The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

Kitty Pardoe is slightly older and much wiser than us younger folk but she remembers what it’s like to be twenty-five. I’ve known her since my first day when she took me under her wing. Since then, she’s been promoted to chief cashier, but today Kitty’s been relegated to sales as Jackie, the boss’s wife, is holed up in cashier’s cabin given that it’s the first day of the season. All morning, like me, Kitty has dragged cut spruce around the sales yard.

  We’ve already had three weeks of wholesale deliveries, before the season started in earnest, and if that isn’t enough to kill you before starting the commercial sales I don’t know what is. Why any family would show up just after eight o’clock to purchase the first commercial tree of the year is beyond me, but, hey, that’s the kind of madness that happens around here come Christmas time. If the opening day is like this, I’d hate to predict what the final Saturday before Christmas will be like.

  ‘If Nina’s refusing her marshmallows, I’ll have her share,’ shouts Shazza, sitting at the far end of the snug, her socked feet planted upon the side of the wood burner.

  Zach drops the additional marshmallows onto Shazza’s drink before delivering mugs into our eager hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Kitty looks away but keeps a quizzical eye on Zach as he returns to the kitchen counter to collect his drink and swiftly leaves the snug.

  ‘What?’ I ask, as she turns to me and sighs.

  ‘He really likes you…’ says Kitty, sipping her drink.

  ‘We’re just friends, that’s all.’

  ‘Seriously, Nina, the bloke’s got it bad,’ calls Shazza across the room, slurping her oversized drink.

  ‘You’ve both got the wrong end of the stick again.’ This is all I ever get nowadays. If it’s not Bram chasing for a date, it’s others suggesting I date Zach.

  ‘A Christmas romance would be so sweet,’ adds Shazza, repositioning her feet on the wood burner. ‘It’s the perfect season to be loved up and snuggled close.’

  ‘Such a pity that Christmas is cancelled, where I’m concerned. So, fill your boots, Shazza… choose a bloke and enjoy the season!’

  I put my drink down and stand. Can’t I enjoy a hot drink in peace? It’s not as if I don’t deserve a break after hours of hard work in the cold.

  ‘I would if I could,’ says Shazza, as Kitty flaps her hands in vain to silence her. ‘No, Kitty, I won’t hush. Christmas is coming whether she likes it or not!’

  I hastily leave the snug, traipsing down the steps and across the yard to get away from them, shutting out the blare of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ and dodging the families as I head for the large equipment barn. The mouth to this barn stands wide open, as always. Inside the farming equipment and tractor are neatly parked in rows, bales of stacked hay fill one corner and along the far end is the makeshift winter pen in which Gertrude, the farm’s cranky donkey, and her companion Arthur, the billy goat, reside during the winter. Leaning over the tubular fencing, feeding them carrots is Zach.

  ‘Hey, Zach, how’s things?’ I say nonchalantly, sussing out his mood. He doesn’t look up but continues to stroke Gertrude’s muzzle. The donkey is appreciative and nudges his hand, demanding another carrot.

  ‘Fine, thanks, and you?’

  I join him leaning against the pen.

  The inside of the barn smells warm and safe, away from the car engines and chatter from outside. ‘You enjoying that, Gertrude?’

  ‘She loves a good fuss,’ he says, his eyes fixed upon the animal. Arthur, the billy goat, gives a sweeping glance at the carrot and returns to eating his hay bale. ‘Have you spoken to Bram today?’

  ‘Yes, he’s got another brainwave about me and him sharing more adventurous times together… Lord knows where he gets his ideas but…’

  Zach turns to stare at me, his large grey eyes dilated and wide. The same flutter of long blond eyelashes frame his gaze, beneath an identical blond fringe.

  It’s so unfair that males have such long eyelashes – do us girls ruin ours with caked mascara?

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He wants to be more than just friends, Nina. That’s what he’s getting at.’ His words are softly spoken; he scrutinises my features. I look away towards Arthur, with his giant curling horns, as if he were the interesting one.

  ‘I know, but we’ve been here before. I don’t think that we should…’

  ‘So, tell him, then.’

