‘I just wanted to say thanks,’ he says. ‘You know, for everything.’
He sounds a little bit drunk. I think he had that double voddy – or two – after all.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I forgot to thank you for dedicating the second poem to me. That meant a lot.’
‘I’m sorry when I’m a tit to you. I don’t mean it.’
‘I know. All part of growing up.’
‘I don’t want to be like my dad. I want to be kind and caring,’ he says.
I want to tell him that he has his father all wrong. That Shelby is a good man, but now isn’t the time. When Lucas is older he’ll understand that.
‘Thanks for being like a mum to me when I’m not even your kid.’
‘Come here,’ I say and he snuggles in for a hug. ‘I love you to bits. I’ll always be here for you.’
‘I know.’ He peels himself away from me. ‘Better go to bed. I’m knackered.’
‘You’ll struggle to get up in the morning.’
‘I do every day,’ he points out.
‘Sleep tight.’
‘I’m gonna let Little Dog sleep on my bed.’
‘OK. He’ll fidget.’
‘I’m so tired, I don’t think I’ll notice.’
‘Will you read out your poems for the students tomorrow? I want to be all boasty about your success.’
And he must be feeling mellow as he says, ‘Yeah, sure.’
Then he goes and, as I put down my book, a text comes in from Shelby.
It was a triumph. Still at the party. Speak tomorrow. S xx
That must be some party, I think. We’re all going to be tired tomorrow. And so, at last, I turn off the light and go to sleep.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Everyone is in a bad mood. Lucas, after his erudite and spectacular performance, has returned to grunt mode. He’s barely said a word this morning. His eyes are red with tiredness and he’s grumping around the yard doing nothing in particular in an irritable manner like a tetchy teenager.
The students are all stroppy today too and I’m exhausted from dealing with them before the day even starts. They’re all squabbling about nothing. Even the sheep are bad-tempered and Anthony the Anti-Social Sheep has escaped his pen and headed off to the corner of the field where he currently has his head down ready to ram anyone who approaches. I’m going to leave him to his own devices, but have put one of the students on watch to make sure he doesn’t make a bolt for the road. The geese are trying to nip everyone who passes and the donkeys are braying at the top of their voices. It’s mayhem. Welcome to another sunny day at Hope Farm. Except it’s pouring with rain. The huge Christmas tree might be doing its level best to be festive, but there’s not much Christmas spirit here this morning.
Even Bev and Alan aren’t immune to the dark cloud hanging over us today. They arrive wearing different band T-shirts.
Lucas nods towards them and mutters, ‘Some serious shit must have gone down there.’
He might be right. If they’ve not discussed what they’re wearing today, I’d say it’s a sure sign that all is not well in their world. To be honest, Lucas and I were too tired to even have our usual bet this morning.
Alan disappears into the barn without a word, not all that unusual, but Bev also disappears into the tea room with nothing more than a wave and a curt shout of, ‘Leave me alone. I’ll talk to you later.’
So I do just that.
I hope the rain stops soon and we can get the kids doing something that burns off their energy, shifts their mood. The barn feels a bit dark and gloomy due to the grey day, but if I string up some fairy lights in here and have a cleaning and cuddling session with the bunnies that might cheer everyone up. Thankfully, the rabbits don’t seem to be having any issues today.
Then, just as I’m feeling pleased with myself for thinking how to turn this around, a fight kicks off. Two of the girls, Lottie and Erin, start a full-on brawl in the yard. There’s slapping, kicking, name-calling and swearing. Neither of them are much over five feet tall, but they’re like banshees.
I dash to intervene and, as I try to pull them away from each other, get my own hair pulled and Lottie gouges the back of my hand in the process. ‘Stop,’ I say. ‘Stop that right now.’
It’s days like this when I dream of a nice, quiet office job.
‘She started it,’ Erin says, petulantly.
‘Did not.’
But I’m in no mood to listen. ‘You both need to calm down,’ I say in my most placating tone.
‘You can fuck off,’ Lottie says. ‘And you can stick your Christmas thing up your arse.’
‘I’m not doing it either,’ her opponent adds, now that they’re ganging up on me. ‘No one believes that Father Christmas is real now.’
Calling on all my reserves of patience, I calm the girls down and give them a little talk about boundaries, respect, violence, use of bad language and not taking chunks out of each other while they both glower at me. If looks could kill I would be stone dead.
‘You don’t have to take part in the open day or the nativity,’ I say. ‘That’s entirely your choice, but I think you’d be missing out.’
That worries them more than anything – FOMO. Fear of Missing Out. Something all modern teenagers dread. Though now I have given myself another problem in that I have to think of something that two make-up-obsessed teenage girls might miss out on. I wish Bev had never come up with this. Christmas is stressful enough without all this added pressure.
Then I notice that someone’s left the door of the chicken coop open and, even though it only takes me seconds to respond, the chickens are running free and my pep-talk is sharply curtailed. Instead, I’m running round – rather like a headless chicken – as thirty-plus of our sparsely feathered friends scatter to the four corners of the yard.
‘Who let the chickens out?’ I howl.
Little Dog and Betty Bad Dog decide to help round them up and bark excitedly as the chickens flap about which, of course, only serves to make things worse.
‘Down, dogs,’ I shout. So they jump up a bit more. Oh, to have animals that take a blind bit of notice of me. If that’s not enough, then the geese join in, throwing back their heads to honk loudly and flap their wings, spooking the chickens even more.
I stop and watch the chaos around me, helplessly. Why can’t I go back to bed and lie with the duvet over my head until tomorrow?
‘Help,’ I say to the students who are looking on, mouths gaping. ‘Grab a chicken! You know how!’
But knowing how and actually being able to do it are two different matters. When chickens don’t want to be caught, you are definitely up against it. Even our one-legged hen, Peg – who can topple over when standing still – can hop at an impressive rate of knots when she puts her mind to it. ‘Go in the coop and grab some lettuce! Wave it at them!’
The students manage to do that and chase the chickens with lettuce offerings, but on this day contrary to every other day of the year, lettuce doesn’t do the trick.
I don’t know where Lucas is, but he’s not here when I need him. ‘Lucas!’ I shout. ‘Lucas!’