can’t identify a plough.’
So that’s what it is. ‘I knew that.’
‘Aye.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a chisel plough. In January, you hire a stump grinder and pull out the stumps of the trees previously cut. Then you hook the plough up to the tractor and plough the empty fields, and put down pre-emergence weedkiller, then in March and April, you can plant saplings out, but you have to be vigilant with the weeds. Larger trees can handle them but saplings will be overpowered and you’ll lose the whole spring’s worth of work and fields of stock for future years. That’s what the strimmer and the lawnmowers are for, and the …’ He runs his finger down the list until he finds my entry. ‘Gallons of unknown chemicals.’
‘Have you just come to make fun of me or do you actually want something?’ I get to my feet, pull my notebook out of his hand, and thrust the plastic handle of Gizmo’s extending lead back towards him.
Our fingers brush as he takes the lead, and instead of leaving, he reaches into his shirt pocket and hands me a piece of paper covered in his calligraphy-like handwriting. ‘I came to give you these. Phone numbers for the electricity and water companies. If you give them a ring, they’ll probably have you back on in a couple of hours. I’ve also put down the name and number of that builder I mentioned, and my Wi-Fi password if you need it. Reception’s patchy up here and I know you don’t have a landline, so hop onto mine anytime you want to.’
‘Wi-Fi! I could kiss you!’ I clear my throat. ‘But I won’t. Obviously.’
Despite his harsh words, he’s kind and thoughtful too, like last night. Never mind builders, electric, or water, I pull my phone out and type the password in, and squeal in delight when it connects to his WiFi, even at this distance.
I know my face has lit up because when I look up from my notifications, he’s looking at me with one of those dark eyebrows raised. ‘Has anyone ever told you that there’s more to life than the internet?’
‘Yeah, but, like … what? I mean, if you’ve got Amazon, what more do you need?’
The other eyebrow joins the first.
‘I’m joking, Noel. But now I can buy books on growing Christmas trees.’ I can hear the glee in my own voice when I glance back into the barn. ‘And identifying farmyard machinery.’
If his eyebrows go up any further, they’re going to pop off and go on a minibreak to the Outer Hebrides. ‘And you think this is the kind of industry you can learn from a book.’ He sighs. ‘I have nothing to say to you but good luck – good luck in finding another buyer when you decide to give up on your drunken whim and realise this is a difficult job and you need some level of natural aptitude and passion for it.’
‘I have passion,’ I say as he tugs Gizmo to walk away but the little dog stays wagging his tail at me. ‘And I have a plan. Assuming that aptitude as a Christmas tree farmer isn’t based solely on rubber footwear.’
‘A plan?’ He turns back and folds his arms. ‘This should be good.’
It does not sound like a compliment.
I get the page of scribbled notes out of my pocket and unfold it as I hand it to him and watch his light eyes scan over my scribblings. I get a bit self-conscious when he doesn’t say anything but lines start creasing his forehead.
‘It’s a bit rough. It’s scrawled on the back of a map in semi-darkness and I was shivering with the cold so I couldn’t hold the pen steady.’
‘Well, either you’ve invented a whole new language, or you’re fluent in Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs.’ He looks up at me and then looks down at it again. ‘And cave wall paintings.’
I step closer and try to point out what I’ve drawn. ‘Look, this is the field to the left of the lane. It’s empty so has to be replanted. From the scale on the estate agent’s map, I’ve worked out that it’s about two acres. If each tree takes up a few feet each, I reckon I could get three thousand trees per acre. That’s a lot of trees. I’ve had a guess at expenditure, and I’d only need to sell a couple of hundred at £40 each to break even.’
‘Yeah, but this is in seven to ten years’ time when they’re fully grown. It doesn’t help you now.’ He thrusts the paper back at me like it’s contaminated. ‘Unless you’ve got money to burn for the next ten years, you need to concentrate on the trees you have now. And these figures are way off. Your expenses will be so much more than that, and to sell a tree at £40, it’s got to be a perfect specimen. The ones you have here are far from perfect and never will be again. And it’s great that you’re already thinking about replanting, but nothing will grow crammed that tightly into a field. They’ll all get cut down by disease or destroyed by pests if you’re going to try to plant them that close together. Christmas trees need space around them. They need light and air, and room to walk between each one to shear them, and if one dies, you can remove it before whatever killed it spreads to the rest of the plot. These figures are great for someone sat in front of a computer screen, but absolutely useless in the real world.’
