Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

Chapter 4

I’m annoyed enough by him to face the farmhouse. There’s nothing more inspiring than someone implying I can’t do something to get me motivated.

At the top of the three crumbling steps, I shove my key into the rusty lock and push aside a spider that crawls out, trying not to think about what it says for the house if even the spiders are trying to get out. The door creaks as I open it and peer in cautiously.

It’s just a house, I tell myself. An old empty house that’s been old and empty for many years. I stand in the doorway questioning the wisdom of watching The Haunting of Hill House on Netflix last week when I was meant to be packing.

Maybe it would be braver to face the mountain lions.

Inside, it’s so dark that it’s hard to tell what condition the farmhouse is in. I find a light switch near the door, but nothing happens when I flip it. Great. So there’s no electricity either. I step inside and close the front door behind me, but it does nothing to alleviate the draught blowing through the place.

I stand still and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, half-expecting something to jump out at me, but nothing breaks the silence. It’s quiet in a way things never are in London. In my flat, you can hear the neighbours shouting through the thin walls, the traffic, the general hustle and bustle of the street outside, and the ever-present sirens in the distance. Here, the only sound is the rustling of the breeze blowing through from the empty window frames and missing roof.

It’s a small house, even smaller inside than it looked from the outside. I’m standing on a threadbare doormat that’s still got the dried remnants of mud from someone else’s boots on it. There’s a wooden staircase in front of me, to the left is what looks like the kitchen, and to the right is a living room. I can see the outline of an upside-down sofa covered with dust sheets. I hold the banister of the staircase, my fingers leaving lines in layers of undisturbed dust as I walk up slowly, using my phone to light the way. Upstairs, circled around a narrow landing walkway, I find a storage room, a tiny bathroom, and a bedroom with a single bed on its side and the wardrobe knocked over with one door hanging off. Telltale stones lie among the broken glass reflecting from the floor, evidence of what happened to the empty window frames. No one’s even bothered to board over the upstairs ones.

Half the landing and the storage room have brown stains of water running down the walls, a freezing wind is howling around my neck, and there’s the constant flapping of tarpaulin sheets where someone’s tried to repair the roof and the repair has fallen in too.

In the bathroom, there’s still toilet roll unravelling from a rusty holder and when I try to flush the discoloured water in the loo, nothing happens. Great. No electricity and no water. The estate agent had plenty of warning that I was coming today, shouldn’t they have got everything turned back on? I glance in the cracked mirror on the wall. Maybe they didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to live in it. It’s not exactly inhabitable by any stretch of the imagination.

The stairs creak under my feet as I go back down them. There’s a curtain of cobwebs blocking the living room door, and I pick up an old umbrella that’s leaning against the wall by the door and use it to swipe them away. I scan my phone light across the room, aware that I won’t be able to charge it again until I can get the electricity turned back on. The room looks like it’s been ransacked. Apart from the upturned three-piece suite, there’s a sideboard on one wall with an old-fashioned TV perched on it that was probably modern once but not this side of the Seventies. There’s a bookshelf on its front on the Eighties-style damask patterned rug, surrounded by limp books that have fallen from it, and a table that’s listing dangerously to one side with half a leg missing. There’s an open hearth in the middle of the back wall, and two sets of windows, one at the front that looks out onto the driveway and another at the back that must look out to the garden behind the house. Both sets have got gaps in the wood boarding them up and look riddled with the holes of a woodworm infestation.

I turn away and trudge back through the hallway to the kitchen to see if that’s any better. The upper hinge of the door has rusted away, and it leans dangerously into my hand when I go to move it. Just as I’m trying to prop it back into the frame, there’s a knock on the front door behind me, which makes me jump out of my skin in the silence. Maybe it’s the estate agent come back to tell me he’s dreadfully sorry but he’s made a huge mistake and taken me to the wrong property after all?

I cross my fingers as I open the door.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say in surprise at the sight of the little old lady on my doorstep in the darkness. There’s a yellowed porch light above us, but it doesn’t look like it’d work even if the electricity was on.

