‘Right. Er, okay,’ I say, wondering what exactly I’ve got myself into here. Then again, where would I be now if I was still in London? Staring at the wall behind my desk, inputting data that starts to blur because it’s so boring that it all looks the same. Pumpkins, gingerbread, and flirty pensioners have got to be more fun than that.
Eventually he puts his wet socks and boots back on and stands up. I pick Gizmo up off my lap and tuck him under my arm without giving him another chance to escape and chase after the fish. Noel jumps up the bank and holds his hand out, and I slip my left hand into it. My hand feels small in his huge one, his fingers completely encasing it as he pulls me back onto the path and drops it quickly.
‘Will you tell me more about what it used to be like?’ I ask as we walk past another gate in the holly hedge, the sign on this one reading ‘Norway spruce’, the trees inside just as overgrown as the Nordmann firs and the ground just as overrun with weeds.
‘It’s a great place to come in the winter. You should open in December even if the farm isn’t ready and you just select the trees yourself, cut them, net them, and stack them on the driveway to be sold as pre-cuts. People came for dog walks when it was open and picnics by the river if it wasn’t too cold. Evergreene used to give kids tractor rides around the track when he went to pick up trees.’
‘Oh, that would be so much fun. If the tractor starts.’
‘It will. You’ll see. These things are built to last. It just needs a bit of care and attention before you make the poor thing explode again.’
I lean on the next gate and look over. A wide, overgrown tractor path is the only thing separating this field of trees from the next, which Noel informs me are Balsam firs and Blue spruces, the colour making it easy to differentiate between them. It looks magical. I can see why Noel was convinced there were elves here when he was a kid. I think back to when I was younger. I would have loved to come to a place like this. ‘Has there ever been a Santa here for kids to visit?’
He shakes his head. ‘Evergreene wore a Santa hat throughout December, but that’s as far as it goes.’
‘I could hire a Santa. Set up a little Santa’s grotto for kids to meet him. And you thought elves used to scamper between the trees … I could hang some elf hats around like they’ve been snagged on trunks, and I could make stencils to put down some glittery footprints. All I’d have to do is get a couple of sheets of thin bendy plastic and cut out some little footprints and sprinkle glitter through them onto the ground. There could be some bells hidden in the highest branches so they’d jingle whenever the wind blew.’
Even Gizmo is watching me with his head on one side, his big ears twitching.
I close my eyes and think of all the films I’ve seen where the characters go to buy a Christmas tree. ‘We need loads of lights and some carollers. People are always walking around fa-la-la-la-la-ing in festive movies. At the very least, we could play Christmas music. Some of the trees need to be transplanted to the outer fields so it looks attractive from the road. I can string them with lights all along the driveway and the lane down to the fields. And hot chocolate! I could set up a stall outside the house. Hot chocolate is pretty much a requirement on a Christmas tree farm.’
He’s smiling as he looks at me with a sort of proud smile, his eyes twinkling as the morning sun reaches its peak in the sky.
‘What about the caravan?’ I ask, trying not to think about what that smile means.
‘I think it’ll take more than a cup of hot chocolate to fix that.’
‘No, I mean, it’s wrecked anyway. What if I drag it out of the garden and clean it up and paint it festively red. I could use it as a hot chocolate stand. It’d give me a little kitchen area to work in, everything would stay dry, and the back window could act as a serving hatch …’ I know I’m talking too fast as my excitement builds.
‘You don’t have a license to serve food to the public. And it’ll take longer than six weeks to get one.’
‘Oh.’ I try not to show how disappointed I am.
His smile goes from playing around his mouth to spreading all the way across his face and making his eyes dance. ‘But I do.’
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ignore the fluttering in my belly at the sight of that smile. It’s just excitement about the tree farm. Nothing more.
‘If you take out the garden fence, which is rotted away anyway and shift the caravan about three feet to the right, it’ll be on my property, and I have all the necessary licenses. You can shift it back and get your own by next year, but it would do for this season.’
‘And you’d let me do that?’
