‘That would be amazing. Noel’s always saying he wishes he could extend pumpkin season, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way we could join forces and help each other out. He’s helped me so much, so if the tree farm being open can help you guys out in any way, let me know. And you’d be doing me a huge favour too. The seasonal workers are still going to be here, so I was just going to put whoever isn’t busy with customers in charge of it.’
‘The seasonal workers will be needed in the fields to advise customers and cut and carry their trees for them. I think you’re going to be a lot busier than you think you are. You saw the pumpkin patch at Halloween.’
I did. I watched the pumpkin patch throughout the last two weeks of October, and Noel was busy. Cars coming and going all day and children running around enjoying themselves, even the shouts of joy from his corn maze filtered across to me as I weeded the driveway and dug over the edges of the lane for display trees, but he sells his pumpkins at fifty pence each. Christmas trees are much more expensive, and much bigger and more difficult to transport and recycle afterwards. But on the other hand, almost all of my postcards and flyers have gone and the stallholders at the market have requested more, so I just hope she’s right.
It feels like it’s all starting to come together, but none of it will matter if customers don’t come. It needs to be a good season. Because I don’t know what I’m going to do if it’s not.
Chapter 12
‘Not like that, like this.’
‘Are those your favourite words or what?’ I snap, standing upright to wipe the sweat dripping off my forehead again. It’s three weeks into November now, it’s far too cold to be sweating this much.
Noel grins, his forehead not glistening even slightly, the fit bugger. Another Norway spruce falls effortlessly into his hand and he lays it down gently.
I crouch down and wriggle around the saw that I’ve got stuck in the trunk. Again. My hands stick to the handle because I’m covered in sap. Again.
He stomps over, picks up my gloves from the ground and hands them to me, then he kneels and removes my saw with ease and pats the earth beside him.
It’s drizzling again and the earth is damp, but I reluctantly kneel down and silently apologise to yet another pair of jeans for ruining them. He hands the saw back to me and taps the trunk above the awful hacking half-cut I’ve just made. ‘Try again here, above the damaged bit so you cut it off.’
We’re heading to the market with the first trees this weekend, so it’s my first opportunity to attempt to cut them down. Peppermint Branches opens to the public next weekend, and things are starting to take shape. Between us, we’ve pruned almost two thousand of the spruces and firs, and Iain and the two workers have done a huge amount of the rest. There are only a few hundred overgrown trees left now, and the ground around them is weed-free and solid. We’ve dug up loads and planted them along either side of the lane, and each one is strung with the twinkling outdoor lights I found. The hot chocolate machine and chestnut roaster are installed in the caravan, and Noel and I have been testing them both to ensure quality. Vigorous testing. Multiple times.
But this is the real groundwork – the actual cutting of Christmas trees. Like the shearing, if I can’t do this, I’m going to be a pretty rubbish Christmas tree farmer.
It’s one of the younger spruces I’m trying to cut, but the bow saw grinds to a halt a quarter of the way the through the slim trunk. Again.
Noel rolls his eyes and wriggles the stuck saw until he can get it free.
‘What am I doing wrong?’ This is the third tree I’ve tried to cut this morning and the third one that Noel’s had to rescue from my terrible attempts.
‘No idea. I’m stumped.’ He looks up at me and grins. ‘Stumped, get it?’
‘Your tree puns would be a lot funnier if you didn’t point them out immediately after making them.’
‘You’ve obviously twigged that my sense of humour is just too sophisticated …’
I do an exaggerated groan. ‘At least that’s a new one. I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve used the stumped one.’
‘Oh, come on. There are prime times for the stumped pun and this is clearly one of them.’ He gestures animatedly at the stumps in front of us and mischief flashes across his blueish-green eyes. ‘At least I’m not making acorn-y joke.’
It should be illegal to laugh at something so terrible, but the look of earnestness on his face makes me guffaw so hard that it takes a few minutes to recover.
