Page 27 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
‘I’m fully aware what you meant,’ he replied, not taking his eyes off Sam for a minute.
Eventually, Sam heaved a frustrated sigh, but rose from the table just the same. He stared at Amos, his eyes dark and questioning.
‘It will be worth it, Sam, believe me. I’m sure you’re well aware of the old-fashioned name for mistletoe. It’s not called Allheal for nothing.’
* * *
Freya sat on the edge of the bed, cold and numb. She wished with all her heart that she had got it wrong. She had even dared to believe that things could be different after last night, but truly, even after all these years, he still hated her. The thought reverberated around her head. It was all lies, everything he’d done for her these last weeks was all a ruse, all a pretence to soften her up, lure her into a false sense of security before he played his final hand. She knew what she’d done had hurt him terribly, but she’d truly never meant to. She had thought she was in love. At least now she knew where she stood. She had no idea what to do, but she knew that Sam would come and try to talk to her, and she definitely didn’t want to talk to him. In fact, there was only one person she did want to talk to. She had to get out of the house.
It was still such incredibly hard work getting dressed, but she pulled on what she could, not caring what she looked like and went softly back downstairs. The kitchen seemed quiet, but she doubled back just the same and went through into the main hallway, pulling open the cloak cupboard quietly and wriggling into the coat that she found there. It was huge on her but meant that at least she could get it around her arm and still button it up. She pulled her red knitted hat on as well and pushed her feet into her boots, opening the front door as quietly as she could. She had no desire to see anyone and instead slipped unnoticed into the white world outside.
The snow was drifting gently down now, small feathery flakes that settled with the lightest touch onto the mounds already there. Snow on snow. She breathed in the cold air deeply, letting it settle around her, and enjoying the sensation. It seemed right to feel cold somehow. She walked down the path and out onto the lane, picking her way carefully through the ruts. She had no idea how long it would take her to walk, but that scarcely mattered; she had all day.
She had always enjoyed walking, loving the way it sent her brain into freewheel. She could surrender to the sheer enjoyment of being outside, putting life into suspended animation until she chose to rejoin the world once again. Thinking only about putting one foot in front of the other had always calmed her and made her feel in control once more, but today even this feeling deserted her. Her head was just as full of white noise as the day outside, and she couldn’t make any sense of it.
Their lane turned right onto the main road after about half a mile, and it was trickier here where the snow-plough had gone through. The snow had compacted to ice under its wheels and deep piles of snow had been pushed to the sides of the road. It was safer to walk on the verges – less slippery – but with each step, her foot sank by about twelve inches, and in only ten minutes her legs felt like lead. She stopped for a moment, tears of frustration fuelling the anger that suddenly reared up inside her. She didn’t want to turn back, but at this rate she knew she’d never make it to the village either, and she was just about to howl with rage when she heard the rumble of a tractor close by.
She hadn’t realised quite how bad the roads were. Even the tractor had found it difficult to navigate at times, but despite the farmer’s caution, Freya was still adamant that she wanted to be dropped off in the village. Like most local folk, he’d known Freya most of her life and dressed as she was in her dad’s oversized coat, there could only be one place she was headed for today.
The church looked especially pretty with its blanket of snow, the dark yew and holly hedges vibrant against their white topping. A bright wreath adorned the lych-gate and, tucked inside the porch, a Christmas tree twinkled with light. At any other time, Freya would have appreciated its picture-postcard quality. Today the gate creaked fiercely as it opened, but it did so with ease, the path having already been cleared, no doubt in preparation for tomorrow’s Midnight Mass. She stepped off the path almost straight away, wading through the thick snow amongst the gravestones.
It saddened her to see the floral tributes half-buried, their colours lost beneath the snow, the weight of it bowing the stems of the roses and chrysanthemums. She crouched beside a grave and lifted the wreath she had placed there over a week ago, its shape only a soft mound in the deep snow. She gently brushed the snow from the greenery, freeing the holly and mistletoe from its cloak and shaking loose what she could. She brought it to her lips for a moment before laying it softly against the icy marble, sweeping the snow from the top of the stone so that none would fall on it.
‘Hello Dad,’ she whispered.
