The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  His eyebrows shoot into his greying fringe. His shoulders drop and he slowly returns to our table.

  ‘Angie, what can I get you to drink?’ he asks, politely.

  ‘A vodka and cranberry, please.’

  ‘But you hate…’

  It’s my turn to frown. This isn’t going to work. He’s not even trying and we haven’t completed a minute on our first date. If we can’t get past the drinks conversation there isn’t a hope in hell, after what were our eighteen years of marriage and one hasty divorce.

  With a terse OK, he heads back to the bar. He heard my proposal and now I’ll have to wait to see what happens when he returns with our drinks.

  *

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Are you seriously going to use that line?’ I snort, dabbing spluttered vodka from the table top.

  Nick shrugs.

  ‘What? I’m trying, like you asked.’

  ‘OK, maybe I should go first… So, Nick, tell me something about yourself.’

  He takes a sip of his Guinness, returns the pint glass to the table and repositions himself in the hardback chair.

  ‘I’m Nick, I’m forty–three years of age… recently divorced. I’m a design engineer by trade – mainly commercial, but I do some freelance work when asked. I work in the city, so most days I commute into Birmingham but some days I work from home.’

  I smile. Well done. Now, my turn. Ask me?

  The silence lingers. I continue to smile. He’ll automatically ask about me, because that’s polite conversation and Nick has manners. My smile fades. He continues to smile, his eyes sparkling and alive. He’s waited so long to hear me say I’ll try again.

  Silence. I’m not going to prompt him. He needs to ask now. Now. Now, will do. Shit, pure silence, simply starring at each other… so I’ll ask some more and take an interest in his career.

  ‘Have you been a design engineer for long?’

  ‘Nearly twenty years. I left school, went to uni—’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Angie… you know which one – the bloody same as you!’

  ‘You don’t know that. You haven’t asked me anything about me.’

  ‘Christ, Angie!’

  I compose myself.

  ‘So, tell me… which university, Nick?’

  He sips his Guinness, and eyeballs me above the rim of his glass. Will he play ball or is that it, game over?

  ‘Aston in Birmingham. I lived near campus for three years, shagged around as much as I could and then—’

  ‘Nick!’ I grumble.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why say that? You know I hate it when you talk like that.’

  ‘Because this is bloody ridiculous. Do you seriously want to listen to me drone on about how I met you, my wife… or rather ex-wife… all those years ago?’

  ‘No, but… oh, never mind.’

  ‘What? Am I to carry on or are we ceasing this act?’ he asks.

  ‘Carry on.’ I swig my drink, wishing I’d asked for a double.

  ‘So, anyway, I met my wife, we married and then this year, after eighteen years of marriage… she walked out on me…’

  I wait for him to add anything but he doesn’t. I could bite back, but I don’t. I leave it. I wouldn’t bite back on a first date, would I? And this is my very first date with Nick Woodward, a date that I’ve been waiting for all day. A date that I curled my hair for and dressed for, arriving just shy of eight o’clock to be left waiting in the doorway for ten minutes. If this is our first date, which I am hoping it is, he’s lost brownie points for such rudeness.

  Continue.

  ‘Have you any children, Nick?’

  ‘One son, he’s just turned sixteen… it’s been painful to watch him struggle with the divorce…’

  ‘You bastard! That was a cheap shot!’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘That! He hasn’t struggled.’

  ‘Yes, he bloody well has… anyway, what would you know? We haven’t met before, have we?’

  ‘Funny,’ I snap as I try to regain my composure, having had my child brought into my first-date conversation.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying… he’s had it rough. There’s been days when he wouldn’t open up to me… or his mother. In fact, he’s still not speaking to her properly… Which I find quite upsetting as they were so very close before she took off from the marital home.’

