The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  I nod. I don’t need reminding; I left.

  ‘Well, it’s exquisite. It’s a vintage steam train, right?’

  Nick nods.

  ‘A three-hour wine and dine journey – we can visit the cocktail lounge later, if you wish.’

  ‘It feels like the Orient Express.’ I giggle, trying to hide my delight.

  ‘Not quite as expensive, though.’ Nick laughs. I’m no expert on boys’ toys, but when the train had arrived at the platform, I had instantly recognised the old-fashioned design of the locomotive. ‘I wanted something special, for us.’

  The train whistle sounds, cutting into the dark night, as the carriage gently sways to a rhythmical rumble upon aged tracks.

  Our very first date was a night in the union bar at uni some twenty years ago. I’d hoped for somewhere far more glamorous then, but hey, he’d been short of cash and original ideas, so we’d crashed in the corner with numerous cans of Hooch and a plate of cheesy chips. And I’d had the time of my life. I had spent the evening chatting with the most interesting man I’d ever met. We’d laughed, talked serious and smooched non-stop while the jukebox played endless tunes. Afterwards, he’d walked me back to my room and had had the decency not to push his luck but to leave straight after a goodnight kiss.

  That’s Nick. My Nick, the old Nick. The man I fell hopelessly head over heels in love with. The man I was so desperate to marry. The guy that I fell pregnant by as soon as the wedding ring was on my hand. And, the forty-three-year-old that I left, one cold miserable night back in January. What a fool I was.

  ‘Angie?’

  I jump with a start. Nick looks concerned.

  ‘Sorry, I was just enjoying the moment.’ I return to my menu. The glorious array of food is mind-boggling: Brittany lobster, salt marsh lamb, braised venison and seasonal turkey. This must be costing him an arm and a leg and he’s done it all for us. Me and him. Our second first date. I can’t even focus on the menu selection, as my brain has turned to mush, much as it did when I was pregnant with Alfie.

  *

  ‘So, how’s this year been?’ asks Nick, washing his fingertips having consumed his bowl of fresh mussels.

  I dab at my mouth, ensuring all signs of melba toast are brushed away.

  ‘I’ve learnt a lot… a lot about myself. I have very little emotional intelligence where relationships are concerned and…’ I pause. I have no idea if he wishes me to air such feelings on a first date, but he asked so I need to be honest. ‘I have experienced modern dating – which is an eye-opener.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, things have changed since we…’ I add, unsure if he wants to hear more. But he’s attentive, he’s leaning in, he’s focused and silent so maybe he wishes for me to continue. ‘It’s all online profiles, side swiping or ghosting nowadays.’

  Nick’s brow furrows.

  ‘I know… confusing… There’s a whole host of dating lingo and…’ Should I be honest, or keep a little back? I go for it. ‘Lies. It’s a minefield, in fact, but I did have a couple of nice dates and met some interesting people.’

  ‘Men?’

  I nod. I watch as the information registers. Yes, men, Nick. I’ve been dating men. Men of all ages. Some older, some slightly younger, with different backgrounds, situations and interests.

  The silence grows.

  I see his expression reboot and revive.

  ‘That’s good, Angie… and that’s helped you to realise…?’

  I nod.

  Phew! Being honest isn’t easy, is it?

  ‘It has. Don’t think there’s been hundreds of dates but there’s been a few… and yes, they’ve helped me to realise what I actually want in life and that, maybe, I’ve been at fault for previous mistakes.’

  Nick nods. I think I’ve said enough for a first date. I could do with a conversation changer.

  ‘Did any lead to a romantic attachment?’

  Oh, my God, he’s going there. Honesty is the best… could be the best policy. Eeeek!

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘You could say I’ve experienced a romantic revival… that I wasn’t aware was lacking.’

  Nick’s mouth is straight and mute, awaiting my answer.

  ‘Sorry, was that hurtful to hear?’ My voice fades as my cheeks burn. ‘I was simply being honest. And you?’ I throw him a line.

  ‘I’ve pretty much stayed the same as I was when we were… but no, I’ve not been romantically linked with any one.’

  ‘Since January?’ I ask in a curious tone, as the waiter removes our spent plates.

