Page 2 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
It wasn’t until he pitched up at the Sherbourne orchard that he began to feel he might be onto something, although at the time he had wondered whether it was the after-effects of too much cider the night before. A drunken bet in a game of cards had cost him his van, and the only reason he had turned up Freya’s drive was the hope of quenching a raging thirst. As he walked its length, however, it occurred to him that the apple harvest might be his salvation, and when Freya opened the door, a wave of dizziness had passed over him so strong it had nearly taken him off his feet. He knew then without a shadow of a doubt that he would stay.
Several glasses of water later and two hours’ sleep had allowed him to recover, and by then, Freya had already decided to offer him some work. She couldn’t afford to pay him much, but he had food, a place to stay, and the weeks had slipped by. By the middle of October, however, he was none the wiser. Freya’s boyfriend, Gareth, was a prize pillock but harmless enough, and although their relationship had clearly lost its sparkle (if it had ever had any), they rubbed along peaceably enough. There seemed no real reason for him to be there after all, and so helping her harvest the holly and mistletoe had been his final job. He must simply have been mistaken, and it was time for him to move on once more.
He knew it was her, though, the minute he heard the van slow down, and now as he sat in the warmth beside her, he found he was rubbing the back of his neck repeatedly to calm the prickling sensation he felt there. She had crossed his path again, and he wasn’t sure what the mistletoe fair had to do with things, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had to find out.
With the radio playing all the way and the two of them singing songs at the top of their voices, the miles slipped by, so it was only when they turned down a road to join a convoy of other vans that Amos realised they must be close. He glanced at Freya, but she seemed relaxed enough, despite how he knew she must be feeling. She chatted easily to him when it was just the two of them; it was only the evenings when Gareth was around that she clammed up. But this fair meant a lot to her, he knew that much.
The auction yard was busy as they turned in, already milling with people and vehicles as the traders sought to find their spaces and unload their wares. Freya gave an explosive tut beside him.
‘Bloody Hendersons,’ she said. ‘I might have known they’d get here before me.’
Amos followed the angle of her head to a smart lorry, its familiar red livery bright and distinctive in the morning sun. He’d seen them about the lanes quite often over recent weeks, and on the odd occasion when Freya mentioned their name, it was never in flattering tones.
‘Look at him, pig-headed arrogant sod; thinks he owns the place.’
It was true that the lorry was now holding everyone else up as it manoeuvred into position, but there was still plenty of room for Freya’s smaller van to pass. He glanced at the jut of her chin, deciding not to argue, and pointed out a place further along which she could easily fit into.
Freya was out of the cab in a flash, running over to the pens in a barn which ran along one side of the yard. He watched her walk up and down, her red scarf flying behind her, a coiled little bundle of energy. She paused every now and then before stopping completely, and with a visible little hop, spun on her heels and threaded her way hurriedly back towards him.
‘Right, I’m good with that,’ she said breathlessly. ‘My pitch is right smack bang in the middle, just about perfect.’ She grinned at the perplexed look he gave her. ‘I’ll explain later. Come on, we need to get over to where the rest of the sale takes place.’
She threw a look over to the Henderson’s lorry before flinging open the back doors of the van and climbing inside. Amos lost her among the foliage for a second. A riot of green and red and silver greeted him. If you could capture Christmas in a single scene, this would surely come close. He’d really had no sense of it while he was helping her to cut it down, but now, bundled as it was and filling the space, it was a joyful homage to the season.
Freya threw him a pair of gloves as the holly came out first, dark and gleaming. The plant he knew well, but he was certainly no expert on selling the stuff. It was full of berries, though, and he thought that could only be a good thing. She stopped for a moment, her head on one side like a robin, her eyes on his, suddenly anxious.
‘Jesus, Amos, what am I doing?’
He really didn’t have an answer but smiled in encouragement.
‘How can I possibly compete with this lot? I mean look at them. They’ve easily three times as much as I have. No one’s going to want my paltry few bundles. I shouldn’t have come.’
Amos picked up a bundle of the holly, holding it close to his body. He touched a round red berry gently and ran a finger down the spine of a rich dark leaf. ‘But this is beautiful, Freya. I would buy it, if I could.’ He was horrified to see her eyes begin to glisten. ‘Have you been here lots of times before?’
She gave a small nod. ‘Yes, but that was…was with my dad.’
‘And would you feel like this if your dad were here today? Would you want to give up and go home?’
‘No, of course not, but that was different.’ She frowned. ‘Things were different then.’
‘Only if you believe them to be,’ he said softly. He reached into the bundle and plucked a small white feather from its depths before taking her hand to help her down from the van. Gently placing the bundle on the floor, he tucked the feather into the rim of her hat, pushing it into the woollen folds.
‘There are always times when your father is with you, Freya, more often than you know.’ He looked up to see her eyes widen in surprise. ‘Now, since you’re the expert here, can I suggest that you tell me where these need to go; I’m guessing that wherever it is, you’ll want them there before the Hendersons?’
Her gaze wandered over his left shoulder just for a second before shooting back to him, her eyes still glistening but now with a new-found glint of determination. She picked up a bundle, seemingly oblivious to the sharpness of the prickles, and, with a grin and a nod of her head, marched off, leaving Amos to trail in her wake.
Once the holly was laid out, they doubled back to the van to collect the mistletoe and began the same process all over again, laying out their bundles in tight little rows in the yard, while prospective buyers milled around, nodding and chatting in fine mood. Amos caught sight of one of them pointing to Freya’s bundles, although he made no move to examine it further. He heard the name Sherbourne muttered and smiled to himself. Despite her reservations, her name had obviously preceded her, and her bright blue labels with their distinctive name stamp were doing their job brilliantly.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here this year, but you made it then.’
Amos whipped around at the sound of the voice, its tone none too friendly.
Freya dipped her head. ‘Hello, Stephen.’
The two of them stared at one another for a moment without saying anything further, but Stephen’s gaze was travelling up and down the rows of mistletoe, resting on Freya’s bundles for a moment too long to be comfortable.
‘Berries looking a little green I’d say, Freya,’ he said, smiling a smug grin.
His hair was slicked back into a quiff at the front, and a signet ring glistened on one of the fingers he was wiping across his smirking mouth. Amos took in his green Hunter wellies, waxed jacket and red-checked shirt and frowned. He looked down at the neat rows, but as far as he could see, Freya’s berries were glistening little orbs of pearlescent white.