‘Hello, flower. It’s Leah, isn’t it?’ She thrusts an age-spotted hand out, but I’m too surprised to take it, so she reaches over and grabs mine, pumping it enthusiastically. ‘I’m Glenna Roscoe. You met my son and his dog earlier.’

‘Oh!’ I say in realisation. No wonder the news travelled fast. Let’s hope she’s a bit nicer than her offspring. ‘Yes, he came to rescue me when I screamed at an unexpected squirrel. He’s so adorable, he spun in circles and let me give him a cuddle.’

‘Noel does that sometimes, you’ll have to excuse him.’

It takes my brain an embarrassing amount of time to realise she’s joking, so I laugh hysterically to overcompensate and by the time I’ve finished, she’s looking at me like I’ve got at least one screw in need of tightening.

‘It’s an easy mistake to make, they’ve both got barks that are worse than their bites.’

In Gizmo’s case, I believe her. In Noel’s case, not so much. Noel and biting makes my mind wander to that … For god’s sake, I’ve got to stop thinking about that sodding lip piercing. It might’ve been hot, but the hotness is regulated by the twattishness.

In the hand that’s not still shaking mine, she’s holding a plate with a slice of pie on it, and I don’t realise how much I wish it might be for me until she clears her throat and I realise I’m staring at it and probably drooling.

She extracts her hand and holds the plate wrapped in cellophane out to me. ‘A slice of pumpkin pie freshly baked this afternoon. It’s not much of a housewarming, but I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have baked something for the occasion. Welcome to Elffield, Leah.’

The kindness of the gesture and the gentleness of her voice makes my eyes fill up involuntarily. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur as I take it from her.

The underneath of the plate is warm and I breathe a sigh of relief as my fingers touch it and heat spreads through them. I didn’t realise how numb they’ve gone and how cold I am until this moment. There are airholes in the cellophane and cinnamon-spiced steam is rising through them, making my mouth water because I hadn’t realised how hungry I was either. As if on cue, my stomach lets out the loudest growl of hunger I’ve ever heard, and Glenna giggles. ‘Noel said you weren’t local. You must’ve had a long day of travelling?’

‘London,’ I mumble, my cheeks burning with redness. First I nearly cry in front of her, and now my stomach is auditioning for the role of Pavarotti. And I bet her charming son told her exactly how much of an idiot I am, so I must’ve made a stonking first impression on my nearest neighbour so far. ‘And I didn’t bring any food with me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this. A pumpkin pie from a pumpkin farmer – thank you.’

‘Noel’s the farmer, flower. I make use of the produce to save it going to waste. We have a lot of pumpkins.’

‘Do you want to come in?’ I look behind me into the dusty, dark hallway, but the look of distaste on my face is mirrored on hers. ‘I mean, you’re welcome to but I wouldn’t recommend it …’

‘Let me guess – no water, no electricity, and quite a lot of spiders?’ She leans forward and peers in the door. ‘You’re not really staying here on your own, are you?’

‘Well, I have nowhere else …’ I start, before swallowing hard as I realise I really am alone up here. Tears threaten again so I paste on a smile. ‘The sooner I get started on cleaning up, the better.’

Which is true, but my smile is so false that it actually hurts my cheeks to hold my face in that position.

‘What a lovely positive attitude. You must be very brave.’

Am I? I don’t feel brave. I feel cold and lonely and like the idiot her son thinks I am.

‘Aren’t you freezing?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say breezily, despite the fact I’m hugging the pumpkin pie to my chest in an attempt to absorb any residual warmth from it because I’m so cold that I genuinely can’t feel my toes and I’m surprised she hasn’t noticed my teeth chattering by now.

‘Noel said you weren’t in the farming industry?’

Oh, I bet he did. ‘I’ve got a lot to learn,’ I say, using the same cheerful voice and wondering if she can tell that my teeth are gritted.