  ‘Since January.’

  ‘No dates?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘Seriously, no one?’ I sit back and stare. He’s aged well, he presents himself well and yet, he’d stayed at home each night. I honestly thought he’d venture towards pastures new once the divorce was finalised, and yet, he hadn’t.

  Nick coughs interrupting my internal monologue.

  ‘Sorry, if that sounded hurtful. That was slightly more honest than I should have been, but you asked, Nick. I’ve definitely become more honest and open about my feelings and… needs.’

  Nick nods. I know he’s unsure of what to say, because he’s Nick and I’m Angie. That’s how our old marriage worked for eighteen years.

  Nick readjusts his seating and leans forward; his hand stretches for mine.

  ‘That’s good. Honesty is important in a marriage.’

  Back then, I wasn’t honest or open. Back then, he wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, or how to behave. The end result was a meltdown and a walkout. Both conducted by me, of course.

  *

  ‘Thank you for such a wonderful evening, Nick.’ I’m smitten, all over again. He’s been attentive, curious and engaging. I’ve been honest, open and welcoming. I finish my sentence hoping that he’ll lean in a little.

  Then he leans close, placing a reassuring hand on my forearm, and gently kisses my forehead. I catch my breath hoping he does nothing more. That is perfect. The briefest of touches, yet the meaning is there.

  I smile. He moves backwards, and smiles at my smile.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he whispers.

  ‘Goodnight.’ I want to burst with excitement. Oh, Nick, you have learnt so much in the last eleven months. I want to congratulate him; instead I remain silent. Could our divorce really help our relationship?

  I unlock the lobby door and give a contented smile as Nick stands back from the doorstep, and I gently close the door behind me.

  Five

  Angie

  Wednesday, 12 December

  ‘Boy, from whose bed did you spring this morning?’ asks Jilly, looking up from her tinsel-adorned screen as I charge at a super-speedy pace from one task to another about our tiny office.

  ‘Nobody’s!’ I sing at her, swiping a pile of payroll queries from the incoming tray and eagerly begin to separate them.

  ‘Christ… surely not the query tray… Are you delusional?’ She removes her reading glasses, allowing them to swing from her gold chain, and peers at me, bemused.

  ‘Nope. Just in a good mood, that’s all.’ I busy my hands as my mind begins to replay last night’s fabulous dinner date. Nick has been a true gent. The guy I always wanted him to mature into. There were no awkward silences, no arguing or point scoring… no mention of Alfie. Just the two of us enjoying a fabulous meal, in wonderful surroundings… a date to remember for all the right reasons.

  ‘What’s his name, then?’ asks Jilly, pushing her keyboard aside for an impromptu break from entering overtime data.

  I give her my best smile.

  ‘Seriously, you’re not going to share?’ Her greying bob tilts sideways as if pleading to hear my news.

  I smile even more.

  ‘Bloody hell, he must be good. In the last eleven months, I’ve heard about the Italian stallion, the Mr Thong guy and that ultra-sexy stud from the builder’s yard but you’re
now staying silent. Angie, what are you up to, woman?’

  ‘Arrr, wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘Yes, please! My life consists of the weekly excitement that is Bake Off and Strictly. My Chris has given up the ghost regards romance so, yeah… spill those beans.’

  ‘Nope!’ I say in a comedic fashion. I have no intention of sharing anything about this one. She is right: I shared regarding Fabio, the Thong-guy and screamed it from the roof-top about young Matt the builder, but this… is private. Special. Sensitive. Jilly can guess all she wants; I’m not breathing a word.

  ‘I’m thinking first-night sex, right?’ she whispers from behind the tacky Douglas fir ornament decorating her tiny desk.

  I shake my head as I begin slotting the queries into date order.

  ‘No! All-night sex?’

  I frown, without even looking up.

  ‘Was there sex at all?’ asks Jilly, getting up from her seat and drifting over from her chair.

  ‘Mmm… let me think,’ I ponder in my best acting style and finally laugh. ‘No!’

  ‘So, what the hell are you so damned happy about this morning?’

  ‘Life!’