  I sit back and wait. Under the table, I curl my nails into my palm and squeeze tight. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want Nick to stop, but he’s now on a roll and he’s playing the game as I asked and I really can’t pull the rug from under his feet because I asked for this. This pain. This hurt. This gut-wrenching detail about my own flesh and blood. I asked Nick to pretend and he’s in full flow. I didn’t think it would be this painful hearing about my child’s reaction to my decision, but it is. But I can take it. I can. And I will. I. Can. Take. It.

  So, go on, Nick. Tell your story because in about five minutes, if you use your beautiful manners, you’ll be asking me to do the same. And I’ve been practising. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day, since I shot from the farm this morning because I couldn’t face buying a Christmas tree for my two-bedroomed rental apartment. As it happens, I couldn’t imagine a tree anywhere other than in the three-bedroomed home I spent eighteen years of married life living in.

  *

  Holly

  Have you seen FB?

  D x

  I don’t reply to Demi but log in to Facebook in the darkness of my bedroom. I haven’t seen FB nor any other social media all day; sometimes ignorance is bliss. I glance towards my sleeping sister, Hannah. I can’t risk disturbing her much-needed beauty sleep. She’d definitely grass on me in pure spite, but that’s fourteen years old for you.

  The screen reveals all in a split second, a mile-long thread consisting of comments and colourful emojis. Paris’s posting reads:

  Mirror, mirror on the wall, from Costa’s doorstep who did Alfie Woodward call?

  The message was written five hours ago.

  Great, the world and his wife will have read and responded by now.

  I slide the screen and virtually every mean girl that attends our school, regardless of year group, makes a stream of suggestions. Alfie, the top dog in year eleven… Shock horror – who did he chase after in Costa?

  I smile. A whole host of names has been suggested and slyly, towards the end, the bitches couldn’t hold out any longer for a correct suggestion so relieved everyone’s misery by naming me.

  Holly Turner… and she was sucking on a spoon when he shouted her.

  Paris had written:

  I love her tacky uniform, wish I had one.

  I kill the screen and lie back, pulling the duvet to my chin.

  I should be upset, but I’m not. I’ve received worse treatment from those girls, having known them since primary school. Alfie chased and called me – they’d happily switch places in a heartbeat. History class may prove interesting come Monday, but, first, I have Sunday to survive.

  I quickly text Demi.

  Thanks for the heads up. Yep, it’s true. Alfie spoke to me on leaving Costa. All good. But hey, mean girls copped a good view H x

  I turn off my mobile. The last thing I need is a middle-of-the-night interrogation from Demi about what was said. I need sleep.

  I plump my pillow and close my eyes. All I can see is Alfie Woodward, his new hairstyle, his big blue eyes and a pleasing smile. My stomach flips. Falling asleep isn’t going to be easy, but I wouldn’t change this for the world.

  Two

  Nina

  Sunday, 9 December

  My alarm rings at six o’clock.

  I hate being woken at this time.

  The rain hits the windowpane, a rattling sound I love at night whilst falling asleep, but on a morning it suggests that today’s shift will be pretty miserable.

  Why don’t I have a normal job in a warm office or a sweet-smelling salon? I
shouldn’t complain – after I flunked my GSCEs it was a good job that Boss Fielding took pity on me and gave me a work trial.

  Living in a small village like Baxterley, everyone knows your business. The amenities consist of the pub, a beautiful church and acres of surrounding countryside to keep the inhabitants entertained. Dad and I rarely mixed with the locals as we didn’t need anything from them. We didn’t need their company or the latest gossip. In fact, we probably were the local gossip. No one crossed our threshold apart from the Fielding twins.

  My cottage is a chocolate-box type, with a low roof, quirky whitewashed walls and a dainty front garden with a privet hedge. I was born in the front bedroom, played tea parties with my dolls upon the summer lawn and, now, can’t bear to sell. Some homes creak and breathe, hum or murmur – the cottage has always been silent. I’ve spent my entire life listening to her silence, and yet this last year, it has become much louder, deafening. Surprising given that I’m the sole occupant.

  Friends rarely drop by, or rather they’ve stopped dropping by. If Bram and Zach did drop round nowadays, apart from being shocked that they’d made it past The Rose, they’d see I’ve let the place go to pot.