He puts the saw back into my gloved hand. ‘Try again. In a straight line. I don’t know why you’re so determined to cut it at an angle. You’re trying to slice it, not hack at it like a chisel. Long smooth strokes. As close to the ground as possible while still giving yourself room to work.’
‘I know,’ I say, because he’s told me ten times, and I’m still cutting too high up, and the saw still inserts itself at a downward angle.
His hand closes around mine. ‘I’d better help. We’re going to run out of trees at this rate. There are only another five-thousand-odd for you to practise on.’
‘Oh, ha ha, almost as funny as the tree puns,’ I murmur as he uses his other hand to push back the lower branches and give me better access to the trunk.
His head is close to mine and his leg is pressed against my thigh as his hand guides mine back to the tree, his fingers covering mine as he makes me hold the saw against the trunk at the correct angle and starts moving it back and forth in strokes much longer and smoother than the ones I was managing. With him in charge, the saw doesn’t catch once, and the narrow trunk is sliced nearly all the way through in seconds.
Noel holds onto a low branch to hold the tree upright. ‘Don’t push it when it starts to lean, that’ll make the bark splinter.’
He jumps to his feet to catch it, and I slide the saw through the last centimetre until the tree falls into his waiting arms and he lays it down.
The tractor is at the edge of the field with the trailer attached for the trees to be piled on and taken back to the barn for netting, before being loaded into Noel’s truck and taken to the market stall on Friday.
I’m quite proud of myself as I stand up and look at the tree lying on the ground. All right, Noel did most of the work, but still. Small victories.
With the next one, he stands at the back to support it and reaches around to hold the lower branches out of the way as I kneel down again and attempt to replicate the sawing movement he’s just shown me. The tree makes some ominous creaking noises, and the saw catches a few times, but after the longest few minutes in history, the blade finally comes out the other side and the tree falls.
Noel lays it down and gives it a not-entirely-disapproving nod.
It’s not quite the sixty seconds he can get through a tree trunk in, but it’s a start, and I move onto the next tree before he has a chance to direct me.
I’m going to have to do this on my own. I love that he’s helping me, but he’s got his own farm to run, he can’t be here all the time.
It’s fine, I tell myself. A few weeks ago, I never thought I’d get the hang of shearing trees, but now I feel like I’ve been doing it all my life.
One thing I’ve learnt is that you don’t have time for doubt in this job. You jump in and learn as you go while treading water in the deep end and hoping there are no sharks circling down below.
‘You’re keen.’ Noel supports the next tree, peering around it to watch the cut I’m making.
‘You’re not always going to be here to help me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you teaching me stuff like this, but I have to get the hang of it myself.’
‘I know, but my season is over for the moment so I’ve got time, and I love this place. I love being here again. I even love watching you grow into this role and the way you pick things up and have ideas that I would never have thought of. It’s inspiring to see it all through the eyes of a newbie again.’
Inspiring. Something I never thought anyon
e would say about me, ever.
‘You keep thanking me for helping you, but I’m enjoying it too. I loved fixing up the caravan with you and seeing it take shape into something fantastic before our eyes. Even Gizmo is enjoying his new red markings.’ He gives me a grin. ‘And yeah, my season starts again in January with digging over the land and planting seeds in propagators, but until then I’m only running the market stall and the corn maze at the weekends until the corn dies back. I’m happy to help.’
He makes an ‘oof’ sound as the tree I’ve just cut down falls into him, and I can’t help the grin of glee. He was so distracted that he didn’t even notice me slicing through another trunk.
I run my gloved fingers across the fresh stump. It’s not as smooth as Noel’s, but it’s better than my earlier cuts. For the first time since he knocked on the door this morning with a backpack over his shoulders, two bow saws in one hand and coffee and muffins in the other, I feel like it’s actually something I’ll be able to do.
I grin up at him as he sets the tree on the ground and walks around it to assess the trunk and gives an approving nod.