  ‘Zach.’

  ‘Seriously, he honestly believes that one day you and him will be an item – he’s thought it for years and yet you never correct him. You never put him straight. It’s as if…’

  ‘Hey, don’t judge me.’

  ‘All I get twenty-four hours a day is him chatting bubbles about you. You know the score, he’s trying his best to impress, and yet you’re not going to be honest with him, are you?’

  ‘Honest? Look who’s talking!’ I knew my words would hit home, but, given his hurt expression, he hadn’t expected a verbal punch.

  Zach bites his lip and turns away.

  My voice softens.

  ‘What about you being honest for once, Zach? Oh, no, I forgot – you can’t be.’

  ‘I choose not to hurt him. There’s a difference.’

  ‘And I choose to ignore him.’

  Zach’s grey eyes flash a warning look.

  ‘Are you pair trying to skive or can anyone join in?’ calls Bram, striding into the barn to view the pair of us suspended in silence.

  ‘We’re on our break, so don’t come the crap!’ calls Zach, his persona instantly changing.

  I stare from one to the other, officially their piggy in the middle.

  ‘Skiving more like… anyway, Dad said he needs all hands on deck as a crowd has suddenly descended, so your break needs to be cut short.’

  ‘Bloody great!’ mutters Zach.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger – Dad’s decision, not mine. Nina, can you rally the troops from the snug? They won’t be happy but…’

  I nod, instantly leaving the barn.

  *

  Holly

  I wait at the end of the Costa counter, clutching a spoon in my hand, watching the barista put together my hazelnut latte. All morning I’ve been dreaming of this latte. It’s my treat for working part-time in the chemist, and wearing this awful nylon uniform, which clings to my woollen tights.

  ‘Hazelnut latte!’ The barista shouts past me, as if he can’t see me waiting by the counter top. I step forward and receive the warm offering, eager to scoop the cream from the top as I walk home.

  ‘Holly!’ screams a group of teenage girls from the seated area. I turn around, and instantly regret reacting to their outburst. Six smirking faces, with smudged eye-liner and overpainted mouths, creepily smirk back. ‘Come and join us!’ hollers Paris, one of the mean girls from school. A cackle of laughter bursts from the other five as they try to hide behind each other.

  Head down, I dash towards the exit, my blonde ponytail swinging with each step.

  They’re about as funny as chlamydia, as my best friend, Demi, would say.

  Once I make it to Long Street, I stare fixedly ahead and walk past the remainder of the coffee shop’s large window where I can undo the lid on my latte to scoop and walk. Scoop and enjoy. Scoop and relax. Scoop and forget.

  ‘Holly!’ a male voice calls from behind me. ‘Wait!’

  I continue to stride along Atherstone’s busy street. No one in this world can make me stop and stand, giving those six bitches something to watch or even record on their phones to post on social media. As soon as I reach the safe frontage of the chip shop next door, I stop and turn.

  It’s Alfie Woodward. My stomach flips and I nearly drop my latte. I quickly plunge my spoon into my coat pocket; it feels babyish to be scooping cream when it’s Alfie. Every girl in year eleven, no, scrap that, every girl in our school wants to be friends with Alfie Woodward. He’s the ‘darling of the ladies’, as my mum would put it. And
, get me, Alfie Woodward, from the back row in chemistry class, actually knows my name. Not a reaction that the mean girls would have intended for me.

  ‘Hi. I didn’t think you’d heard me,’ he says, zipping up his jacket as he nears. His dark hair is shorter than in yesterday’s chemistry class – obviously, that has been his Saturday morning task.

  ‘Sorry… I… well.’ I shrug, looking up into his smiling face. What am I supposed to call the name-hollering in Costa?

  ‘I was inside with Jordan and Tom. I heard them catcalling you. Anyway, ignore them… I was wondering if you were going to youth club on Tuesday night? I go most weeks. Your mate Demi goes sometimes but you’re never there!’

  I shrug. What can I say? Err nope, because the mean girls go every week? Or how about, yeah, sure, I’ll turn up, get verbally abused for two hours and return home to cry… sure, save me a seat and I’ll see you at seven on Tuesday?