  ‘Phuh, don’t give me that crap, Angie. Since the beginning of this year your life has been one long shag-fest.’

  ‘Date-fest actually!’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Definitely not! Actually, I’ll have you know I’ve learnt a lot about myself this year – probably more than any other year of my life – and in recent days, I have actually realised that…’ I stop. This is going to sound utterly American-talk-show-host-ish, but still. ‘I think I’ve found myself.’

  Jilly perches her M&S skirt on the edge of my desk, nudging my cheap fibre-optic Christmas tree aside, before belly laughing.

  I watch her, head back, mouth wide open, snorting at my epiphany moment. I wait for her to open her eyes and acknowledge that I’m watching her.

  She finally opens her eyes. Ceases to laugh, splutters and stares at me.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yep. I, Angie Woodward, aged forty, can honestly say… I think, I know who I am and what I desire in life.’

  ‘Pull the other one – it’s got bells on it!’

  ‘Nah! It hasn’t.’

  Jilly stares at me. She’s waiting for my outburst, my emotional revelation. She’s going to be disappointed. I continue with my work.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ She slides her ass off my desk corner. ‘Have you seen a doctor about this?’

  ‘Nope. And, I don’t intend to.’

  Jilly sidles back to her own desk. Her intrigue register is on high alert, in case I suddenly divulge and she needs to quickly return to my desk. She settles back at her keyboard and resumes entering numbers into the monthly spreadsheet, her gaze eagerly trained upon me.

  ‘If you don’t share, you’ll pay the consequences,’ she warns, pretending to pinch the lower branch of her cheap festive ornament.

  ‘I’m not sharing, Jilly.’

  ‘So be it!’ Jilly pinches the ornament’s branch. Instantly the Douglas fir bursts into life, its eyes bulging and mouth flapping, singing and swaying to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’.

  I smile contentedly, I can tune out the tinny music. I haven’t a care in the world. This is how it must feel to be happy. I’d quite forgotten.

  *

  Holly

  ‘And?’ asks Demi as we walk to school. ‘Did he?’

  I never ask her for details, and yet she wants to hear everything.

  ‘Firstly, I’m grounded,’ I say as I hitch my school bag onto my shoulder. ‘My mum wasn’t happy when I got home.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes, way.’

  Demi shakes her head.

  ‘We got into an argument about Alfie – she called me sneaky and I said that I was allowed some privacy, which my dad agreed with, but my mum wasn’t having it. She thinks she needs to know everything that I do, say, think and I raised my voice in answering her back, and now I’m grounded till the weekend.’

  ‘Phew! If I was grounded every time I raised my voice in our house I’d be in solitary confinement till I was twenty-six!’ Demi laughs. ‘And Alfie?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem too bothered by him, more the fact that I didn’t confide in her.’

  ‘She’s going for the “let’s be all pally-pally with mother-daughter secrets”, but it’s false, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, totally false. I think she liked him, to be fair.’

  ‘But she’s not gonna tell you that, not yet anyway.’ Demi pauses. ‘So…?’

  ‘Oh, my God, Demi Walker… yes, he kissed me. OK now?’

  ‘And…’ Demi stops walking and turns, her face looming into mine, much as Alfie’s did last night.

  I giggle.

  ‘You did tongues, didn’t you?’

  ‘Stop it!’ I know my face is scarlet.

  ‘Holly and Alfie sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G,’ sings Demi as we link arms and continue on our way.

  I tell her how we bumped noses, how I was embarrassed by my train-track braces and how his breath tasted of strawberry laces.

  ‘Did he say anything about school?’

  ‘He said I could hang with their group… but I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Good. For one minute, I thought I was getting dumped as your bestie.’

  ‘Demi, no way.’

  ‘Just saying. Anyway, if you’re grounded you won’t be able to come out tonight. We’re thinking of nipping up to the tree farm for a few cheeky ciders. Spud walked me home last night after sharing three cans.’

  I shake my head. Cheeky ciders amongst a group of trespassing teenagers is not my kind of thrill but, even so, my mum will enforce her grounding from the moment I arrive home anyway.

