Lucas, however, still blames everything on Shelby and isn’t convinced by his father’s altruistic behaviour. At best, they have a tetchy relationship. At worst, they go at it all guns blazing while I play the referee. It’s something of a work-in-progress. In all other areas, Lucas is an angel – albeit with slightly wonky wings. He’s become a valuable member of the team here and the other kids really look up to him.
Yet, despite the turnaround in his behaviour, Lucas likes to look the rebel and is still firmly attached to his signature Goth clothing. Today he’s sporting a Sex Pistols T-shirt, ripped bondage trousers and, the only nod to the farming life, green wellies. Even though he’s generally outside in all elements, his face is still as white as the driven snow. His black eyeliner and red lippy only serve to make him look paler. He’s carrying a bucket and a spade that’s nearly as big as him – though with all the physical work he does here, his skinny, gangly frame has started to fill out a little. He puts down his tools and climbs onto the first rung of the metal gate, the only thing that’s keeping our alpaca crew from running amok – something they love to do with every given chance. They all come up to nuzzle his hand in turn.
‘What have you been doing now?’ he says to them. ‘You’re making Molly frown and you’ll give her wrinkles. More wrinkles.’
As if I care. I’m a stranger to anti-ageing creams. In fact my bathroom is shockingly short on the usual unguents. The outdoor life is my beauty regime. I like to think of myself as fresh-faced and natural when I’m more likely wind-blasted and sun-baked. Though I think since this bolshie bunch of alpacas arrived they’ve been ageing me in dog years.
I fill Lucas in. ‘You saw our beautiful Baby Jesus? I only put him down for a minute and one of them had him for breakfast.’
‘That was short-lived. Naughty alpacas,’ Lucas says with a wag of his finger at them. ‘There’ll be a special place reserved for you in alpaca hell.’
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ I admonish. ‘The Hope Farm Open Day and Nativity is rushing up towards us at an alarming rate and we are woefully unprepared.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Lucas says with all the nonchalance of a Gen Z teenager who cares not for traditions. ‘You worry too much.’
He’s right. And I’m the only one that does worry. Everyone keeps telling me it will be fine, but the thought of an open day with nativity combo is already giving me sleepless nights. I don’t know why I let myself be persuaded to do this. I’m too malleable by half. I’m not even a Christmas person. Usually I spend it alone with the animals. I don’t possess any decorations. I’ve never had time for it. Much as I try to ignore it, this year, I fear, will be very different.
The whole open day thing was, of course, the bright idea of my trusty sidekick, Bev Adams. She’s what I like to think of as my link between Hope Farm and the outside world. Bev has been here at my side for years. She’s like a mum and a sister all rolled into one and, with the exception of Lucas, the closest thing to family that I have. When my guardian, Aunt Hettie, died and left me bereft and adrift, Bev was the one who helped to put me back together again. My dear friend is about fifteen years older than me – in her mid-fifties – but is as fit and as strong as a twenty-year-old. If you’d seen her throw hay bales around or wrangle a stubborn sheep, then you’d know. Bev’s an ex body-builder and is still in great shape, although the only exercise she does now is here on the farm.
Even though I’m supposedly banned from taking in more rescue animals, we’ve recently rehomed two donkeys – also Bev’s idea: a mother and daughter called Harriet and Hilda. They are sweetness personified and came from a lady who was too old to look after them any more and wanted a caring home for the pair so they wouldn’t be separated. Cue an invitation to enjoy bed and breakfast on a permanent basis at Hope Farm. I’m so glad that we took them in, though. However, on the downside, our delightful donkeys do seem to have provided the inspiration for Bev’s desire to throw open our doors to the general public and share our work with them in a festive manner. The thought fills me with terror. I’m not what you might call a people-person – unless they are people with troubles.
But there’s no holding it back now – Christmas and our nativity are going to happen whether I like it or not.
Chapter Three
‘I should get on,’ Lucas says. ‘Shit to do involving shit.’
‘You’re mucking out the barn?’
‘Yeah. The joy just keeps on flowing here.’ He pushes his long black fringe from his forehead and his dark eyes look across at me. ‘There are ten kids here today. I’ll take them with me. I’m sure they all need more poo to brighten their lives.’
Lucas gives great sarcasm.
‘Thanks. I haven’t even had time to look at the register today.’ I’m so grateful that Lucas is on top of it. Ten kids is a full house for us and a lot to handle. We need the income, but I like to keep the numbers low so that everyone gets the personal attention they need. We have our regulars and I’d like to say that makes life easier, but you never can tell what the day is going to throw up. If they all decide to kick off at once, then it’s mayhem.
We have some students for a few days; a couple are here all week. Some are long-term and have good council funding. Others come and go or are with us just briefly. We try to cater for as many needs as possible with the few people we have. The funding for Lucas’s apprenticeship is provided by his dad – something that irks him. But then a lot of things irk Lucas, especially if his father is involved.
‘You’re doing a great job.’ Whenever I look at Lucas, my heart squeezes. As I’ve said, he’s not my boy, but I could not love him more. ‘Can I hug you?’
He sighs. ‘Do you have to?’
‘I’d like to,’ I venture.
‘If you must.’ With a great show of reluctance, he surrenders to my embrace. Then he lingers a little longer than he needs to, which makes me smile. Sixteen-year-old boys need cuddles as much as anyone, even though they pretend they don’t. I hold his skinny, all-angles body tightly.
‘Enough,’ he says. ‘You’re breaking my ribs now.’ Lucas peels himself away from me and sets off towards the barn with a casual wave. ‘Laters.’
‘See you at lunch,’ I shout as he goes. ‘Chickpea curry.’
‘Be still my beating heart,’ he shouts back.
Watching him walk away, my chest fills with pride. I’m pleased to tell you that Lucas is in a good place. Or as good a place as a slightly surly, overly sensitive, passive-aggressive teenager with authority issues can be.
We’ve been at our new home – which should rightly be known as Hope Farm Two – since the end of summer. As I said, we were ousted from our previous land due to that terrible thing called ‘progress’ when our troubled children and misfit animals were kicked out of the way in favour of HS2. Even now I can’t bring myself to talk to you about it without muttering darkly and using my worst swear words. The diggers rolled in as we moved out and I haven’t been able to go back and look at the scars they will have created on the beautiful landscape. They’ve destroyed ancient woodland and untrammelled countryside, but commuters will soon be able to get from and on to Birmingham twenty minutes quicker, so that’s all right then. That sound is the gnashing of my teeth.