The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  ‘Are you not going to contact her?’ I ask, unsure if I should bring up the daughter she rarely mentions.

  Jilly shakes her head; the age lines cut deep around her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know anything about her, do I? I suspect she’s still at the cottage. She’s big enough to make her own choices now. She knows where to find me.’

  ‘Maybe she felt torn when her dad was alive – loyalty and all that.’ It’s rarely mentioned but I know Jilly’s ex-husband has now passed away.

  ‘Possibly, I should have fought harder, insisted that she visited at weekends, but the constant friction gets you down, ruins everything and puts a stop to visitations.’

  ‘That’s been my mistake, I’ve lapsed as regards my time spent with Alfie. I’m picking him up tonight, but I’ve let him down recently.’

  ‘And now, you’re paying the price. You need to push for it, Ange – seriously, lovey, otherwise it’ll end up like me and Nina.’

  *

  Holly

  ‘Holly?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I answer the register as I unpack my history book.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ a female voice mimics behind me, from the back row. I turn to look but a row of identical blank expressions, smudged kohl liner and orange foundation stares back at me. Paris is one of them, of course.

  I face forward, conscious of every word I hear from the back row.

  Mr Bennett begins to explain today’s outcomes, drawing one of his crazy and colourful mind-maps upon the whiteboard. I’m looking but I’m not listening, which is unlike me.

  Ping!

  Something small hits my right shoulder. I turn around but can’t see anything on my blazer. I face the front.

  Ping!

  It hits my left shoulder. A small piece of white rubber falls to the floor beside my chair leg. I stare at the chewed piece. Obviously, someone has invented a new game.

  Within five minutes, there are numerous pieces of chewed rubber scattered around my chair. I didn’t feel them all land, just the majority.

  I put my hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, Holly.’

  ‘Can I move seats, please, sir?’

  Mr Bennett looks confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason… I just want to move seats.’

  The teacher looks around the classroom, as if he can replay the class interaction that occurs each time he turns his back to write on the whiteboard. He can’t and I’m not about to squeal.

  I wait patiently as he assesses the class. He knows me too well to know that I haven’t suddenly developed a penchant for moving seats. I can see his cogs twirling. He’s figuring out if it’s the boys beside me who are the pain or elsewhere in the class.

  ‘Sir… can I just move?’

  He nods, cautiously eyeing the class, as the back row hold their breath.

  I stand, remove my belongings and move right to the front. Mr Bennett is confused but accommodating. At the front their target practice won’t reach me, ruler or no ruler.

  *

  ‘Holly?’ Alfie’s voice sounds gruff as he calls me from the playground wall. ‘What’s this I hear about your history class? Bits of rubber being chucked at you, who by?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Someone has snitched in record time; the break bell has only just sounded.

  ‘No, that’s out of order—’

  ‘Alfie, it’s just silly girl stuff.’

  Alfie puts his hand in mine as we walk along the top wall and down the steps to the bottom playground.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure. Anyway, who told you?’

  ‘Jordan.’

  Jordan Haywood is hardly a fan of mine; he often refuses to sit next to me in class since the time the health advisor in primary school sent me home with a letter informing parents that I had little visitors. Jordan has never forgotten that and I am sure Alfie will know the nit story before long.

  ‘What plans have you got for the weekend?’ asks Alfie.

  ‘I’m working at the chemist tomorrow morning and baby-sitting tomorrow night so my parents can attend a friend’s party. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve got a work trial at Christmas Tree Farm – hopefully they’ll take me on for Saturday work. It’ll give me some extra cash.’

  ‘They were run off their feet last weekend when we collected our tree.’

  ‘You’ve already got a Christmas tree up?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. My baby sister has pulled it over ten times already. My mum’s not happy about it.’

  The end of break bell sounds, interrupting our conversation. Alfie walks me to my English class and gives me a peck on the cheek, before attending his own class. The rest of the class, lining up outside the room, stare at me as Alfie leaves. I know what they are all thinking: how?