God, he’s so knowledgeable. He seems to know everything there is to know about Christmas tree farming and he isn’t a Christmas tree farmer. It makes me realise just how much there is to learn, and how little time there is to do it in if I want to sell anything this year. I also wish he was a bit more approachable and a little less condescending so that I could ask him for advice without being ridiculed.
‘You need to concentrate on the trees you already have for this season. In January, you think about saving seed, preparing the soil, and planting up saplings, but your farm is a ridiculously overgrown mess that needs a lot of real-world physical work right now if you want to get it even halfway up to scratch before December.’
I gulp.
‘This business isn’t about sales figures,’ he continues. ‘It’s not like putting a neatly boxed product on a shelf and waiting for people to buy it. A business plan isn’t going to help with the real-life physical work that doesn’t take place behind a computer screen.’
‘I know figures. All businesses succeed or fail based on figures.’
‘Well, I don’t know figures, but I do know Christmas trees, and this—’ he pokes the crinkled piece of paper in my hand ‘—is worthless.’
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, and then he jerks his head towards my fields. ‘Let me show you what I mean. Want to come for a walk around with me? Maybe I can stop the next inventory consisting of “green trees, tall green trees, and taller green trees” so you’ve at least got some clue about what you’ve bought.’
I give him a scathing look because he’s nowhere near as funny as he thinks he is. I’m going to go on Amazon and order every book on Christmas tree farming I can find and fork out for next-day delivery, but he’s been more helpful than anything else so far and he clearly knows his stuff. He might think I’m an idiot, but I really need his advice. ‘That’d be great. As long as you’re bringing Gizmo.’
The little dog stands on my foot and I reach down to rub his ears as he wags his tail.
‘Of course. You’re honoured to see him at this time of day. Gizmo doesn’t do mornings, but he couldn’t wait to come over and see you.’ We hold each other’s gaze again, until Noel shakes his head and turns away. ‘He was probably worried that the squirrel might’ve come back and terrorised you overnight, or that
you might’ve terrorised it.’
I narrow my eyes to show him just how unfunny I think he is, and he and Gizmo wait while I phone the two numbers he gave me and set up accounts with the water and electricity companies, who assure me the supply of both will be restored this morning. I’m not sure what I’m more excited about – light and water or the prospect of finally seeing some Christmas trees on this Christmas tree farm.
***
‘Welcome to Peppermint Branches.’ Noel unlatches a wooden gate at the end of the lane past the house and holds it open for me to go through. We disappear into a line of tall conifer trees, and in front of us is a wooden sign with directional arrows bearing names of tree species. Nordmann fir, Norway spruce, Peppermint fir, Blue spruce, Balsam fir. I reach out to touch the arrow signs, the words burnt into the wood in fancy writing. We’re in a grassy central area behind the conifers where wide tracks meet, one from the left and one from the right, and one back through the gate to the lane we’ve just come down. Through the tree trunks, I can see the first hint of a Christmas tree farm. I squeal in delight and that starts Gizmo off barking, and he pulls on his lead to chase after whatever unseen thing he thinks I’m squealing at.
‘I guess we’re going this way.’ Noel laughs as he lets himself be pulled along by the tiny dog. ‘Nordmann firs coming up.’
The path is wide enough for a tractor and the earth is dry and solid underfoot, hedged in by a row of holly bushes on either side. They haven’t been trimmed for a few years, with wild tops and branches shooting off in all directions, covered in green berries showing the first flush of red, and they’ve obviously outgrown their intended height because I can barely see over them.
‘Festive,’ Noel says when he sees me looking. ‘You should see it in the snow when the berries turn red and the robins go bob-bob-bobbing along the hedges. It looks like a scene from a Christmas card.’
Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm Page 9