He shrugs. ‘Sure. It sounds like a lovely idea. We do hot drinks when the pumpkin patch is open and they go down like, well, hot drinks on a cold day.’
We stand together looking out at the rows of silent trees until Gizmo starts pulling to chase a dried up oak leaf that’s had the audacity to flutter by.
‘Ideas.’ Noel nudges his shoulder into mine as the little dog catches the leaf and tears it apart with teeth and paws. ‘Maybe you’re not quite as “not cut out for this” as I thought you were.’
‘Was that a compliment?’ I grin at him. ‘You weren’t kidding about these trees, were you? What kind of magical powers are they hiding if they can even coax a compliment out of you?’
His laugh rumbles around the farm and my chest is fluttering with festive joy as we carry on walking. I can imagine it as he describes it, and I’m suddenly brimming with ideas to make it a reality again.
Chapter 7
Noel promised to pick me up bright and early, although I didn’t bother asking what constituted ‘bright and early’ because I didn’t expect to get any sleep at all. I’d planned to spend the night lying on the airmattress and scribbling down ideas, but by the time I’d retrieved more essentials from the car and snuggled into the fabric conditioner scent of the sleeping bag … the next thing I know, there’s a car horn blasting outside the boarded up window, and I wake up with a leap.
Screech. Screeeech. Screeeeeeeeech. Screech. Screeeeeeeeeech. I think it’s Morse code for ‘I’m a loud and annoying twat’.
I stumble blearily upright, squinting like a mole emerging from its burrow for the first time under the harsh kitchen lightbulb that’s still on from last night.
Screeeeech. Screech. Screech. Screeeeeeeech.
I stumble into the dark hallway and fumble around for the key. I shove it in the lock and twist it harshly – anything to stop that awful noise as quickly as humanly possible – and burst out the front door, only to be greeted by … nighttime.
Screeeeeeeee— ‘Oh good, I was about to start knocking. Good morning, sunshine!’
‘Sunshine?’ I mutter, blinking at the shock of the damp morning air and the darkness. From the noise he’s making, I’d assumed it was about midday. ‘You said bright and early, there’s nothing bright about this, it’s still dark.’
Noel’s leaning out of the driver’s side window of a battered old truck that looks like it might have been yellow once, but is now distinctly patterned by rust and peeling paint. ‘It’s 6 a.m. The sun doesn’t rise until eight o’clock at this time of year. Are you ready?’
‘Ready?’ I ask, realising that I’ve just vaulted out of bed, my hair must be smooshed up in all directions and I’ve probably got crusts in my eyes and drool dried on my chin, but he looks ridiculously good for this time of day. There’s a tuft of a ponytail sticking out under a red and white snowflake patterned beanie hat, a navy flannel shirt covering his arms, and a body warmer which would probably look ridiculous on anyone else, but he manages to make it look sexy.
‘For the market. I have to get there early to set up.’
‘This early?’
‘Yup.’ The grin he gives me is totally smug and a little bit sultry. ‘Look on the bright side – at least you got some sleep.’
‘And I could do with a lot more of it.’
He grins again. ‘Go and get ready. I’ll wait.’
I mumble something unrepeatable about what he can do with his pumpkins, and he gives me another grin that says he heard every word. I turn around to go back inside, ridiculously grateful that the water and electricity came back on yesterday, but before I’ve got the door closed, he screeches the horn again.
‘What is wrong with you? You’ll wake the neigh … oh.’ When I look back at him, he’s got a travel mug in his hand and a grin on his face.
‘I am the neighbour. It’s not bothering me.’ He holds the cup up in an imaginary toast and winks at me.
I close the door with a resounding slam, and I can still hear his laughter from outside.
Inside, I do an excellent impression of a flapping fish as I run up the stairs with a change of clothes and my toothbrush and toothpaste. I will never take running water and electricity for granted again, even though the light shows up how badly the bathroom needs a proper clean. I promise it I’ll get onto it later as I manage to get ready in record time and fly back out the door.
Noel has still got his window wound down and his arm across the gap. He grins over the top of the mug as I close the door behind me and slip the key into my pocket.
‘Nice hair.’
