The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

by Erin Green

  ‘There’s two things, but you’ll probably say no to the first but laugh at the second.’

  ‘We won’t… tell us,’ says Jackie, eagerly leaning forward on the opposite sofa.

  So, I did.

  *

  Holly

  ‘Holly?’

  I look up to see the concern in his eyes.

  ‘You OK?’ he asks.

  ‘I know it’s going to happen, that’s obvious, but it really is a huge step…’

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘I know that, but still.’

  Alfie’s arm tightens around my shoulder; he really is older than his years. We haven’t discussed where or when, but taking the next step is definitely in our future.

  ‘We agreed, no pressure. At least we won’t get caught out like your mate Demi.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I say, surprised he’d bring her into our conversation. I’m shocked; Demi only mentioned her experience a few days ago.

  ‘Like Spud keeps stuff to himself, yeah! He was bragging in PE theory class, reckons they were so drunk she could hardly speak.’

  ‘Alfie!’ I twist around from under his arm to view his face. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Honestly, from what he was saying she was out of her face on drink.’

  I want to cry for my friend that details of her are circulating the school yard. What a mess, but what does she expect, putting it about as she does purely to be liked by the boys? I take comfort knowing I won’t be discussed during a lesson; Alfie’s not like that.

  ‘Remember that lesson where we had to put the condom on the banana?’ I ask, blushing with the memory.

  ‘I had to partner Sally Brown. She refused to touch it, let alone help me unroll it onto the banana.’

  It wasn’t my finest hour. I cringed and balked at the prospect but at least I understood how to do it properly, unlike others who simply blew the condoms up and threw them around the classroom.

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The same goes for you, you know? If you feel unsure…’

  ‘I’ll say. I’m just unsure of the embarrassing stuff.’

  ‘It’s sex – apparently embarrassing stuff is pretty much guaranteed,’ I jibe.

  Alfie laughs.

  ‘I’m being honest,’ he splutters.

  ‘I know.’ If I’m taking this next step in the next few weeks, I want to be with someone as caring as Alfie. I just wish Demi had waited till she’d met someone who cared for her.

  Thirteen

  Nina

  Thursday, 20 December

  The sales yard is empty, the tinny overhead speakers deliver ‘Step into Christmas’, as I trudge through the deep snow towards the snug. I know the drill for today before the orders are given or pinned upon the notice board. It’ll be all hands on deck, even the cutting crew will be selling trees, as this weekend has the potential to make or break the entire season’s sales. On top of selling we’ll have the carol service procession to organise ready for the big event on Friday night.

  ‘Morning, Kitty.’

  ‘Morning… are you ready for this?’

  ‘Nope, but what’s new?’ I laugh, grabbing my box of extra clothing. ‘If it’s anything like last year, we’ll be run ragged and exhausted by home time.’

  ‘Ah-h-h, the joys of last year, well remembered,’ laughs Kitty.

  Last year the prep day for the carol service was a nightmare. The Dell, a cleared area amongst the spruce, where it was traditionally held, had been flattened in preparation for a large area of jigsaw flooring to be professionally laid. But the contractors failed to arrive on the right day – they showed up the morning after the event, much to Boss Fielding’s annoyance. So, we had to lay a temporary floor, construct seating platforms and wire the electricity cabling safely ourselves – thanks to Old Bill’s skill and knowledge.

  ‘You know that Shazza’s returned, don’t you?’ whispers Kitty.

  ‘She texted me to say she might be in today. How is she?’

  Kitty shakes her head.

  ‘Not good. She feels she’s let the team down by being off and all this talk about her brother leading the nightly trespassers is doing her head in. She’s quite embarrassed, I think.’

  ‘It’s understandable, but she needs to stand her ground if she doesn’t know anything. It’ll stop folk speculating.’

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ calls Bram as he bursts into the snug. ‘How are we?’

  ‘Dreading today based on last year’s recollection,’ I say, putting on additional leggings.

  Bram pulls a face.

  ‘You ought to see the plan of action Dad has drawn up for today. NASA did less planning for space missions.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ asks Kitty, pulling her blonde locks into a ponytail.