‘Have you had a chance to look around yet? Such a lot of land and an excellent bargain too.’ Her Scottish accent isn’t as deep as Noel’s but it has a way of making things sound sincere, and she seems like she’s making friendly conversation with a new neighbour rather than being judgemental and insulting like her son.

‘I didn’t have a chance,’ I say. ‘It got dark so early.’

‘You’ll have to get used to that, flower. I’m sure you’ll have fun learning all the quirks of Peppermint Branches. It’s such a special place, it deserves a special owner too.’

My body betrays me by letting my eyes fill up again. It’s the first positive thing anyone’s said about this place, and it’s been a long time since anyone thought I was a special anything.

She gives me a sympathetic look and reaches over to pat my arm. ‘It must seem overwhelming, but you’ve definitely got the right mindset.’

I get the feeling she knows that if she stands there being nice to me for much longer, I’m not going to be able to hold back the tears, and no one wants their new neighbour sobbing all over them.

‘You’ve obviously got a lot to be getting on with so I won’t keep you. I only wanted to say hello …’ She hesitates and winds her finger in a lock of grey hair that’s loose across her shoulders. ‘You know where we are if you need anything? If you want any advice or help with moving in, Noel’s a strong young chap, he’d be glad to help you with any furniture or anything you want shifted when you clean up and clear things out.’

Yeah, I’m sure. ‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t notice the shudder at the thought of him helping me with anything. ‘Thanks for the pie,’ I add quickly, because I don’t know what I would have eaten without it.

‘You’re very welcome. It was lovely to meet you, Leah. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. Come by anytime. I’ve always got a hot kettle and a warm slice of pie for my only neighbour.’

‘Are you okay getting home?’ I say as she walks away.

‘Oh yes, thank you. It’s only across the field, I know every ridge like the back of my hand, don’t you worry. Cheerio!’

‘Give Gizmo an ear rub from me!’ I call after her.

‘Sorry, flower, I didn’t quite catch that,’ she calls back. ‘Did you say Gizmo or Noel?’

‘Gizmo!’ I shout loud enough for astronauts on the International Space Station to hear me.

No response. Great. Sending Noel’s mum home to give him an ear rub on my behalf would be the icing on the cake of this ridiculous day, wouldn’t it? If I was going to ask her to give Noel anything, it’d be a swift whack with a broom, but I’d be worried she might take the pie back.

I take the plate into the kitchen and squeeze around the broken door, which is now hanging halfway between closed and open, and use my phone light again to survey the damage. Like the living room, it’s got boarded up windows at the front and back, a sink and draining board built into an empty counter that runs along one wall and curves around the corner and underneath the front window. I use my sleeve to wipe part of the unit free of the muck and grime that’s settled after years of not being cleaned and put the plate down. I’m starving and I could murder a cup of tea, but I settle for the bottle of water I’ve got in my bag and make do with giving my hands a good anti-bac wipe before I unwrap the slice of pie and take a bite. I’ve never had pumpkin pie before and the sweet creaminess of condensed milk and pumpkin, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger combine to make it taste like autumn in a mouthful. It’s a good job the only neighbours are likely to be of the rodent variety because I’m definitely having a When Harry Met Sally moment. I hadn’t even realised how hungry I was until the first mouthful filled my belly with warmth, and I stand there in the dark kitchen, taking bite after bite, washing it down with lukewarm water that’s been in the car all day. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for a cup of tea right now.

There isn’t much to see in the kitchen. There’s a rusty old fridge-freezer standing next to the passageway that goes under the stairs and straight through to the living room, past a back door that leads out into the garden where the caravan is. Cupboards line the upper walls, and it smells like someone never got around to throwing out whatever was left in them, because the kitchen is heavy with the smell of food that’s been gradually rotting for years.

My phone pings on the unit where I’ve put it down and I look at the screen. Another text from Chelsea, asking me if it’s a magical winter wonderland, following on from the one she sent earlier asking if I’d seen any elves yet, which I ignored because I couldn’t face answering with the truth.