  We arrive at the school entrance and pass through the double green gates. As we enter the driveway, Paris and her gang are standing beneath the nearest tree. They simultaneously turn and stare as we walk by.

  I stare straight ahead; Demi turns to acknowledge their interest in us.

  ‘Don’t antagonise them,’ I mutter.

  ‘Bloody hell, what’s the attraction?’ Demi laughs, turning to the front. ‘Unless she has designs on Alfie.’

  As we enter the playground we hear a hastily-garbled remark shouted by the mean-girl group.

  ‘I’ve got food tech with Paris later – I’ll spike her cake mixture with salt, if you like.’

  ‘Nah! A waste of energy.’

  ‘And good salt,’ adds Demi.

  *

  Nina

  Rap a tap tap. I hear Zach’s knuckles upon the frosted glass announcing their arrival for day two.

  I can’t do it, but I can’t ignore them.

  ‘Morning,’ I mutter, unlatching the cottage door.

  ‘Nice to see you’ve kept the place looking lovely,’ remarks Bram, poking his head around the lounge door, ‘even if it was simply overnight.’

  ‘If you can’t face a second day of cleaning, take yourself out for a while – we’ll crack on,’ offers Zach, unpinning the kitchen door from its hinges. ‘Seriously, we don’t mind.’

  Two concerned faces stare at me, both with clear grey eyes, muted smiles and a warmth that no one else can deliver.

  I shrug. I’m dumbstruck. I don’t deserve such friendship.

  ‘We’ll put aside anything that might be precious or needs your opinion,’ adds Bram, pocketing the hinge pins as Zach passes them over. Bram manoeuvres the wooden door, leaning it against the hallway wall. ‘We won’t throw anything out.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Have you seen how tiny the kitchen is? We’ll have more room without the door in place,’ explains Zach.

  In unison, we stare around the small kitchen. I see it with fresh eyes. Every ceramic tile, cooker ring and cupboard handle now reveals itself in a furry, fuzzy light. In fact, as I stare at the ceiling lights I see the extent of the dirt – even the spotlights have a coverin
g of yellow grime.

  ‘How have you not been ill?’ asks Bram, leaning against the door jamb, wary of entering. ‘Do you actually cook in here?’

  ‘Sometimes, but lately it’s been fridge food, warmed through,’ I mutter.

  ‘What about when your dad was here?’ he continues.

  ‘Bram!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give it a bloody rest,’ says Zach.

  Bram stares at me, before answering.

  ‘She’s fine, man… I’m not upsetting her. So, stop being so bloody tetchy on her behalf.’

  I pray Bram doesn’t mention the Friday night date – wheedling out of that one today might send me over the edge.

  ‘I’m fine, Zach, honestly. I still have my moments every day but for the majority of the time I’m OK talking about Dad.’

  Zach nods, almost as convinced as I am by my words

  *

  ‘I suggest two clean in here and one hits the upstairs,’ offers Zach, pulling his gloves on.

  ‘Bagsy upstairs… if anyone belongs in her bedroom, it’s me!’ announces Bram, with a cheeky wink. Zach and I exchange a glance before we both stare at Bram.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ I retort. ‘Zach, you upstairs. I’ll stay here with Casanova.’

  ‘OK, but I’ll start the bathroom first, Bram… or did you forget that is also located upstairs?’ says Zach.

  ‘Seriously, Nina, I was only joking… just trying to bring a bit of sparkle and joy into your day, that’s all. Don’t get the hump.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  We can hear Zach thumping up each stair above our heads.

  I open the back door and pin it wide with a hard-backed chair, allowing a whoosh of cold December air to enter the kitchen.

  ‘Everything out, clean and then return, is it?’ asks Bram.

  ‘Yep, even the lino… let’s rip it up and I’ll replace it at a later date.’

  I am amazed how quickly tears spring to my eyes when Bram opens the top cupboard and I spy the piles of white cardboard boxes with my dad’s prescription labels attached. Two shelves filled with neatly-stacked boxes. Boxes that I was never allowed to touch. When I was a child that cupboard had housed our biscuit barrel filled with lemon puffs and pink wafers, but those treats were relegated to the pantry cupboard for safekeeping and replaced with a multitude of his medication.