  ‘Serious.’

  ‘How can a walking procession have more planning than a seated event?’ I interject.

  ‘There’s more health and safety regulations as regards the snowy conditions. We need to plan for preventing people tripping, falling, sliding and breaking limbs.’

  ‘Bloody great, this is all we need.’ I sigh.

  ‘And sales as well?’ asks Kitty, dragging her arm into her embroidered coat.

  ‘Sales as well. Sorry, ladies. He’s a hard taskmaster, is the old man, you should know that by now. But one day…’

  ‘Jesus wept… I’ll be long gone from here by the time you or Zach get to play boss man.’ Kitty laughs.

  ‘Hmmm, sadly, I probably won’t be,’ I say.

  ‘You cheeky gits!’ moans Bram. ‘I’ll be the best boss you pair have ever seen when it’s my turn.’

  ‘Really? I can’t wait.’ I press closed the poppers on my tabard and fish out my gloves. ‘Kitty, promise we’ll take off when that happens.’

  *

  Angie

  We sit in the school hall staring at row upon row of teachers chatting to parents, while nearby bored teenagers sit, scowling or smirking with pride.

  Alfie sits alongside Nick, on my far right; he’s not impressed that I’m here.

  ‘I don’t get what the fuss is about,’ I remarked, from the front seat of Nick’s car.

  Alfie snorted in the rear seat.

  Nick gave a quick glance and shook his head.

  ‘Seriously, I’m your mother – shouldn’t I know how your schoolwork is going?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, now’s the time to take an interest when there’s one day left till the end of term.’

  This was becoming boring. The same old story every time something didn’t go Alfie’s way.

  I stare at the rows of animated teachers: young, old, experienced and some newly qualified if my memory serves me correctly. I watch Miss Hibbins, Alfie’s English teacher, eagerly explaining some new-fangled grading system. Alfie once told me it’s all digits nowadays, gone are the alphabet grades – those were the days when he wanted to chat. Miss Hibbins’ cheery smile stays constant throughout the explanation, while the parents look horrified. That could be us in ten minutes.

  I continue along the row of desks; many I don’t know. I spot Miss Read, with her red hair and bubbly mannerisms, chatting eagerly to an upset parent.

  ‘Alfie… is Miss Read a teacher?’

  ‘Nah, she’s on the support team – she helps if stuff starts occurring.’

  ‘Dramas and such like?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mainly life stuff, really.’ He leans around his dad to view her corner table, situated a distance from the others offering some privacy. ‘That’s Melody Beale – she’s been posting stuff on the Internet.’

  ‘Alfie!’ hushes Nick.

  ‘Everyone knows… except her mum.’

  I watch the interaction between the two women. There is a genuine warmth as regards help and support for both pupil and parent.

  ‘You haven’t told them, have you?’ I ask Nick, suddenly aware that I don’t know the line of our story.

  Nick raises an eyebrow.

 
‘Have you?’

  A slight shake of the head puts my mind at rest. It’s a caring school but I really don’t want then knowing our business. It’s bad enough with the neighbours judging me. If Alfie were affected by the divorce then it would be a different story, but he isn’t. He wasn’t, despite what Nick says.

  I scan the row for other faces. I spot Mr Klym, Alfie’s maths teacher. He was a newly qualified teacher when I attended here, which instantly makes me reminisce on my schooldays.

  ‘Does Mr Klym still tell the “inflatable boy attending the inflatable school being told off by the inflatable head teacher for using a drawing pin” joke?’ I ask, smiling to myself whilst remembering how my maths teacher always laughed at his own joke.

  ‘What the… “you’ve let me down, you’ve let yourself down but most of all you’ve let the whole school down”?’ Alfie laughs, a genuine smile dressing his face.

  I join Alfie in reciting the joke’s punchline. He laughs; I laugh. It’s nice to connect with my boy given our recent tension. Nick sits confused, having attended St Gabriel’s school in the neighbouring town.

