The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  ‘Well?’ asks Becca, ready to do her bit as store detective.

  I nod.

  Becca is gone in a flash. She flies around the corner of the aisle and I hear her shout for assistance. I’m staying back on this call. There is no way I can get dragged into their situation purely through knowing them. Plus, I’ll never live it down in school.

  I watch the store manager and his deputy run to attend the apprehension of the mean-girl group. Six sulky teenagers are frogmarched towards the manager’s rear office. I stand at my till and watch the doleful faces pass by one by one. Each one stares at me in turn, as if I’m solely to blame for their predicament.

  I watch as Becca plus the two managers escort the group into the rear offices. I know the routine: they’ll call the police, await assistance and then call parents.

  How embarrassing. My parents would kill me for pulling such a stunt. They each receive way more pocket money than I’ll ever get and still they steal!

  ‘Holly, could you come through, please?’ calls Becca, standing in the doorway. It turns out the store manager has other things to do, but the group need to be watched until the police arrive.

  ‘Becca, I know them,’ I mutter, not wanting to be involved. ‘They’re in my class at school.’

  Becca shakes her head. It makes no difference.

  I have to stand in the manager’s office while six of my classmates are accused of stealing two boxes of hair dye, three Dove box sets and a selection of nail varnishes.

  The police are stern, taking all six back to the police station to process and inform their parents. I am deeply ashamed purely by association of gender and age. As they file out, one by one, they drop their heads except Paris, who eyeballs me in a threatening manner.

  Wait till I tell Alfie; he won’t believe it.

  *

  Nina

  ‘Nina!’ A cry from the equipment barn fills the air. I drop the Norway spruce that I am stacking, turn and run through the snow to the barn.

  Zach is inside the donkey pen, his back pressed against the railings with beads of sweat decorating his forehead. I instantly understand the situation and grab a carrot from the food stash by the entrance and rush towards the far side of the pen. Gertrude isn’t the issue, it’s Arthur. The billy goat’s stance is dominant; his chest thrust forward, head lowered and his mighty horns primed for attack.

  ‘Arrrrthur,’ I sing, in a loud and distracting voice, whilst waving the carrot through the railings at his eye level.

  ‘Hurry up, he’s angry!’ splutters Zach, the whites of his eyes growing wide.

  ‘Arthur… what’s this, old boy?’ I frantically wave the carrot. ‘Zach, you might need to run for it.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock, I hadn’t thought of that. Wave the carrot a bit higher to distract him. He needs to cease this behaviour or he’ll be getting his nads chopped off.’

  Arthur’s front hoof cuffs the straw.

  ‘Zach, get out of there!’

  The same hoof repeats the action.

  Arthur aggressively launches forward, his weapons drawn, charging at full pelt, as Zach bounces over the metal railings just in time to miss Arthur impaling his left thigh. Zach lands on my side of the pen, straightens his jacket and sweeps his hair back.

  ‘That was close.’

  ‘Too close,’ I add, throwing Arthur the carrot.

  ‘Don’t reward him for behaving in that way. No wonder he keeps doing it if you give him the sodding carrot.’

  I ignore the remark. Arthur doubles back from his charge and parades his glorious horns before locating the thrown carrot.

  ‘He needs an afternoon with the vet for a castration job – he’s becoming a sodding menace.’

  ‘He needs a mate, more like.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  I ignore him for the second time in as many minutes.

  ‘Why won’t your dad just call the vet in?’ I ask. ‘He’s getting worse.’

  ‘Male pride, I think.’ Zach laughs, straightening the legs of his work trousers before standing tall. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘I’m just not ready for social situations, Zach. It feels like I’m entering another phase.’

  ‘Another stage of the grieving process?’

  I’ve done the anger, feeling isolated, being in denial, being the victim and the aggressor, and now I’m consumed by the melancholy phase with a touch of restlessness thrown in.

  ‘When will the happy phase start?’

  Zach raises his eyebrows in a comical fashion.

  ‘I’m serious, Zach.’

  ‘I’m serious too,’ he says, adding, ‘You’re in control of your own happiness, no one else.’