  I join the rear of the line and contentedly smile.

  *

  Nina

  ‘It didn’t take long to clear the rubbish left by the trespassing teenagers,’ explains Bram, sprawled upon a couch as lunch break begins. ‘Though Dad is getting his hair off about it, but, as Jackie keeps telling him, “kids will be kids”.’

  ‘The police advised him to get a couple of guard dogs but he won’t,’ adds Zach, settling in an armchair beside the wood burner.

  ‘He reckons Shazza knows who it is,’ says Bram, removing his scarf.

  I give him a quizzical look.

  ‘Seriously, she made a comment earlier – something about her kid brother and his mates or such like.’

  ‘She’s never mentioned them to me,’ I answer, unsure if such accusations should be made behind Shazza’s back.

  ‘Phuh, she wouldn’t, would she?’ Bram says, adding, ‘She needs to warn him, because if Dad gets hold of the little swines, he’ll be done for GBH.’

  ‘Get away with you. Your dad’s not the violent type.’

  ‘He is where his livelihood is concerned. These trees are worth a sodding fortune… and to think a bunch of little scrotes are roaming around during the night,’ says Zach.

  ‘Bram, can we talk?’ I ask, clutching my coffee mug.

  ‘About what?’ he says, peering at me as his hands busily twist his scarf around itself.

  ‘Nothing.’ I back out. I will find another time to let him down, or Kitty will scold me again.

  Bram screws his face up.

  ‘You’re a weird one, you know that, Nina?’

  I shrug. He isn’t the first guy to make such a remark. Which explains why I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a few weeks at twenty-five years of age.

  Zach glances between the two of us, before his packed lunch and Thermos flask dominate his interest.

  One by one the team slowly come in for their lunch. It’s the only time that all the staff break together. I sit in the cosy corner of the sofa watching the groups. It’s fascinating to see the working dynamics of the cutting crew with the sales team and the general dogsbody team.

  I steer clear of sitting with Kitty, in case she wishes to continue this morning’s little chat. I ignore Shazza in case she wants to confess to having insider knowledge about the trespassing.

  *

  Time flies when you’re busy avoiding everyone. I move piles of netted spruce around the yard, gathering, stacking and labelling in relation to their species and height, piling them one on top of the other so customers can select with ease. It’s quiet for a Friday afternoon but there’s no doubt that tomorrow will be the start of a busy weekend.

  I have my eye on the clock, ready to race from the farm at the first opportunity.

  My plan is to buy some new candles on the way home, cheap and cheerful ones from the local shop, to accompany a long, lazy bubble bath. Then dress for my night out, which has become my new term as regards tonight.

  That’s when I see him.

  He is gazing at me from across the sales yard. A pair of dark hazel eyes staring from deep olive skin, topped with a tumble of brown curls and neat sideburns. He’s leaning against the driver’s door of a b
lue Range Rover, dressed in faded jeans and a thick winter coat, open to reveal cream knitwear. The scene looks too perfect, like a winter catalogue picture pose.

  My stomach flips. A deep rolling sensation sloshes my heart up against my throat.

  How long has he been standing there?

  I instantly blush and look away as I drag a six-foot Blue spruce along to join its buddies. I sense he’s still watching, as he hasn’t moved an inch. I can’t help myself; I want to look over again to confirm he’s still staring. I look again. Our eyes meet. Confirmed: he’s still staring.

  My knees turn to jelly.

  He can’t be watching me. Can he?

  I give a quick glance over my shoulder, because that would be extremely embarrassing if Shazza is standing behind me, and the guy is actually acknowledging her. Shazza isn’t anywhere to be seen. Nor Kitty. For once in our busy sales yard, nobody is anywhere near me. Suddenly the yard feels very eerie and empty but for me dragging a Christmas tree.

  Why does this happen, for the first time in my life, when I’m wearing a million layers of shabby clothing, a red tabard and a bobble hat borrowed from the snug as I’ve left my cute, fluffy girlie hat at home? Seriously, even I would describe me as looking particularly rough at this precise moment.