  ‘Mr Woodward!’ I look up to see Miss Hibbins beckoning in our direction. We stand as a united trio, Nick takes the lead and Alfie settles in the centre seat before his teacher.

  ‘Hello again, how are we?’ she says in a cheery tone, shuffling her pile of papers.

  Neither of us answer, both expecting the other to say.

  ‘They’re fine,’ says Alfie, on our behalf.

  I’m suddenly nervous.

  ‘Good, good,’ she says. ‘Well, I have nothing but praise for this young man.’

  I hear her opening line and exhale. Good boy, Alfie.

  ‘He’s doing OK?’ asks Nick, patting Alfie’s knee.

  ‘More than OK, aren’t you, Alfie? In his last assessment, he secured a grade six, which at this stage of the game is promising for his exams come next May.’

  ‘A six?’ Oh, dear, I can’t remember what Alfie said about specific numbers.

  ‘It’s a secure B grade in old money.’ Miss Hibbins laughs. I smile appreciatively. Nick nods. Alfie smiles. ‘Alfie is predicted a grade…’

  I’m drifting, not listening. I watch her kind face; her sparkling eyes shine as she talks. I wonder how many times she’s repeated the same phrase tonight. How difficult must it be to tell a parent that their child is failing? She’s always been honest. When he was in year seven she was fair with him, especially when he started forgetting his homework deadlines.

  ‘Angie?’

  I jump, an instant smile addressing my face.

  ‘Any questions?’ asks Nick, staring at me.

  ‘What are his chances of getting a level eight by May?’

  ‘Cheers, Mum, a seven not good enough for you?’ Alfie pouts.

  Miss Hibbins gives a polite smile.

  ‘Alfie, I’m just asking.’

  ‘He’s doing well, very well to achieve what he has… I say try to be the best you can, but we don’t want him to stress about his targets. A grade seven is very desirable… and given…’ She stalls, pauses and continues. ‘Anyway, I think he’s done very well this year.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s good to hear. Thanks for your support too.’ Nick stands, shakes her hand and I follow suit. Miss Hibbins’ gaze doesn’t quite meet mine.

  She’s being very polite, but somehow she knows about our marriage.

  We shuffle from the line of three chairs and head towards the waiting area for our next teacher appointment: history with Miss Patrickson.

  It feels like déjà vu as we resume our wait.

  ‘Be back in a min,’ says Alfie, jumping up and leaving us before we have chance to answer.

  Nick and I watch as he legs it across the large hall and embraces a slim teenage girl. His face all smiles, her smile showing a row of metal braces.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Holly.’ Nick smiles as he watches them.

  ‘Is he not bringing her over to speak?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  I stare at Nick’s profile.

  ‘Why ever not? It’s manners, surely.’

  ‘Seriously, would you wish for your mother and your girlfriend to meet for the first time in front of all your teachers?’

  ‘It’s hardly serious – they’re kids.’ I can’t look away. I’m transfixed to see this young man who I don’t recognise as my own blood. He’s touching her arm, leaning in, laughing, smiling… What the hell? Ten minutes ago he was seated and staring, hardly saying two words to me but now… just look at him. She’s pretty. Very slim… I hope she’s not one of these anorexic teenagers – our Alfie can do without such experiences as a youngster. She keeps flicking her long blonde hair. He keeps inching forward as she speaks.

  ‘Where’s her family?’ I ask Nick, rattled that she has Alfie’s full attention.

  ‘Do you see the couple with the group of—?’ The words haven’t left his mouth when I whip around to stare at him.

  ‘No!’ I glare at the crowd of children, all girls. ‘Nick, are you joking me?’

  ‘She’s very nice, Angie. You’re overthinking it.’

  ‘For feck’s sake, Nick, he’ll be a father before he’s got his driving licence if that’s any example to go by.’

  ‘Angie, that’s unkind.’

  ‘No. Sorry. I’m not having my son being caught by some young girl who’s been brought up with the idea she’s just a baby machine.’

  ‘Angie, keep your voice down, please.’

  ‘Go and fetch him.’

  ‘No. Leave him.’