  ‘Thanks for that gem of wisdom.’

  His grey eyes portray such compassion in one gaze.

  Why can’t life be simple? If I could have a Christmas wish it would be for a peaceful existence, the way life used to be: me, Dad and the cottage. Dad’s mood swings overshadowed our memories, his physical deterioration didn’t help matters but life had a regular pattern. I feigned my role as an unofficial carer pretending not to have a care and Dad understood his – together we simply plodded along.

  ‘Fancy a pint tomorrow night in The Rose?’ I ask.

  His eyebrows lift in a questioning manner.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t handle social situations.’

  ‘A quiet drink with you is different.’

  ‘And last night’s date with Bram was…?’

  ‘Difficult, awkward… hasn’t he said?’

  ‘He doesn’t tell me everything, you know.’

  ‘Ah, but I do, is that it?’

  ‘OK. The Rose… at eight.’

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ he repeats, before heading from the barn into the snowfall.

  *

  Angie

  It felt like a good idea but in sixty minutes, I’ve learnt that Fabio is still using his dating profile. He’s also lost a tonne of weight unless that’s an old photo and he has ventured on a recent holiday with a woman who happens to resemble his wife.

  So, he’s still playing Casanova amongst the single women in the area.

  Great.

  I close the laptop. I wish I hadn’t looked now. My initial task was to find an interesting date on which I could invite Nick. Somehow, I was distracted.

  It shouldn’t be this easy to find and follow people online. It shouldn’t be allowed for married people to actively seek affairs via dating websites.

  My wounds reopen. The edges slowly tear apart and gape, wide and unattractively raw. I never imagined this could happen but it has.

  I need a task that will successfully distract me from the likes of Fabio. Fabio and his ladies. Fabio and his wife. Fabio and his glorious carnal knowledge.

  I count the shopping days remaining until Christmas – not enough – but still I don’t feel like competing with the crowds purely to please my gobby young pup. Is it too late to use online for everything and get it delivered in time?

  I can decorate my Blue spruce. Yep, that’s what I’ll do – decorate my tree, which has stood naked for a week.

  The tree that is supposed to be a treat for me to enjoy and I’ve neglected it.

  I quickly collect my box of new decorations, which I’d hoped Alfie and I would have emptied last night in a mother and son bonanza night of family bonding. But sadly, we didn’t.

  I open and unpack every box of silver baubles, tinsel garlands and white fairy lights, laying the decorations on the lounge floor before slowly and purposefully hanging each item upon the blue boughs. I stand back to admire the silver against blue combination – it looks impressive, but I can’t muster my original spirit for doing this alone. In my head, I envisaged happy times, decorating the tree with my Alfie… This feels wrong and pathetic. How has my glorious spruce become a symbolic gesture of pathetic loneliness and spinsterhood? How?

  An image of Fabio’s tight torso fills my mind. His sturdy, powerful
thighs and that cute manner of curling his lip.

  Why do I do this to myself? I’ve consciously decided to focus on Nick. Rebuild my relationship with Nick. Me and Nick. Nick and me. And Alfie. So why do I bother looking for past lovers? Nothing good ever comes of searching for an ex online. Nothing.

  My train of thought follows a downward spiral: dates that equalled nights out. Nights out that led to nights in, which led to the memories of passionate nights tumbling between sheets.

  Stop it! Angie, just stop! I’m annoying myself.

  I need to be stronger. I need to focus on my future with Nick, not look backwards… A happy family Christmas filled with tradition and fun – that’s what I need.

  I run through the list of top-ten dates I found on the web: sport event, yoga retreat, camping, adventure theme park, horse racing, NEC exhibition event, music concert… I will choose one and plan the perfect night out for us. Me and Nick. The zoo visit, though pleasant, wasn’t the day he’d have hoped for but his dinner date on the steam train was amazing.

  Amazing nights with Nick, that’s what I need to focus upon… no more thoughts of Fabio.