‘I couldn’t find my hairbrush, okay? I’ll put it up now, I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer in case you started screeching that blasted horn again.’
‘It looks fine. Maybe you could stop in one of my fields on the way and scare off a few crows for me.’
I must give him a look that says I want to kill him because he starts laughing. ‘It wasn’t an insult. You’d be the prettiest scarecrow I’ve ever had.’
I try to glare at him as I walk around the truck, but I’m fighting with myself not to smile because no one has ever called me pretty before, even in a scarecrow context.
Faded paint comes off in my hand as I touch the door handle on the passenger side, and the door lets out a groan when I pull it open. The smell of fresh coffee fills the truck and I close my eyes and breathe it in for a moment.
Then I remember that I’m about to get into a death-trap and I haven’t really woken up yet. ‘Is this thing roadworthy?’
‘Define roadworthy.’
‘Has it had an MOT this side of the Eighties?’
‘It’s had one … I can’t promise it passed.’
‘Noel!’
He laughs. ‘I’m joking. Of course it passed. It’s fine, just a bit of superficial damage, doesn’t affect the running of it. None of us would be roadworthy if that was the case.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you coming or are you going to stand there all day? You’re letting the cold air in.’
‘Your window …’ I go to protest that his window’s open so the cold air has come in anyway, but I give up before I can finish the sentence and climb into the truck.
A festive radio station is playing quietly from the dashboard, Bing Crosby singing ‘Silver Bells’, a real old-fashioned Christmas song that makes me shiver with nostalgia. The brown leather of the front is one long bench rather than individual seats, and in the space between us is another travel mug and a paper bag with ‘Roscoe Farm’ printed on it.
‘I brought coffee and breakfast,’ he says as I pull the fraying seatbelt over my chest and snap it into the buckle beside me. ‘Homemade pumpkin spice latte and a pumpkin spice muffin fresh from the oven.’
‘Oh my god, you are my favourite person in the universe right now.’ The blue travel cup has got foxes and autumn leaves on it, and I grab it and sip it.
I feel every part of me relax as that first sip of caffeine hits my system and Noel starts the engine again and backs slowly out of my driveway. ‘God, this is amazing,’ I say, making an orgasmic noise as I take a second sip. ‘And surprisingly strong.’
‘I firmly believe that people who don’t need a strong caffeine hit at this time of day are some species of pod person.’
I sip from the mug again, enjoying every hot mouthful as it warms me up from the inside out. This is literally the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. And Chelsea and I go out for a lot of coffee in London. ‘You make your own pumpkin spice for coffee? In big chains, they use syrup, right?’
‘That’s exactly why the homemade version is better.’ We back onto the main road and drive in the opposite direction from the way I came in, towards his farm. ‘And yeah, you mix up ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice, add fresh pumpkin puree and a touch of vanilla extract, and add it to any drink. It’s amazing in hot chocolate too.’
I sip it again. ‘You’re a genius.’
He laughs. ‘With eight thousand pumpkins a year, I’ve learnt how to make the best of them. But thank you, no one’s ever called me that before.’
I go to say that I’m sure he’s being modest, but he interrupts me, and I get the impression he’s embarrassed by the compliment. ‘Try a muffin, my mum’s the baking genius in the family.’
I unscrew the twist in the paper bag and take an orange-coloured muffin out. It’s in a black case with tiny orange Jack O’Lanterns all over it and ‘Roscoe Farm’ emblazoned on the bottom. ‘Branded bags and cake cases too?’
‘We sell this stuff on the market stall along with the pumpkins, and we have a huge bakery stand outside the pumpkin patch when it’s open to the public. My mum’s amazing in the kitchen, her goodies are very popular.’
I can see why. The top of the muffin is all cracked and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It looks like an artisan creation in a fancy bakery, and I almost feel guilty for pulling a lump off and popping it into my mouth. It tastes as good as it looks. The perfect blend of sweet and savoury, buttery, spicy, and warm, the case underneath heating my hand as I hold it. ‘Oh my god.’ I let out another orgasmic noise. Actually, that’s an unfair comparison because I’ve never enjoyed an orgasm as much as I’m enjoying this. It was worth the six-hundred-mile drive just for this muffin.
