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His mouth twitches and I can tell that he’s trying not to smile. I’m entranced by the little silver ball again as we stand there staring at each other.
‘So, what do you grow?’ I ask when I suddenly realise it’s a bit weird to stand on the roadside with a stranger’s dog under your arm while you stare at said stranger’s upper lip. I tear my eyes away from his piercing and nod towards the field he came from. ‘Pumpkins?’
‘No, Brussels sprouts.’
I look over at the field and lift my hand to shade my eyes from a sun that isn’t there in case it’s distorting my vision. ‘Those round orange things trailing along the ground? They’re pumpkins … aren’t they?’
He throws his hands up in despair. ‘The fact you even had to question that …’
‘Obviously I know they’re pumpkins. I was being polite. It could’ve been a new variety or something.’
‘When have there ever been round, orange, giant sprouts that grow along the ground on vines?’ He sounds exasperated.
‘That’s not fair. That’s like me showing you a designer handbag and expecting you to guess the designer and then laughing at you for not knowing.’
‘But I haven’t bought a business selling designer handbags. Forgive me for my mistaken assumption that someone who’s just entered the Christmas tree farming business might know something about growing things.’
‘I know plenty of things about Christmas trees.’
‘What, that they’re green and look pretty with lights and a fairy on top?’
‘No,’ I huff, racking my brains for something I might actually know about trees. Any tree would do at this point, not even a festive tree. Come on, Leah, there are trees in London. ‘Antarctica is the only continent where trees don’t grow.’ Hah. That’ll show him. And prove to my Year 7 geography teacher that I was paying attention in class all those years ago.
His dark eyebrow quirks at the perfect angle to show exactly how unimpressed he is. ‘Oh, there you go then. My concerns are unfounded. I’m sure you’ll be wowing hordes of early customers before the week is out. So dazzled will they be by your intrinsic knowledge of Christmas trees that they’ll be queuing up to buy them six weeks early.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ I mutter. I know he’s being sarcastic, but I can’t let him get to me, even though if I’m completely honest, he’s kind of got a point. Meeting a real farmer who knows this land and thinks I’m a lunatic for taking it on … I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t got me worried.
‘Let me ask you something,’ he says. ‘I know how long this place has been up for sale and I know how much the price has dropped and I know they were trying of offload it in an auction as a last resort, so I’ve got a good idea of how much you paid – very, very cheap. Did that not start any alarm bells ringing?’
‘I didn’t know how much they cost. I’ve never bought one before. There’s no price comparison site for Christmas tree farms.’
‘No, but there’s this weird, and obviously miniscule in your case, thing called common sense. I see it’s a completely foreign concept to you, but did it not cross your mind that fifty grand was cheap for twenty-five acres? Have you not heard of the phrase “too good to be true”?’
I huff in annoyance. He might be gorgeous, but I’m starting to really dislike this bloke. He speaks sense that I should’ve realised before I ploughed all my money into a failing Christmas tree farm. ‘Just how desperate were they to sell it?’
‘It’s been on the market for over four years. There must’ve been a couple of hundred viewings over those years, but it’s worthless land because you can’t do anything with it. The trees have gone wild. Pruning them back into shape and selling them is an almost impossible job, and cutting them all down and replanting means any potential buyer has got roughly ten years to wait for them to grow to a saleable size. No wonder no one’s bought it, but an idiot had to come along sooner or later. It’s the law of averages.’
I don’t even bother to be offended. I haven’t seen much further than the driveway so far and I’m inclined to believe that he’s not being totally unfair in that description. ‘Am I unreasonable to want something that even vaguely resembled the pictures on the auction site?’
‘No, but you’re unreasonable to buy a property without looking at it, without hiring a surveyor, doing any background research, or using the common sense that would tell most people that if they’re getting something so big for such a ridiculously cheap price, it’s probably not that much of a bargain after all.’
‘I don’t call fifty grand cheap.’
He does another sarcastic laugh. ‘Cheap in relation to size. Thinking you were going to get a working, functional Christmas tree farm that you could simply step into and start raking in money for that kind of price.’
‘I knew there would be work involved,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Did you see the auction listing?’
He scratches the back of his neck. ‘No.’
‘There were pictures of living trees on it. So far, that seems to be a complete misrepresentation.’
‘This land hasn’t been maintained in four years. It would resemble the pictures. If it had been maintained, which it hasn’t. For four years. That’s more than half a Christmas tree’s lifespan to average selling age. It’s a lot of work to get them back into shape if any of them are salvageable, but they’re not all dead. Yet.’
I look at the brown to browner shades of the trees behind me. ‘No, what are they then? Dressed up in their Halloween costumes? Performing a horticultural re-enactment of Night of the Living Dead?’
His lip twitches again. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about these ones. These are your windbreaker fields.’ He sighs at my blank look. ‘They’re to protect the Christmas trees from the worst of the Scottish weather. Strong winds can distort branches and desiccate needles, and that’s if you get lucky and the wind doesn’t take the trees down altogether. Good farmers plant windbreaker fields to take the full force of it instead of the Christmas trees.’
I look around for some sign of these Christmas trees, and he waves towards the land behind the farmhouse like he knows exactly what I’m looking for. ‘They’re that way.’
‘Oh, brilliant,’ I say, genuinely overjoyed by this news. Gizmo licks my chin in approval and his tail wagging amps up. ‘When I was growing up, my mum and dad had a houseplant in the corner of the room, and once a month, my mum would drown the poor thing, and every time I’d fish it out, drain it off, and nurse it back to health. If anything on this farm is alive, it’s better than I expected when I drove in. I’m going to go and have a look around.’