‘And we haven’t even started on the chainsaw cutting yet. And yes, you do need to learn how to use a chainsaw,’ he says, pre-empting what I was going to say. ‘If you’re harvesting a lot of trees in one go for wholesale or something then you need the speed, and mainly, if any customers cut their own trees down with wonky cuts then you have to straighten them up before they leave, otherwise the tree won’t stand right in their house and they’ll blame you even though they did the wonky cut themselves.’
‘Oh, great. Problem customers.’ I hadn’t even thought about that aspect of the job. ‘There’s always one, isn’t there?’
‘Actually, there are usually two, just to make a really good job of ruining someone’s day.’
It makes me smile as Noel leaves me cutting and starts carrying the trees up to the waiting trailer and loading them in. I watch for a moment as he starts moving them, lifting the smaller ones with one hand around the trunk at the bottom, and rolling the larger ones up onto his shoulder to carry them up to the nearest tractor path. He moves them quickly but gently, stacking them into the trailer with care, looking like he’s been doing it for most of his life. It makes me wonder again just how much he used to do for Mr Evergreene because there doesn’t seem to be a thing he doesn’t know about Christmas trees.
When I’ve cut some more down, I start loading too. I’ve already hauled a few dead trees – ones that I’ve been able to hack up with an axe and drag around because they can’t get much more damaged when they’re already dead – but this is my first time picking up a living Christmas tree that still has to be in a good enough condition to sell by the time I’m finished with it.
I go for one of the younger spruces and follow Noel’s lead, one hand around the base of the trunk, one hand carefully around the slimmer width of the top, and lift it, expecting it to be much heavier than it actually is. I carry it up to the trailer and lean it against the side until the bigger trees are loaded in underneath the smaller ones to save them being crushed. After a couple more, I go for a bigger one, hoisting it up over my shoulder. I turn around and complete the classic cartoon character move of decapitating everything in a circle around me, spraying needles around as the tree crashes into several of the ones still standing.
Noel hooks one ankle over the other and leans against the trailer, not hiding the amusement on his face.
All right, I’m not an expert at it yet, and lifting the heavier tree has made me realise how much I’m aching from all sawing and carrying. I’ve used muscles I’ve never used before in my life, and every part of my upper body is hurting, from my wrists, forearms, and upper arms, to my shoulders, neck, and right the way down my chest.
‘These are surprisingly easy to move,’ I pant as I stagger towards Noel, sweat dripping off my forehead again. All right, the larger ones are a bit on the heavy side, but I didn’t mean that in a fully sarcastic way. It’s easier than I imagined when I thought about what lugging trees around would be like. I look at the rows and rows of neatly sheared trees standing around me. Maybe I’ll reconsider that after I’ve cut, carried, netted, and transported a few hundred more.
‘That’s because you’ve gained some muscles since you started here. Believe me, I can tell.’
I think my entire body flushes from my toes to the tips of my hair at the implication he’s been looking.
‘That wasn’t supposed to sound anywhere near as pervy as it did.’ His face colours too, and he rushes off to collect the last of the trees. ‘Genuinely, Lee,’ he says without looking up when he comes back and starts loading them into the trailer. ‘You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.’
My hands and arms are still shaky from the exertion of carrying. ‘You’re a good teacher.’
‘Nah.’ He blushes and looks away, intently concentrating on laying trees one on top of the other.
‘You really don’t like compliments, do you?’
‘Shall we have a break for lunch?’ He doesn’t acknowledge the question, and I didn’t expect him to. He never accepts a compliment but he gives them freely. ‘There’s something I want to show you, but it’s right on the other side of the farm, we’ll be hungry by the time we get there.’
I don’t tell him that I’m famished now. All this tree cutting is hard work, and it’s nearly midday. Even Noel’s muffin and pumpkin spice latte haven’t sustained me this long, but I still feel like I haven’t seen every corner of Peppermint Branches, and he’s by far the best tour guide I could’ve wished for.