  ‘There are others that attend, not just those witches,’ he adds, as if he can read my thoughts. ‘I could call round for you, if you want?’

  Alfie Woodward calling for me!

  I blush. I see his blue eyes swirl and scan my features, taking in the subtle change in my pale complexion. Holly Turner, for once in your goddamned life play it cool.

  ‘Well?’ A tiny smile frames his top row of perfect teeth.

  I purse my lips together to hide the metal train tracks that I begged my parents for, but now wish I’d never had. Right now, I’d much prefer my unsightly teeth buckle.

  I give the smallest nod, having lost the ability to communicate in English. In fact, if Alfie stands before me for very much longer, with his new haircut, smart zipped jacket and white trainers there is a chance I may abandon control of my grip and lose this latte to the pavement.

  ‘OK. I’ll drop round just before seven on Tuesday.’

  Brain, now is the time to function, be it a simple OK. Please don’t let me down, not right now.

  ‘Thanks, Alfie, that’d be nice of you. See you.’ I turn about quickly. It seems rude, but I can’t face him any longer. My smile is going to burst forth and I’m about to do the geekiest grin ever witnessed on Atherstone’s Long Street.

  ‘OK, see you in school,’ he calls, as I head towards home.

  ‘Yeah, first thing in chemistry.’

  ‘No, you’ve got history first, then geography…’

  I attempt a nonchalant wave. Demi is not going to believe this.

  *

  Nina

  In a matter of hours, several hundred Christmas trees are sold and taken home by happy families. The boss instructs a second wave of spruce cutting, which means the yard staff will be run ragged with netting and pricing labels. This is the busyness I crave. Busy hands, busy mind.

  ‘The farm couldn’t have been any busier without snowfall,’ boasts the boss as he deploys his instructions.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks Kitty as I peel off my layers of work clothes in the snug when the end of the day finally arrives.

  ‘Nah!’ I can’t muster a smile, which I know Kitty deserves.

  ‘Want to talk about it? I’m good for a chat. Connor will happily wait in the car for me.’

  I shake my head. Connor arrives each night to collect his beloved Kitty; he never complains if it is raining and Kitty asks him to taxi us home to save me from getting soaked. Theirs is a true love match, of mutual respect and commitment – the stuff of fairy tales.

  The last thing I need is to start talking. It isn’t just the twins; if I start to talk my feelings will overflow. And, after an eleven-hour shift, who wants to get the emotional mop bucket out to clean that messy puddle?

  ‘Thanks, but another night,’ I whisper, my eyes beginning to glisten. ‘I need to go straight home, have a hot bath, curl up on the sofa in my pjs and watch Saturday night TV.’

  ‘And then return tomorrow for another long shift.’ Kitty giggles, trying to lift my spirit.

  ‘Yep, but I’ll have rested and I’ll be fine.’

  I collect my winter jacket, button the front and pull my beanie over my mousy-brown locks.

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Kitty,’ I say, heading for the door.

  ‘Nina!’

  ‘Yeah.’ I turn, my hand on the door latch.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. I know it’s been a year since… the hospital… I just wanted you to know, I have remembered.’

  I’d nearly made it to freedom without anyone saying a word.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper as my eyes prickle with tears. I need to leave. I want to be alone.

  The door closes behind me, my heavy boots thud down the steps, and I quickly march towards the farm track and along the lonely lane beyond towards my cottage. Finally, I can release the knot of emotion that I have swallowed every hour since waking and let the tears flow. It feels good to have made it to half six without my barriers coming down. The release comes easy, and swiftly. I don’t wipe the tears that hang from my chin; I let them fall. Just as I have every day for the last year. One year ago today, my dad was taken into a hospice, not quite the hospital that Kitty remembered. One year ago today, he left our cottage for the final time.