  Nine

  Nina

  Sunday, 16 December

  When I arrive at work, I stare in horror at the staff notice board. I thought today would be a busy Sunday, not only for spruce sales but as day two of our Santas’ grottos, so why am I relieved of my usual duties on the sales yard? Instead, I am honoured with the task of helping Shazza decorate the nativity scene. Not my idea of fun. I’d complain less at being dressed as a grotto elf for the day.

  Worse still, I’m to help groom Gertrude, the donkey, who will be rehomed during opening hours within the festive nativity scene. I instantly feel sorry for Arthur; he’ll miss her dearly, and no doubt he’ll protest with more aggressive head-butting and charging. Unable to think up an excuse from my allocated task – I’m not allergic to donkeys, can scrub and clean despite recent suggestions and fully appreciate the festive traditions here at Christmas Tree Farm – I collect the keys and head to the tiny barn in the corner of the yard to transform a hovel into a believable scene with Shazza’s help.

  *

  ‘I hate this job,’ moans Shazza, sweeping the empty barn clean of spiders’ webs and last year’s dust. Her discarded debris blackens the surrounding snow at the entrance to the tiny barn. Thankfully the continual snow has ceased for the time being, one plus point of the morning.

  ‘It isn’t my favourite either,’ I mutter, crouching with a dustpan and brush in hand. ‘I’d much prefer to be selling.’

  Within twenty minutes we are surrounded by buckets of hot soapy water, standing amongst a crowd of life-size plaster cast figurines.

  ‘What the hell?’ I mutter, staring from the faces of three wise men into that of the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus. A thick layer of grime covers each one, denying their finely decorated glaze chance to shine.

  ‘So, grab a wet sponge, squirt on some cleaner and away we go!’ instructs Shazza, demonstrating as she talks. I watch as the cream cleaner oozes onto the giant yellow sponge. Shazza swiftly applies it to a Balthazar’s face and begins a circular motion. ‘See?’

  ‘That smells like lemons.’ I laugh, feeling ridiculous at my suggestion.

  ‘It is – lemon bathroom cleaner.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes way – I used it last year and it worked a treat… look.’

  She’s right. Balthazar has a clear complexion and a gleam to his cheek and temple.

  ‘Shazza, you’re not expecting me to smear the Virgin Mary with bathroom cleaner, are you?’

  ‘Mhuh.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can… they’re only statues,’ moans Shazza, topping and tailing the baby Jesus.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I mutter, acknowledging my guilt for what I’m about to do to an angelic face. I wet my sponge and squirt the cream cleaner as demoed by Shazza. I feel all the painted eyes staring at me.

  I step back in horror.

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘Nina, don’t be so daft.’

  ‘Shazza, I’m not devoutly religious but even so… cream cleaner!’

  ‘All right, use washing up liquid, then, if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘No – I’m out of this!’ I look around the busy sales yard in panic, not sure where an answer would lie. This isn’t right. Surely, the boss will object; Jackie definitely will.

  A throng of excited families swarm around the yard happily inspecting, measuring and, some, arguing about their perfect Christmas tree. The staff are running back and forth across the snowy yard answering questions, filling in sales dockets and distributing mulled wine and warm mince pies.

  I’m in a trance, watching the activity in the busy yard. That’s usually my domain, running between customers helping where I can. Why couldn’t I have been selected to wear green tights and a pointy felt hat, with attached ears, directing excited children towards Santa? More fun than this job!

  ‘If you’re that uncomfortable, you can start decorating the inside of the stable. I’ll finish the figurines.’

  I come to, relieved by her suggestion.

  ‘Are you sure? My dad raised me to show respect to…’ I point at the figurines. ‘So, I literally can’t do that.’ I switch my index finger to the cream cleaner.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she mutters as I make a hasty exit to collect bales of hay and a wooden crate for the manger.

  Our barn to nativity scene transformation takes three hours, and once it’s complete we position the statues in a pleasing arrangement around the wooden manger. It looks good, despite the whiff of lemons.

  ‘I just need to groom Gertrude and then walk her across,’ I say.

  ‘Make sure you tether her away from the statues, otherwise she’ll demolish the lot.’

  Shazza drapes her arm over my shoulder and we stand back to admire our handiwork.

