Page 1 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Winter
1
Freya slammed the van door closed and leaned up against it, breathing hard, her breath appearing as sharp little puffs in the cold. How difficult could it be? After all, she’d done this countless times before. Except she hadn’t, because this year she was alone.
She shivered in the harsh early morning air; whether from nerves or the cold, she couldn’t tell, and, in any case, it hardly mattered, the effect was the same. She glanced back at the house, solid and warm and comforting, and tried to damp down the rising sense of panic that threatened to swamp her. She sucked in a breath and, resolutely ignoring the ‘For Sale’ sign, gave a little nod in farewell. Whatever happened today she was going to give it her best shot; she owed her dad that much after all.
The weather forecast was clear, the very best kind of day. Cold, but with a defiant blue sky that not only cheered the gathered crowds but brought a strong contrast to the holly berries and a gleam to the glossy leaves. She’d dressed for the part too, in her forest green coat and bright red woolly hat and scarf that always made her feel much warmer than she was. The colour brought a rosy hue to her cheeks and made her chestnut hair glow. The punters seemed to like it too. Christmas was just over a month away, and if it helped to look like Mrs Claus, then who was she to argue.
She edged the van out of the gate and onto the lane, reminding herself to breathe normally. It was important to get there early, but she had plenty of time to secure a good spot, and the roads would be relatively quiet at this time of the morning. In an hour’s time, she’d make it to Tenbury Wells and could stop fretting.
The familiar landmarks came and went. Freya knew the route like the back of her hand, and, three miles in, she began to feel the first bubbles of excitement welling up inside her. She had first travelled this route over twenty-five years ago when she was just a girl, and every year since, she and her dad had made the journey to the annual mistletoe sales. Her granddad had been there before them too for many a year, and even as a small child, she remembered his tales. Sherbourne mistletoe had been sold at the fair for nearly a hundred years all told, and the thought that this might be her last ever year sat like a stone in her stomach. There would be enough time to think about that though, in the weeks to come; today she had to hold her head high.
It was the boots that Freya noticed first: bright red Doc Martens. She’d never seen him wearing anything else, so maybe he didn’t own any other shoes, but today, trudging along the muddy verge, they stood out in stark contrast to everything else. She hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, but by the look of him, he was moving on somewhere. She slowed the van on the empty road and pulled up alongside him.
‘Amos?’ she called.
He turned at the sound of her voice, breaking into a broad grin. ‘Well, hello again, Miss Sherbourne, what brings you this way?’
She smiled. It was just the sort of thing he would say, as if it were she who was in the wrong place. ‘Well, I live around here, but I don’t know about you. And more to the point, you didn’t even say goodbye.’
His black eyes twinkled. ‘Ah well, you know that’s not my style. Besides, I thought I’d finished everything you needed me to do.’
‘You did, but it’s nearly Christmas, Amos. I could have found a few other things for you. It’s not a great time to be without a place to go.’
He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of her concern. ‘But when I get where I’m going, I’ll be someplace, won’t I?’ He squinted up at her through the sun. ‘Anyhow, I think it was time for me to move on.’
Freya blushed slightly. ‘Gareth was okay with you being around, really he was. He just…well, he likes things to be…ordinary.’
‘And I offended his sensibilities, I understand that.’
‘I don’t think he understood you, that’s all; the choices you’ve made.’ She was trying to be tactful, knowing full well that Amos had heard at least one sarcastic comment that Gareth had made at his expense. Judging by the look on his face however, he understood Gareth’s motives very clearly, and really Freya was in no position to argue. She had wanted to help, that was all, but she could also see it from her boyfriend’s point of view. Maybe Amos’ leaving was for the best.
‘So where are you headed to now then?’
Amos surveyed the road ahead, his tight black curls gleaming in the sunshine. ‘This way will do.’
‘And when you get to the end of this way, where next?’
‘Well now, see, that’s the best bit. I’ll just go the way the wind blows me.’
Freya drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘There’s a fair wind howling down the A49 today, I reckon. Have you ever been to the mistletoe fair?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘Well, seeing as you helped me to harvest it all, do you want to see what happens next?’
Amos looked at his watch, as though he had some pressing engagement. ‘You might need some help then?’
‘I might. And I’ll buy you lunch and a pint when it’s over.’
She leaned over to open the passenger door as Amos shrugged his rucksack off his shoulders. He climbed in, wedging his belongings on the floor of the cab, before taking a deep breath and inhaling the smell of the greenery from within.
‘Magical stuff mistletoe,’ said Amos. ‘But I expect you know that. I’ve always thought it a rather wonderful coincidence that it appears at Christmas; it seems exactly the right time of year for a miracle or two, don’t you think?’
* * *
Talk about cutting it fine, thought Amos. A few moments later and she might have missed him altogether, and then where would he be? Sometimes, he knew the minute he ended up in a place why he was there, and, sometimes, it took a while longer. This time had been the hardest of them all to call. He’d been in Much Marlowes since the beginning of August, and the jobs that took him there had both been straightforward. Two beautiful cottages rethatched, but no hint of any reason for him to stay. Ordinary families, settled lives, and not the slightest prickling feeling that usually alerted him to his purpose.