  *

  Angie

  ‘Hi.’ Same old Nick, man of few words and predictably late.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply, reaching up to greet him with a peck on the cheek. Something I haven’t done in months. I’m fighting the urge to ask where he has been given that it is ten past and we agreed eight o’clock. At this time of year, the pub’s picturesque duck pond is silent and dark, providing little amusement. So I have stared at my phone screen in the entrance doorway, as loved-up couples holding hands navigate around me to enter the bustling pub. Each woman has given me the pity look for being stood up, while the guys have given me the once-over. And now Nick’s arrived, my stomach is flipping and I’m not sure if I should nip to the ladies or not. Or will my innards settle once we order our drinks? Food maybe? I remember how nervous I was on our first date. My hands didn’t stop shaking for the entire time, which was ridiculous given that we were seated in the student union bar sharing Hooch and a plate of cheesy chips.

  ‘Shall we?’ asks Nick, taking the lead and holding the door wide. I smile. No explanation for poor timekeeping but, yeah, manners. Nick has always had good manners; they cost nothing but are worth a fortune.

  His greying hair is neatly clipped at the neck. He’s made an effort. I’ve never seen those shoes before so they must be new. I note that he’s spending money on himself – that’s nice to see. But maybe he’s spending money elsewhere too?

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, stepping into The Rose, hoping that everyone notices that I am now only preoccupied with my date for the night and my phone is tucked safely away. The pub is decorated in swathes of red and gold, sumptuous garlands and glittering baubles pinned to every aged beam. I exchange a brief smile with a younger woman, a mute yet grateful appreciation of relief: my date has shown up, eventually. Small festive get-togethers fill each inglenook and alcove as the bustle of the bar envelops us, as clinking glasses, quick-stepping waitresses and the constant drone of chatter fill the air, drowning out the festive music.

  ‘Angie?’ Nick indicates towards a solitary corner table. I nod in agreement – the quieter the better for this conversation. I know what I wish to say, but given recent events my delivery may fall flat. I watch as he nears the table, flicks a crumb from the surface and pulls out a chair. His hands linger on the back rest as he waits for me to take his offering.

  He gently pushes my seat under as I settle. ‘Thank you…’

  He doesn’t cross to the other chair, but sidesteps towards the bar.

  ‘Nick?’ I call.

  He turns; his brow furrows on hearing my voice. I nod towards the other chair. I just want him to be seated, for a moment at least, to allow me the time to speak. If I can get the words out, as they are formed in my head, then we can start our night on the right footing.

  ‘Drink?’
His thumb indicates the bar. I shake my head. He looks confused and returns to our table.

  He settles opposite me. I can see his hackles are up.

  This is it. I instantly need to say what I wanted to say this morning, but he’d stalled me, otherwise tonight will start on the wrong foot, if it hasn’t already. I take a deep breath. I now hope no one in the bar is watching the woman who was stood up earlier. Because the moment this is out, I can’t take it back. Ever.

  His clear blue eyes search my face. He’s waiting and I’m struggling to find the words that I practised in the bathroom mirror. The same ones I practised in the car and again while staring at my mobile screen not five minutes ago in the doorway.

  ‘Nick, I’ve thought about what you said the other month. I would like us to try again.’ I continue, avoiding an interruption. ‘It’ll be difficult. I know that a lot of things have happened since January… but I want us to make our way back to what we once had.’ I pause.

  There, I’ve said it.

  He’s waited months to hear me agree to his original suggestion.

  ‘My biggest fear is that we slide back into what we had… that isn’t what I want. So… I would like us to pretend that we are starting afresh as if this is our first date, that we recently met off some website thingy-bob, which people do all the time nowadays. I want us to reconnect and chat as if we are meeting for the very first time… Nick, are you listening?’

  He’s staring. I can’t read if it’s a good stare or a bad stare. Can a stare ever be good? Is that a nod of the head, or a nervous twitch?

  Nick stands, pushes his chair under and heads to the bar. OK. No reaction. OK.

  ‘Nick?’

  He turns; his brow furrows on hearing my voice – it’s like Groundhog Day, as he’s just re-enacted what he did minutes before.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t ask what I wanted…’ My voice fades. I had to say it; I had to make a stand so he knows I mean it.

  ‘But, Angie, you always have a large rosé.’

  ‘You don’t know what your date wants unless you ask her, Nick.’ Am I being pedantic?