  ‘Beautiful,’ whispers Shazza, staring at the twinkling fairy lights, the thick bed of straw and a super-large star pinned to the apex.

  ‘Even so, we’re still going to hell for using bathroom cleaner on the holy family.’

  Shazza laughs.

  ‘You might be but not me. I’ve done a few good turns that guarantee me a place up top.’

  ‘Shazza, I doubt it, love,’ I say, before calling Boss Fielding over to view our efforts.

  *

  After lunch, having spent an hour brushing her dusty coat and clipping her mane, I attempt to lead Gertrude across the snow-covered yard to introduce her to the new festive stable. We weave in between the busy crowds, some purchasing spruces whilst enjoying their complimentary mince pie and mulled wine. Other families are buzzing with excitement at the prospect of seeing Father Christmas, as two queues stream through separate gates, each leading to a winterland grotto.

  Gertrude happily leaves her pen as I lead her across the snowy sales yard. But then she grinds to a halt. Her hooves are planted to the ground and I’m tugging at her reins as if my life depends upon her moving, but nothing. She isn’t impressed by the snow, evidently.

  How embarrassing! Customers turn and watch my struggle as I wave a carrot before her muzzle.

  ‘I’ll fetch you a larger carrot. I’ll rub your belly. I’ll even tickle your ears, if you wish,’ I promise the donkey, with no effect.

  I push at her rear end, pull her reins from the front. Nothing. Gertrude is stuck fast, refusing to budge.

  A Range Rover pulls into the yard, scattering a layer of snow in its wake, amidst my dilemma.

  I do a double take on recognition. Luca, the guy from the other day. I avert my eyes as he reverses, parks and exits the vehicle. Alone.

  My innards melt at the sight of him.

  ‘Come on, Gertrude, this is not the time to show me up,’ I hiss.

  From between Gertrude’s twitching ears, I see him glance around the yard and its bustling crowds before proceeding. He doesn’t head to the cashier’s cabin like the blo
nde lady had, but directly towards my immoveable object and me. The only difference in his appearance is the coloured jumper; otherwise he’s groomed like a model in an advert.

  ‘Hi.’ His voice is as deep as they come.

  ‘Hi.’ I give a weak smile, adding, ‘The donkey won’t move.’

  His dark eyebrows lift as he views the animal.

  ‘I was wondering if someone could give me some information about the types of trees you have for sale.’ I watch his bottom lip, rounded and edible, form each word.

  My stomach leaps into my chest.

  Great, my area of expertise and yet I’m busy fighting with Gertrude. It grieves me to call Shazza, but needs must as she finished the nativity scene, minus a donkey, a while ago.

  I watch as Shazza bounds over, all expectant smiles for our guy; he in turn gives me a sideways glance and hesitates before accepting Shazza’s warm invitation to, ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ is his parting word to me. ‘Thanks’ for not helping? ‘Thanks’ for brushing me off onto your colleague? ‘Thanks’ for acting the prat by pushing a donkey across a sales yard? Or simply, ‘Thanks’?

  I watch Shazza be all bubbly and vivacious with him, flicking her hair back and giggling as she directs him to the pallets of cut spruce. I want to shout after her, ‘He’s taken,’ or even ‘He’s the groom for the Christmas Eve wedding,’ but I don’t. Instead I silently cringe as my brain taunts me by replaying my classy ‘the donkey won’t move’ line.

  As I watch him, Gertrude gently nuzzles my hand and slowly begins to plod forward.

  ‘Thanks, Gertrude, why couldn’t you have done that five minutes ago, freeing me up to serve him, Mr Stomach-flip?’

  Amidst the bustling crowds, I lead the donkey to her new home and tether her, ignoring Shazza’s advice, where she immediately begins nibbling at the hay in the manger – despite the swaddled infant already nestled in there.

  ‘Please don’t eat it all, Gertrude,’ I say, tying her leash to the nearest anchor point. I quickly scan the yard, with the fanciful idea that I’m now available to take over the information pitch from Shazza, if I dare. I watch as Shazza eagerly explains and points at various spruces, explaining the differences, Luca nods, listening intently, his hands dug deep into his jacket pockets.