How do I tell her that my magical winter wonderland is full of spindly dead trees and fluffy-tailed rodents and the most elf-like thing I’ve seen since I got here is a Chihuahua called Gizmo who qualifies only on the basis of his pointy ears? How do I say that, far from a couple of coats of Dulux, the only thing likely to improve this ‘dwelling’ is the application of a wrecking ball, and that when we joked about it being a stable, it would actually be better if it was?

I put the phone back on the unit without replying. How can I do this? How can I stay here? How can someone who doesn’t know the first thing about trees suddenly decide to run a Christmas tree farm? What was I thinking? I must’ve genuinely thought I was part of a made-for-TV Christmas movie and forgotten real life for a moment. I’d pictured stepping onto the set of a film, saving the gorgeous little tree farm from the edge of destruction with my annoyingly upbeat personality and perfect hair. Neither of which I possess in real life, so I’d definitely mistaken myself for a film character.

For the real me, this is overwhelming. I can’t sort this mess out. How can I stay here with no water and no electric and nowhere to sleep? All the positivity I was feeling earlier has drained away in the cold dark of the night. I spent all of Mum and Dad’s money because they would have loved a Christmas tree farm. And now I want to run away. I hate myself for wanting that.

My phone pings simultaneously with a low battery warning and yet another message from Chels.

Have you found David Tennant and run off with him and that’s why you’re not answering my texts?

I pick it up and try to formulate a reply that sounds more cheerful than I feel, but it beeps again before I can think of anything.

Are you buried under a vat of gorgeous-smelling pine needles? Are you building a snowman to welcome your first customers? Why do I imagine it’s snowing there? Ooh, have Richard Madden AND David Tennant turned up and you’re off having a naughty Scottish threesome under the Christmas trees?

The low battery warning gets more persistent as I stand there and stare at it.

I could go and charge it in the car. That’s not a bad idea actually. I could even sleep there. There’s too much stuff in the back to lower the seat, but I can sleep upright a lot more comfortably than I could sleep anywhere inside the house. And, more importantly than anything, it’s got a heater.

It’s nearly seven o’clock by the time I slide into the driver’s seat. I plug my phone into the lighter socket and start the engine. I flip the light on above me and turn the heater up to full and hold my shivering hands over the air vents.

I reach into the back and snake my hand between boxes and bags until my fingers close around the soft edge of a Christmas blanket that Chelsea bought me last year. I pull it out inch by inch as the bag holds onto it tightly in the squashed space. I drape it over myself and wrap it around my face and breathe into it, trying to warm up my cold nose. I’m still unsure of what to say to Chelsea, so I let my phone charge for a bit and reach over to put the radio on instead. It’s still tuned to my favourite Christmas station, and the car is immediately filled with Mariah Carey singing ‘Miss You Most At Christmas Time’. I wish I’d stuck to my playlist. The songs on there are safe. They won’t remind me of my parents and how much I miss them.

I swallow hard. I should turn it off, but I sit and listen to it instead. It’s a song I’ve successfully avoided since the first time I heard it after they died and ended up having a breakdown in the middle of Debenhams while Christmas shopping in my lunch hour.

As if the universe knows this, Mariah is immediately followed by ‘Something About December’ by Christina Perri, a song about childhood Christmases and memories feeling closer in December, and I don’t even realise I’m crying until tears drip onto the blanket.

God, what am I doing here? How can I have made such an awful mistake?

I can feel panic creeping up my chest. I have nothing left and nowhere else to go. I look up at the dark house in front of me and the sight of its crumbling bricks and missing roof makes me cry harder. How can I have been so positive yesterday? Driving along sunny motorways, singing along to ‘Carol of the Bells’, glad no one could hear me because I haven’t got a clue what the words actually are, to this – sitting outside what was supposed to be my dream home, sobbing because Elvis is on now. This probably wasn’t what Elvis had in mind when he sang ‘Blue Christmas’.