  I need to get a grip sooner rather than later, but, hey, who am I pleasing here?

  I pull the duvet tight beneath my chin, as a huge tear rolls down my cheek and slides sideways into my hairline.

  How did I allow this to happen?

  I’ve left everything as it was the morning he was taken into the hospice, though I knew he wouldn’t return home – the kindly staff said as much.

  How has a year passed? How has Christmas come around so soon?

  And yet, it has.

  *

  Angie

  My head is banging nineteen to the dozen.

  What the hell?

  I struggle from beneath the duvet, and make my way to the kitchen dressed in an oversized tee shirt, my eyes closed for the entire route for fear that daylight may burn my retinas and cause untold damage. Unlike the half bottle of vodka I drank alone, having arrived home after my first date with Nick.

  I struggle to force the paracetamol to pop through the silver foil. I quickly swallow two down and note the time. It’s seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, frigging hell! The only day of the week I get to lie in and yet I ruin it by waking early, go figure. But that sums up my world.

  I flick the switch on the kettle and lean against the counter top, lazily eyeing up the half-bottle and the single glass on the breakfast bar. Not good, Angie, bad habits lead to more bad habits. I turn away, as if that solves anything. It doesn’t.

  Sunday mornings with Nick were lazy lie-ins, tea and toast on a lap tray and a snuggle under the duvet amongst the discarded newspapers.

  I let out a sigh; even that hurts my pounding head.

  Right now, I’d give my back teeth to be warm in bed, beside a sleeping male, knowing that I can turn over for another hour’s kip or excite him purely by breathing heavily upon his bare back.

  I look round the two-bedroom rental apartment. I moved in just eleven months ago, and the best thing about it is that I can do as I please, twenty-four hours a day. But the promise of freedom has faded rapidly in recent weeks. If I had the choice, right now, I’d be wrapped in Nick’s arms, beneath his warm body, hoping Alfie was OK making his own way to football practice.

  The kettle boils, and I pour the steaming water into a mug drenching the teabag.

  The vodka bottle mocks me. An all-seeing, all-knowing buddy, who was once a passing acquaintance but now is my best friend chosen over others any night of the week.

  I should have gone straight to bed, but I didn’t because, despite my desire to be held in his arms right now, last night, Nick annoyed me.

  ‘So, you’re saying your son wouldn’t welcome you dating a new woman?’ I asked.

  Nick frowned.

  ‘What I said, was that my son would be very dubious about me dating the same woman,’ he said, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘Especially if that same woman hurt both me and him. He’s been affected by the split, Angie. You seem to forget that.’

  ‘But surely Alfie would gain security by having two adults return to the marital home?’ Did Nick know that I was talking about us?

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  It was my turn to frown.

  ‘It’s been tough, I can’t stress that enough… the lad’s at an impressionable age and to have you, his mother, sorry, I forgot the first-date rule, to have my marriage break down in such a manner… it has left him…’ I watched as he searched for the right word.

  ‘Yes?’ I wanted to hear this little gem.

  ‘Vulnerable.’

  ‘Bollocks, has it! He never knew if I was there or not. He was never in, always out playing football with his mates, off down the skate park with the gang… From the age of ten, he’s treated our place like a hotel, coming and going whenever he chose. With me acting as taxi driver every time a distance needed to be covered for collection or delivery to a stadium, pitch or activity further adrift. I’m surprised he’s noticed there’s only two of you living in the house!’

  Nick sipped his pint, and smirked.

  ‘As this is our first date, I’m unsure how you know such details about my home life.’

  ‘Sod off, Nick.’ Play it your own way.

  And he did. In no time, Nick was in full flow telling me how his teenage son hardly leaves the house after school, rarely goes out at weekends, and as for having his boisterous mates crammed into his bedroom to play computer games, they’ve faded away to a sporadic door rap on youth-club nights.