  And yet, he’s still looking.

  I dare myself to take a third look. One, two, three… look. And there it is – a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

  Again, my stomach somersaults the length of my insides. I feel as if my lunch is about to come back up and be delivered at my feet.

  OMG! This is insane. My heart is pounding.

  I return to the original pile and select a new spruce to move.

  Do I know him? Is he a friend of the twins who I’ve met at a party? Not that I’ve been to many parties with the guys, not recently anyway.

  I sneak another glance towards him.

  Is he here to purchase a tree? In which case, someone needs to go and attend to the customer. Though preferably not me, given the current weakness in my limbs.

  Or is he here to collect a specific order? I bet that’s it, given the Range Rover. Some commercial businesses order a specific size tree to decorate their corporate reception areas or meeting rooms. They aren’t expected to attend and purchase like the general public, so special arrangements are made for collection and invoices forwarded to their accounts departments. But why hasn’t he gone straight to the cashier’s cabin to hand in his order number? Why haven’t the delivery crew attended to collect and help him load the designated tree? My mind is racing, much like my feet as I drag the umpteenth spruce across the yard.

  A sudden thought makes my heart sink – he’s obviously waiting for someone.

  Bang on cue, Jackie exits the cashier’s cabin alongside an attractive woman, dressed in a fur-lined gilet, faded jeans and knee-high black boots. The blonde woman bounces down the wooden steps quickly followed by two young boys dressed in identical coats and gloves. I watch their warm goodbyes plus accompanying air-kissing before Jackie hastily returns inside the cabin.

  My heart sinks to my boots. I instinctively know in which direction the woman will walk. His.

  Taken. Bugger!

  I busy myself at the spruce pile and watch under cover of my lowered brow. They exchange a smile as she walks directly to him, placing an outstretched hand upon his jacket sleeve. Her hand lingers as they talk. The two boys dart to his side; play fighting by pulling each other’s hoods. He’s quick to step in and stop their rough play.

  My heart sinks a little further. I want to cry.

  I turn my back and busy my focus upon the current spruce, which won’t lie flat amongst the others but rocks horizontally, making the pile unstable for the next layer.

  I hear their car doors slam, the engine revs and the tyres crunch on the gravel as the Range Rover swings in a huge arc to reverse alongside me whilst I rock an unstable spruce into position.

  Don’t look up. Don’t turn around. Just carry on doing your job.

  I do both, at the precise moment that I am aligned to his driver’s window.

  His hazel eyes meet mine and he smiles, all the way up to his eyes.

  I freeze.

  He changes gear and drives off.

  I stand and stare at the departing registration plate: BN68… The remaining digits and figures blur with the speed of his departure. In seconds, he is gone.

  As I continue to watch the empty driveway, the first sprinkles of snow begin to fall upon the sales yard. Big, white fluffy flakes gently drift from above and instantly settle like a delicate veil.

  I replay the scene in my mind.

  Why didn’t they buy a Christmas tree? Who leaves our farm without a spruce when driving a Range Rover?

  I look from the empty driveway towards the cashier’s cabin, the snow beginning to fall faster and denser than before.

  I have a good mind to go and ask Kitty what the blonde woman purchased.

  *

  ‘Burr, it’s cold out there,’ I say, entering the cashier’s cabin. ‘And it’s just started to snow.’

  The fumes from the small gas heater make your head spin before the warmth is fully appreciated.

  ‘Has it? I told you to wrap up earlier. Have you much more to do outside for today?’ asks Kitty, perched on her usual stool punching sales figures into her calculator.

  ‘Not really, it seems dead out there today.’

  ‘Yeah, Boss has sent most of the staff over to the grottos to ensure they’re ready for tomorrow. He’s paranoid that the kids’ parents will come across a stash of cider cans whilst queuing.’ Kitty laughs.