He doesn’t say anything, but he turns his head upwards and looks pointedly at the darkening sky. It’s gone 4 p.m. and it’s well on the way to getting dark. I can’t make sense of the estate agent’s map in the daylight, never mind the dark, and the unseen forest of trees at the end of the lane beyond the farmhouse looks intimidating, but I don’t want to let him know I’m bothered because he thinks I’m an idiot anyway, it’d make his day if he thought I was afraid of the dark too.
I decide to be brave and point towards the gate closed across the lane. ‘There’s not going to be anything out there, right?’
‘Like what?’ He’s got that smug eyebrow quirked up again, waiting for me to say something stupid. ‘Worried you might run into another big, scary squirrel?’
‘No.’ I wish I hadn’t said anything now, but it looks remote and scary. Apart from him, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around for miles. If no one’s been on this land for years, anything could be lurking out there and no one would know. ‘Didn’t someone float an idea of reintroducing wolves to Scotland once? And what if I put my foot in a bear trap or something? I’ve seen wilderness films – there’s always a bear trap when you least expect one.’
‘Wolves and bear traps? Seriously?’ He pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head in despair. ‘You do know that this is the United Kingdom, right? You may have driven a long way but you haven’t actually left Great Britain. There are no wolves and no bears to require the use of a bear trap. Have you mistaken Scotland for northern Alaska?’ He’s using a saccharinely sweet voice and it kind of makes me want to punch him. And I’d had such high hopes given the gorgeous dog and love of Gremlins.
‘Well, thanks for the warm welcome,’ I snap, and spin on my heel to walk away. ‘It was a joy to meet you.’
‘Leah?’ He calls after me.
Hah. One well-placed sarcastic comment is all you need to make someone realise what a miserable twat they are. He’ll try to backtrack and apologise now, no doubt.
‘Can I have my dog back?’
Oh. Bugger. I forgot I’ve still got Gizmo in my arms.
I pull my head back so I can look into Gizmo’s big brown eyes. Would it be petty to say no? ‘You’d come home with me, wouldn’t you, lovely?’ I murmur to him, pressing my mouth against the brown side of his head.
His tail wags against my side in agreement, but I stomp back towards Noel guiltily. Even though I think this lovely animal deserves a much nicer owner, I didn’t mean to dognap him.
Noel holds his big, dirty hands out and I somehow manage to transfer the wagging, licky dog into his arms, my skin brushing the surprisingly soft sleeve of his red plaid shirt as Gizmo pushes himself up to start licking the dark scruff of Noel’s neck, excited at being reunited with his owner. The dog must see a nicer side than I do. I’ve only known Noel for ten minutes and I’d happily never be reunited with him again.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbles, his voice muffled behind the dog trying to give him a facial. ‘Feel free to give me a shout if you need anything. Cup of sugar, a pumpkin to carve for Halloween, help building a bonfire which is probably the best use you’ll get out of most of the trees, the address of some local demolition companies …’
‘Yes, thanks for the sterling, solicited advice you’ve given me so far,’ I mutter, even though he’s been more helpful than the estate agent was. ‘I’m going to go and look around my farm now and figure out what’s best to do with my Christmas trees for myself. Goodbye.’
I only get a few steps before he calls my name again. ‘I wouldn’t go out there in the dark.’
‘Why not?’ I say to the empty road, not giving him the satisfaction of turning around. I will retain the moral high ground here.
‘Mountain lions.’
‘What?’ I turn to look at him in shock, all pretences of the moral high ground or any form of dignity disappearing, although I think the dignity was already lost when a Chihuahua came to rescue me from a squirrel.
He points towards the trees and nods knowingly. ‘Mountain lions.’
I wait for his mouth to twitch up in a grin or for him to burst into that sarcastic laughter again, but he doesn’t. ‘You’re winding me up.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Oh, come on. If there are no bears or wolves, there are no mountain lions. You’re having a laugh.’
‘Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. The only way to find out is to venture into those trees at night.’
We stare at each other in silence for a few long moments. I’m still waiting for him to continue the joke, but what’s he waiting for? Me to run screaming to the car and zoom off back to London?
‘Also because the fence between your property and mine is flimsy in places and I don’t want you stumbling into my vegetable garden in the dark and destroying my livelihood. And there’s a river running through your property that’s not marked on the estate agent’s map, and most of its banks are worn away. It’s too cold to fall into a river at this time of year, so wait until it’s light to go exploring, all right?’
‘Do you think I’m incapable of using a torch?’
‘No, but if you get lost and die from starvation or hypothermia or get eaten by mountain lions overnight, having to give a statement to the coroner is really going to delay my morning and I have a lot to do tomorrow.’
I gulp. There’s no way he’s serious about the mountain lions.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. I turn around and stalk along the grassy edge of the road until I turn into my driveway. I open the car door and lean in, pretending to hunt around for something on the passenger side so I don’t have to see his smug face again, and I don’t look up again until I see him and Gizmo walking back across the pumpkin field in the distance.
I sigh and stand up, stretching my back out and looking up at the rapidly darkening sky and then down the lane towards the trees in trepidation. I’m not going out there in the dark. Even though there are no mountain lions.
Probably.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_b8dbb20f-f93c-5e0b-86ec-2d304a0b16d4)
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.