  ‘He’s angry, he’s hurt, but most of all he feels rejected. His confidence has nosedived, Angie.’

  I snatched up my vodka, emptying the remains in one gulp. There was nothing he could tell me about the child I’d carried, birthed and raised.

  I clear the mocking vodka bottle away to underneath the sink, put the dirty glass into the dishwasher and pretend to rewrite events, imagining that I went straight to bed on arriving home.

  I glance at the wall clock. I’ll give it an hour or so, then I’ll give Alfie a call and see if he wants to come and choose a Christmas tree with his mum. I bet he jumps at the chance despite Nick’s twisted opinion. I know my boy.

  I instantly feel better. That’s what I’ll do: we’ll nip to the farm to buy my tree, purchase new decorations, then return to transform my lounge. Afterwards, have a bite to eat at that posh little deli on Long Street. That’ll show Nick, and next time we talk about our children on a date, he’ll have to report back differently. If there is another date, that is.

  *

  Nina

  ‘Nina, can I have a word, please?’ asks Boss Fielding as I trudge towards the snug for my eleven-thirty coffee, or the late break, as we call it. Each day staff change breaks so that we’re never on coffee all together but everyone gets fair dibs at the biscuit barrel.

  ‘Sure.’ I follow his lead towards his office, another log cabin that blends into the woodland theme without causing too much offence. The same can’t be said of the Pogues’s Irish lilt streaming ‘Fairytale of New York’ from the overhead speakers.

  The boss’s boots thump up the wooden steps before he stands aside to let me pass.

  ‘Take a seat, Nina.’ He settles behind his desk. He’s a huge guy, with a greying beard, outdoorsy kind of fella. I’ve always imagined Boss Fielding could give Bear Grylls a run for his money, surviving in the open air with just a knife and plastic sheeting.

  I can’t remember the last time I was invited to take a seat. Boss Fielding didn’t invite me in for a chat when I returned to work last January – surely a family bereavement was the right moment for a quiet chat. On my return, several of the farm staff sidestepped me, hid behind log cabins or simply ignored my absence. Strange that. But I suppose it makes it easier for them, when they don’t know what to say or, worst still, if they make you cry.

  Kitty and Shazza didn’t ignore me. And it goes witho
ut saying that Bram and Zach were with me every step of the way. That was all that mattered to me, back then.

  ‘Nina, now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way…’ The boss stares beyond me as he speaks, his grey eyes not meeting mine.

  Never a good opening line for a conversation. Don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re fired! You’re being replaced! You’re no longer required on sales but we think you’d be good on wholesale deliveries. You’re… I can’t predict another line ending so sit and stare.

  ‘Nina?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m listening…’

  ‘Look, pet, we’re worried about you. Me and Jackie… we know things have been tough, what with… you know. But, well, what I want to say is… is… that… Should there be anything you need this Christmas… you only have to…’

  I burst into tears.

  I rummage inside my tabard pocket for a tissue – nothing.

  His expression drops. His words falter. From experience I know this is the worst possible thing to do to Boss Fielding. He’s raised two rough and ready boys, on a harsh diet of farm life; their upbringing consists of strict orders, hard graft and calloused hands. He’s as emotional as a tree trunk, yet here I am snotting and snivelling in his office without the assistance of a female for twenty yards. After nine years of employment, I know that the boss is officially out of his depth.

  ‘Right, so, sorry to have made… you know… but a chat was necessary.’

  Have we actually conversed during the time we’ve been seated? Or have my emotions thrown him that far left from his comfort zone that he is having a male meltdown at the prospect of offering comfort?

  The cabin door bursts open.

  ‘Hey, Dad… they’ve found a bunch of empty cider cans and the remains of a campfire down at…’ Zach barges in without care or concern. He glances between us, halts at seeing my tear-stained face and an emergency registers in his brain. ‘Hey, Nina, what’s up?’

  Boss Fielding watches in awe as Zach kneels at my chair, produces a tissue in a heartbeat, and awaits my response.