  ‘Or, worse still, the Santa will find a stash of cider and quickly repeat last year’s disaster,’ I add, unsure of the true facts due to my absence.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I clumsily change the subject.

  ‘Did that woman not collect her corporate order?’ I ask, attempting a nonchalant tone.

  ‘The blonde?’

  I nod.

  ‘No, she dropped off an order for wedding garlands – the size and requirements are quite specific, so she needed to speak to Jackie in person.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Just thought I recognised her, that’s all,’ I lie.

  Kitty grabs the ordering clipboard from the wall hook and flicks through the details.

  ‘Garlands of holly with extra-long, broad red satin ribbons, double-tied bows and a robin perched on each. It’s for the Christmas Eve wedding.’

  ‘Mmmm, very specific,’ I say, leaning on the countertop trying to read Jackie’s handwriting upside down. I quickly scan the surname box: Romano. Sounds a tad Italian. His olive skin and dark eyes reignite in my memory – it fits.

  Bloody typical.

  ‘Are you working it?’ asks Kitty, returning the clipboard to its order hook.

  I shrug. I haven’t been asked to work a double shift on Christmas Eve, but given the date Jackie probably daren’t ask. She is usually pretty good at organising her wedding staff ahead of time. A double shift would mean working the sales yard from early morning till lunchtime then showering, changing and returning to the farm to work till late at the wedding banquet alongside her hired catering crew. Christmas Eve is unlikely to be a favourable day as regards me working.

  ‘Hasn’t she asked you to waitress?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’m not bothered. I’m a Christmas tree seller not a silver service waitress, unless it suits. You?’

  Kitty nods. She always helps Jackie organise the fancy events. They are usually one-offs, mainly large corporate parties or, like this, a massive wedding reception in a luxury marquee amidst our beautiful Christmas trees. Sounds magical, especially if the snow continues.

  ‘Jackie will ask you, you know that?’ soothes Kitty, covering her growing embarrassment having potentially opened a can of worms.

&nbs
p; ‘I’d prefer her not to, given the date.’

  ‘You all right?’ asks Kitty. ‘You seem… distant.’

  ‘Just confused about tonight’s date… about my dad… and celebrating Christmas.’ I could have mentioned the weird stomach-flip moment that had just occurred outside, but I didn’t.

  Kitty gives a sympathetic head tilt, having been sidetracked from the wedding details.

  ‘I didn’t think life was supposed to be this complicated. As a kid, I thought you grew up, earned money and had the time of your life… when really you lurch from one bad experience to another with very little gratification in between.’

  ‘Oh, gratification, hey… big word for you.’ Kitty gives a cheeky wink; she knows how to humour me. ‘Now, you’d better get out of here before the boss realises you’re skiving.’

  ‘See you,’ I say, peeling myself from the counter and making for the door. At the final moment before exiting, I stop and turn.

  ‘What did you say that bride’s name was?’

  Kitty grabs the clipboard again and scans.

  ‘Luca and Isabella… Romano. Still think you recognise her?’

  ‘Not sure I do now… my mistake.’ I quickly close the door, as the name Luca spins round my head.

  I return to my spruce netting, labelling and dragging duties in a very different frame of mind. Luca – it suits him. An Italian stallion who’s made me go all weak at the knees. Luca Romano: very Italian-sounding, complete with a dark smouldering gaze, thickset shoulders and – I stop myself – a fiancée.

  *

  Angie

  ‘Alfie, it’s Mum. I’m outside.’

  I hear his sigh and can imagine his face, much as it was when I called at eight thirty this morning as he walked to school.

  ‘Two minutes.’ The line goes dead as I wait in the car and view the street, snowflakes gently falling upon my windscreen. I’m not entirely sure what Alfie expects of the flat, but at least I’ve finally purchased a whole load of decorations to hang on my beautiful tree.

  Come on, where is he?

  I don’t want to sound the horn but at this rate the neighbours will have had an eyeful of me before Alfie leaves the house. What’s keeping him?