She hadn’t even realised she was crying until a sudden squally gust of wind stung the wetness on her cheeks. She felt hollow inside all over again, just as she had when her dad had died. The last few months had been some of the most painful in her life, but gradually a sense of purpose had filled her, and she had woken each day knowing that, although different, her life was still hers to make of what she could. She had felt some of her old spirit returning, and each day confirmed what she was beginning to feel: that she would be okay. Now, it felt as though someone had viciously scrubbed out these pages of her life, leaving them obliterated and ragged, the paper torn and scratched so that nothing could be rewritten onto them.
The wind was really beginning to whip up now, blowing white flurries of snow across the graveyard, and she shivered as an icy trickle forced its way down the back of her neck. Her arm was beginning to throb from the cold, and she stood wearily, the stiffness in her legs making her realise just how long she had been crouched there. A robin swooped to perch on the gravestone, its feathers ruffling in the cold wind. It cocked its head to one side, then flew off, landing on a neighbouring stone and immediately swooping away once more. She lost it for a moment before a flash of movement caught her eye. Without thinking she followed it into the church porch where a trug of holly lay next to the Christmas tree. The robin was perched on the handle, a ruby berry held delicately in its beak. It watched her for a moment, its tiny eyes bright, and then flew off once more, leaving a small white feather floating on the wind. In that instant a thought cut through her like a knife.
She saw Sam’s face as he had looked in the kitchen that morning, not triumphant as she had thought, but desolate at what he believed he had lost. There was nothing in his expression that had been laughing at her, or smug, or even close to hatred. He loved her, after all this time. He had forgiven her in spite of everything she’d done, and she’d give anything to see him again.
She looked up then, seeing the whiteness outside as if for the first time, and realised that this was no longer the place she should be. She wanted to be among the living. She wanted to be the little robin, who even in the bleakest of times could find what he needed to survive. She pulled her coat around her a little tighter, realising just how cold she was and suddenly scared about how long it would take her to get home.
A jangling noise in the stillness made her jump, echoing around the enclosed porch. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket, trying to hold it with the hand of her injured arm while she frantically tried to remove her glove with her teeth. The ringing went on.
‘Hello,’ she managed eventually, ‘hello.’ But the line just crackled as the voice cut in and out. ‘Sam,’ she tried again, but all she could hear were short bursts of noise and then the line went dead. She stared at her phone. How quickly things had changed. In only a few hours, there was no one else whose voice she’d rather hear.
With shaking hands, she dialled Sam’s number, watching anxiously as the snow began to fall thick and fast, but the call went straight to voicemail. As she stared at the display, it suddenly lit up and she jabbed at the accept button, her heart hammering wildly.
‘Sam,’ she started, her face falling as she realised that he wasn’t the caller after all. She was struggling to hear, and moved closer to the edge of the porch trying to angle her body out of the wind and snow that tore at her hair.
The voice cut in loud and clear all of a sudden. ‘Merry!’ she exclaimed, a smile automatically forming on her lips. ‘Oh it’s so lovely to hear your voice.’ A sudden rush of emotion brought the tears rushing back to her eyes. ‘Everything is such a mess, I don’t know what to do.’ Another thought caught up with her then. ‘Oh God…how are you? Is it the baby?’
‘I bloomin’ well hope so, what else could possibly hurt this much?’
‘Oh Merry!’ said Freya, smiling not at her friend’s pain but at her typical matter-of-fact reaction to the things that happened in her life. ‘Where are you, at the hospital?’
‘No, just about to leave. Tom is doing the whole running-around-in-a-panic thing, and I thought I’d give you a ring to see how everything is. I thought it might take my mind off things, but it seems as if I’ve rung at just the right time.’
Freya listened to the overly casual tone in Merry’s voice, one that Freya had heard her adopt on many occasions over the years. It hadn’t fooled her then, and it wasn’t fooling her now. ‘I see…you’re sure it’s not because Sam has rung you and you’re checking up on me?’
There was silence for a moment before Merry heaved a sigh. ‘Do you know I thought it might work this time, you know, seeing as we’re not face to face, but I can never seem to get one past you, can I?’
‘Nope. You never could lie at the best of times. You are actually in labour I suppose? You haven’t made that up as well?’
‘No, I bloody well have not. I’m in agony here. Listen, Sam’s just worried about you, Freya. He couldn’t get hold of you, said something about an argument and being out in the snow.’
‘We had a fight…well not really, but I’ve done it again, Merry, jumping to conclusions, running off without giving him the chance to explain.’