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Now do you see why he didn’t bring her across?’

  I sit back.

  Why can’t Nick see the influence that that young lady might have on our boy? I watch the adults amongst their group. They don’t take much notice of the young couple, a slight look in their direction but no interaction. I look at the ages of the other girls – they stand like a set of steps, one after another after another. How can one couple care for so many young children? They look clean and tidy, but appearances can be deceptive. With so many children, surely, they’ll take delight when the next generation comes along. Our Alfie needs sixth form and university before he starts his life. I have no intention of my son’s future being altered due to a teenage infatuation.

  ‘Have you told him about us?’ I ask, knowing full well he hasn’t.

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘I take that as a no, then.’

  ‘We’ll have a chat before Monday’s wedding arrives, OK? Why spoil the next few days when I know everything will be fine, hey?’

  I didn’t expect Nick to be so protective. We’re Alfie’s parents – of course he’ll be pleased we’re back together. Roll on Monday when we can be a proper family together and enjoy a beautiful day out with Nick’s friends, celebrating their daughter’s wedding. Then we can enjoy a quiet family Christmas together at theirs and I’ll supply the expensive food hamper that I’ve ordered. Nick can organise the basics, I’ll provide the festive pizzazz. We’ll make this a Christmas none of us will forget.

  ‘Angie, Alfie’s coming back,’ Nick whispers.

  Alfie jogs back and seats himself next to Nick. I stare, but he avoids looking at me.

  ‘Is she all right, having a good parents’ evening?’ asks Nick, jovially. How he can encourage it, I don’t know.

  ‘Pretty much, though her mum’s not happy with her history result. Apparently, she’s gone down a grade since October so she’s got to attend intervention after school.’

  Nick nods, as if it’s any of his concern. Personally, I reckon she’ll do OK in life if she understands that babies aren’t the be-all and end-all.

  ‘Is that her family?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Alfie, you didn’t even bring her across to meet me. What am I supposed to think? Hardly a good impression, is it?’

  Alfie and Nick exchange a glance. I get the message. Hardly surprising that the
y don’t see it from my point of view; men rarely do and that’s the problem.

  My internal monologue continues as we wait.

  *

  ‘A grade seven is very desirable… and given…’ Miss Hibbins’ words keep repeating in my head as Nick drives us back to his house to collect my car.

  ‘Miss Hibbins knows, doesn’t she?’ I ask over my shoulder to Alfie, in the rear seats.

  ‘Knows what?’ Alfie’s head pops through the gap between the headrests, after he extends his seat belt.

  ‘About me leaving?’

  Alfie sits back.

  ‘Oh, that. Yeah. I wrote about it one day in English.’

  Nick continues to stare ahead.

  ‘Thanks a bunch. I bet you painted him as the hero, me as the villain.’

  We continue the journey in silence. I feel as if I’ve been awarded a grade one GCSE for my dedication to motherhood.

  *

  Nina

  Having spent the whole day busy on sales, the farm’s entire workforce stand in a semicircle staring at Boss Fielding at half six to begin the prep for tomorrow night’s carol service. Due to her recent absence, Shazza has been demoted from chief organiser to one of us. I look around; there must be thirty adults awaiting instructions.

  ‘Here’s what I want. I want volunteers across the area. If each team focuses on one job, we’ll be out of here in two hours. You with me?’

  The obligatory mumble from tired staff is barely audible.

  ‘I said, are you with me?’ yells Boss Fielding, much like a rally cry for battle.

  ‘Yes!’ bawl several of the guys. I repeat my muted yes. I don’t really care that he’s paying me double time for this extra shift; I want to go home.

  ‘Nina!’ Zach grabs my arm and drags me across to the notice board where his father has listed the jobs. ‘I’ve already claimed ours.’

  We elbow our way through the crowd of bodies, me clutching the rear of his jacket.

  ‘Look here…’ He pulls a folded paper from his pocket and shows me the carolling rota. ‘We’re on lantern lighting along the driveway and then during the service we’re inside organising the hot drinks and treats for the mid-break.’