He covers the trailer to prevent the trees drying out while I collect both the bow saws and put the protective covers back on the blades. We pull our gloves off, and he shrugs his rucksack onto his shoulders and holds his hand out to me. ‘The ground might be uneven, and we’ve got to cross the stream.’
I’m quite capable of walking on uneven ground, and could easily cross the stream without assistance, but there’s something about his tone that’s so warm and his open hand looks inviting. Against my better judgement, I slip my hand into his and his fingers close around mine, making another little shiver go through me which has nothing to do with the unending drizzle that’s been gradually soaking through my clothes all morning.
We walk carefully through the rows of Norway spruces and across the wide tractor lane between those and the Blue spruces, and the scent becomes sweeter. Noel’s been talking about the different scents of each species, and I’ve always thought they all smelt the same, the generic pine smell of all disinfectants, but walking among them, stroking my fingers down different branches as we pass – I’m starting to notice each individual scent.
The stream weaves along a jagged line between the Blue spruces and the Balsam firs, much shallower here than at the spot where Gizmo tried to jump in the other day. Noel puts a foot on the crumbling bank and steps across the trickle of water, tightening his hold on my hand and then turning to offer me his other one too. I step across the water easily, and even though I don’t need the support of either hand, I still don’t let go as he pulls me up the bank on the opposite side.
‘Does it ever get deeper than this?’ I ask. ‘The river that ran through the village where I grew up was always bursting its banks.’
‘It fills up when we’ve had a bit of rain, but you know Scotland, we’re usually treated to constant drizzle rather than heavy downpours. The banks could probably do with a bit of maintenance because they’re crumbling away, but generally it’s always been shallow enough no matter how much rain we’ve had. A river’s not the best idea for a Christmas tree farm, but years ago, back when Evergreene’s father was still running the place, the local council decided to put a main road through and had to re-route the river, and he was forced to let it run through his land. That’s why it’s sometimes not marked on maps.’
I nod, still surprised by how knowledgeable he is. He seems to know everything about this place, and eve
ry tree, plant, soil, moss, or type of weed. I learn something every time he speaks. ‘Does it cause problems?’
‘It would be a disaster if it flooded. The land slopes downhill, so you’d lose everything below it. And you wouldn’t even know at first because trees can look like they’ve survived periods of stress, but months down the line, they’ll chuck all their needles off and fall over, and only then do you realise that the roots drowned and they’ve been standing there gradually dying ever since. Even if they did survive, they’d be weakened and more susceptible to diseases and insect attacks.’ He glances at me. ‘But don’t worry about it. It hasn’t happened yet, and it’s been decades since the re-route. If you’re that concerned, you could get someone in to dig it out and reinforce the banks, line a load of sandbags along the side, but given the state of the farmland and the trees themselves, I think the river is the last of your problems.’
We leave the trickling stream behind us as we walk through rows and rows of imposing spruces of differing sizes, across another tractor lane. Eventually we get to the hedge that runs along the line where Peppermint Branches meets Roscoe Farm. He brushes a hand along it until he obviously feels some give, because he moves the branches aside. ‘This is the spot. You go first.’
He holds the branches back and our hands drop so I can climb through the gap in the hedge, getting stabbed and prickled by only a few hundred holly thorns. Of all the things you voluntarily climb through, holly is not one of them.
‘Welcome to my favourite place on the farm.’ He clambers through after me and sets the hedge branches back into position.
‘Wow.’ I can’t help the intake of breath as I look around. We’re in a clearing surrounded by hedge, the ground under out feet is covered with lush green moss, and in the centre is a tree I’d seen on the horizon but hadn’t realised was quite so close. A huge, gnarled old tree, with a trunk so thick it takes a few minutes to walk around its ginormous perimeter. The bare branches are twisted and curled together but there are still patches of greenery in them, the bark is silvery and flaky as it towers above us, so tall that I can’t see the top from down here. If magic exists in the world, this is the kind of place it would be hiding, and I half-expect to see pixies sitting on toadstools and goblins chasing after gnomes as they dash out of sight.
Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm Page 20