Page 1 of Love and Lattes at Pumpkin Hollow
1
Autumn had always been my favourite season for three very important reasons:
My mother loved this time of year and named me Willow after her favourite tree from her childhood.
I grew up on Birch Tree Farm and watched the trees that lined the drive up to the farmhouse change to stunning colours each year autumn came around.
I was born in October.
So, when I looked out of the window as we were about to start the penultimate week of September over breakfast and saw that the birch trees were starting to change colour, I couldn’t help but smile despite the fact the current mood on Birch Tree Farm was far from the happiest it had ever been. The birch trees, which had given our farm its name, lined the long, sweeping drive up to our farmhouse, and they stood tall and proud, come rain or shine. But they always came into their own once October arrived and they transformed into a beautiful, golden hue.
A heavy sigh from my father, who sat at one end of our long, pine table in the kitchen, drew me from gazing out at the trees to look at him. We were having a late breakfast as it was Sunday and although there was always something to do on the farm, it meant a day of taking things slightly slower than we did the rest of the week. Fresh eggs from our chickens, tomatoes grown with our own hands along with homemade bread with tea and orange juice made for a hearty start to the day. And a cosy one as the Aga in the corner made the kitchen the only room in our farmhouse that was always warm.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked my dad nervously, as he went through our post, wondering if yet another bill had come. They seemed to be coming more often and for more money than we could keep up with. He had read the same letter three times now, and I braced myself to hear what was causing him to frown quite so deeply.
‘I think you should read this,’ he said, sliding the letter down the table towards me. His face seemed to look permanently concerned now. He had aged a lot since my mum got ill and passed away five years ago but over the past twelve months, I had seen more wrinkles appear and his hair, once the same dark-brown shade as mine, was now salt and pepper grey. Even his eyes, also matching my mahogany colour, had lost the twinkle they had had when I was younger. I hated to see how worried he was about the farm, and I always tried to keep things optimistic but it was becoming harder to put a smile on his face. ‘Willow,’ my father said with a tut, noticing that I had drifted into my head, which I was prone to doing. ‘The letter,’ he repeated, nodding towards it.
I eyed the letter on the table like it was a bomb that might go off. ‘Why do I need to read it?’ I asked him, wondering if I could escape and avoid having a look. It couldn’t be good news.
‘Willow, I know that you prefer to bury your head in the sand, you’re a dreamer and a romantic, just like your dear mother was, but you can’t hide from this,’ my dad said, gesturing around us. ‘We’ve barely scraped by this past year, and I can’t see things getting any better. Plus, we can’t keep pretending that I’m not getting older and finding it harder to work with my arthritis. That letter…’ He trailed off for a moment, seeming to find the words difficult to get out, ‘…it could be the answer. Please read it for me.’
Reluctantly, I picked up the letter, not wanting to disappoint my dad more than I felt like I already was, and saw the letterhead at the top said Henderson Homes. I already felt on edge as I started to read and when I reached the words, we would love to discuss adding Birch Tree Farm to our property portfolio, I dropped the letter back down onto the table.
I shook my head. ‘They want to buy the farm. No way, Dad. They will build their identical, small, new-build houses over all our land,’ I said, pointing out of the window. ‘And what about the birch trees?’ I cried, my heart quickening at the thought of anyone taking down my beloved trees. ‘You can’t seriously be considering this?’
‘They say they are willing to make us a very generous offer,’ Dad said. ‘We can’t afford to just dismiss this out of hand. We are struggling, and I might have to give up working soon; how will you manage the farm on your own if I do? We need to be sensible here. As hard as it is.’ He reached over and picked the letter back up. ‘They want to send one of the Henderson brothers to the farm to look around and talk about what they might offer us. I think we need to say yes to the meeting.’
I stared at my father in horror. ‘But where would we go?’ I asked, trying not to panic. I had lived on Birch Tree Farm my whole twenty-five years on this earth, my parents having inherited it soon after they got married. It had been my only home, and I had worked on the farm since I was old enough to; I literally had no idea what my life would look like anywhere else. ‘What would I do?’ I could hear the selfishness in my words but I couldn’t help it. I had lived and worked here all my life so the thought of it being taken away from me was terrifying.
Dad leaned back in his chair, looking as lost as I felt. ‘I don’t know, love, but we can’t carry on the way we are, can we?’
2
Dad’s question hung in the air for a few moments. I could see in his eyes he was finding this idea as hard as I was but it looked like the fight had been sucked out of him. I hated to see that.
‘What if I come up with an idea to help?’ I blurted out in desperation.
‘What do you mean?’
‘An idea that will turn things around, something that will make us more money at this time of year, a way to clear our debts and fix things up around here,’ I said, thinking about the long list of things that needed repairing. The problem was our farm did okay in spring and summer when the pick-your-own season was in full swing and people came from the town and surrounding areas for our fruit and veg, but there wasn’t enough to offer as we moved into autumn and winter to encourage people to make the trip out to the farm. So, for the rest of the year, we had pretty much no income.
Yet the bills never stopped.
‘Is that even possible, love?’ Dad said, gently. ‘We need to face facts and I think we should at least meet with Henderson Homes to find out what our options are.’
‘You won’t give me a chance to think of something?’
Dad sighed. ‘You can try but I’m going to ring them tomorrow morning and arrange for someone to come to the farm. I don’t see any other option at this point.’
I stood up, scraping my chair back noisily on the stone tiles that lined the kitchen floor. ‘This is crazy. What would Mum have said about this?’ I questioned, knowing it was a low blow but I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. I instantly regretted them when my dad looked crestfallen. I felt deflated and claustrophobic. I needed to get out of here.
‘Willow…’
‘I need to go for a walk and think,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘I’ll see you later.’ I whistled for my dog and left the kitchen, torn between anger at Dad, sadness at the thought of what my mum would think about how things were going, and determination to do something that could save our beloved farm. Maple, my Border Collie, trotted after me loyally as I walked out of the farmhouse and exhaled shakily once I hit the fresh air.
Birch Tree Farm was over three hundred acres in size. When you drove through the gate, you went up the sweeping drive lined by birch trees to our farmhouse – a low, long building, red-bricked. And then behind the farmhouse were acres of land that stretched out as far as the eye could see, separated into fields of different fruit and vegetables and then on the other side were our polytunnels, bigger and more cost-efficient than greenhouses, that kept our crops sheltered and warm, and to the side of the house was where we kept our chickens. We had thought we could make some extra money selling eggs but the profit margin was so low, it hadn’t worked. Still, it meant we had free eggs to reduce some of our food bill.
I walked that way, with Maple close to my heels keeping an eye on everything like she always did.