We’re coming up to his farm and I can see a light on outside, flooding the front with brightness. I can’t help pressing my forehead against the window for a closer look. Glenna is in the huge open driveway outside the farmhouse, and I can see signs leaning against walls and pumpkins piled everywhere. Noel honks the horn again and she stops what she’s doing and gives us a wave. The farmhouse looks as picturesque from up close as it looked in the distance, all old stone bricks and window boxes that were undoubtedly filled with flowers in the summer. There are double wooden gates open wide, and their tarmac driveway is a huge empty space, surrounded on the edges by freestanding stalls covered by orange and white striped awning and decorated with huge vases of brightly coloured autumn leaves.
Glenna is still waving as we pass by and leave her behind. ‘No Gizmo?’
‘You are joking, right? Gizmo doesn’t get out of bed at this time of day for anyone. He’ll saunter out when he’s ready, have some breakfast, a gentle walk, and then snuggle under his duvet on the sofa until lunchtime, and after that he’ll be dragged out to the fields with me while I work, and then snuggle on the sofa until teatime.’
‘Oh, bless him,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to see him again.’
‘Yeah, he woofed about you all night too. He thought there might have been some really big spiders he needed to protect you from, or maybe a giant ant or something.’
‘They don’t exist, do they?’
‘Dunno. I suppose half the fun is in finding out.’
‘Your definition of fun and mine are quite different.’
His tongue must twiddle the piercing from the inside because the ball starts moving in his lip and my eyes are drawn to it again as the song changes. ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ by Andy Williams starts playing, and I wonder if he’s put a festive station on because of what I said on Tuesday night or if he’d usually drive to work listening to Christmas music in October. I don’t think he would, somehow.
At the edge of their farm, as we pass a hand-drawn chalk sign that says ‘Pick-your-own pumpkin patch’ in swirly lettering, there’s a giant pumpkin
. It must be at least six foot tall and almost as wide, it’s surrounded by loads of smaller pumpkins, real ones in all shades of orange, yellow, and white. They’re arranged so it looks like they’re pouring out of its mouth in a wave. It’s so striking that I actually gasp at the sight. ‘Did you make that?’
He nods. ‘Wood and plaster and a lot of sandpapering. But it’s stood the test of a few autumns now and everyone comments on it. It’s brilliant for visibility from the road. People love stopping for selfies with it.’
‘Wow.’ I look over my shoulder as we drive past. It’s an incredible sight and I can’t believe anyone could make it. ‘You’re incredibly talented, do you know that? Is there anything you can’t do?’
‘Maintain a relationship? Greet new neighbours in a reasonable way? Crochet?’
It makes me laugh again, and I want to carry on the conversation, but his face is as red as the shirt he was wearing yesterday, and he’s got a look about him that says he’d very much like to hide.
Luckily, I’m distracted by a sign coming up on the right-hand side of the road and I lean forward to see it. It looks like another hand-lettered chalk board, permanently printed on weather-resistant plastic this time, but instead of a nice and friendly pumpkin, there’s a cartoon sweetcorn cob with red eyes and the words ‘GET LOST’ in big capital letters. The sign is positioned outside a field of tall green plants with thick silver chains criss-crossing the entrance. ‘Oh, that’s nice and welcoming,’ I say. It might not even be Noel’s land, but the chalk writing is the same as the sign we passed earlier.
I don’t expect him to start laughing, like proper belly-laughing, so hard that the seat shakes. ‘It’s a maize maze, Leah. Maize with an i. It’s ah-maze-ing fun! The sign is an invitation, not an insult.’
‘It’s a maze … made of sweetcorn?’ He nods and I lean forward then back to get a better view around him. ‘Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before. It looks … ah-maze-ing.’ I try to see through the back window as it disappears behind us. Green ears of corn that must be taller than me line the edges along the road, and I get the feeling that you’d need to see it from above to get a clearer picture. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? I’ve seen the horror films, Noel. Bad things happen in fields of corn.’
Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm Page 12