Jaimie Admans - Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

‘Wolves and bear traps? Seriously?’ He pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head in despair. ‘You do know that this is the United Kingdom, right? You may have driven a long way but you haven’t actually left Great Britain. There are no wolves and no bears to require the use of a bear trap. Have you mistaken Scotland for northern Alaska?’ He’s using a saccharinely sweet voice and it kind of makes me want to punch him. And I’d had such high hopes given the gorgeous dog and love of Gremlins .

‘Well, thanks for the warm welcome,’ I snap, and spin on my heel to walk away. ‘It was a joy to meet you.’

‘Leah?’ He calls after me.

Hah. One well-placed sarcastic comment is all you need to make someone realise what a miserable twat they are. He’ll try to backtrack and apologise now, no doubt.

‘Can I have my dog back?’

Oh. Bugger. I forgot I’ve still got Gizmo in my arms.

I pull my head back so I can look into Gizmo’s big brown eyes. Would it be petty to say no? ‘You’d come home with me, wouldn’t you, lovely?’ I murmur to him, pressing my mouth against the brown side of his head.

His tail wags against my side in agreement, but I stomp back towards Noel guiltily. Even though I think this lovely animal deserves a much nicer owner, I didn’t mean to dognap him.

Noel holds his big, dirty hands out and I somehow manage to transfer the wagging, licky dog into his arms, my skin brushing the surprisingly soft sleeve of his red plaid shirt as Gizmo pushes himself up to start licking the dark scruff of Noel’s neck, excited at being reunited with his owner. The dog must see a nicer side than I do. I’ve only known Noel for ten minutes and I’d happily never be reunited with him again.

‘Thanks,’ he mumbles, his voice muffled behind the dog trying to give him a facial. ‘Feel free to give me a shout if you need anything. Cup of sugar, a pumpkin to carve for Halloween, help building a bonfire which is probably the best use you’ll get out of most of the trees, the address of some local demolition companies …’

‘Yes, thanks for the sterling, solicited advice you’ve given me so far,’ I mutter, even though he’s been more helpful than the estate agent was. ‘I’m going to go and look around my farm now and figure out what’s best to do with my Christmas trees for myself. Goodbye.’

I only get a few steps before he calls my name again. ‘I wouldn’t go out there in the dark.’

‘Why not?’ I say to the empty road, not giving him the satisfaction of turning around. I will retain the moral high ground here.

‘Mountain lions.’

‘What?’ I turn to look at him in shock, all pretences of the moral high ground or any form of dignity disappearing, although I think the dignity was already lost when a Chihuahua came to rescue me from a squirrel.

He points towards the trees and nods knowingly. ‘Mountain lions.’

I wait for his mouth to twitch up in a grin or for him to burst into that sarcastic laughter again, but he doesn’t. ‘You’re winding me up.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Oh, come on. If there are no bears or wolves, there are no mountain lions. You’re having a laugh.’

‘Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. The only way to find out is to venture into those trees at night.’

We stare at each other in silence for a few long moments. I’m still waiting for him to continue the joke, but what’s he waiting for? Me to run screaming to the car and zoom off back to London?

‘Also because the fence between your property and mine is flimsy in places and I don’t want you stumbling into my vegetable garden in the dark and destroying my livelihood. And there’s a river running through your property that’s not marked on the estate agent’s map, and most of its banks are worn away. It’s too cold to fall into a river at this time of year, so wait until it’s light to go exploring, all right?’

‘Do you think I’m incapable of using a torch?’

‘No, but if you get lost and die from starvation or hypothermia or get eaten by mountain lions overnight, having to give a statement to the coroner is really going to delay my morning and I have a lot to do tomorrow.’

I gulp. There’s no way he’s serious about the mountain lions.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. I turn around and stalk along the grassy edge of the road until I turn into my driveway. I open the car door and lean in, pretending to hunt around for something on the passenger side so I don’t have to see his smug face again, and I don’t look up again until I see him and Gizmo walking back across the pumpkin field in the distance.

I sigh and stand up, stretching my back out and looking up at the rapidly darkening sky and then down the lane towards the trees in trepidation. I’m not going out there in the dark. Even though there are no mountain lions.

Probably.

I’m annoyed enough by him to face the farmhouse. There’s nothing more inspiring than someone implying I can’t do something to get me motivated.

At the top of the three crumbling steps, I shove my key into the rusty lock and push aside a spider that crawls out, trying not to think about what it says for the house if even the spiders are trying to get out . The door creaks as I open it and peer in cautiously.

It’s just a house, I tell myself. An old empty house that’s been old and empty for many years. I stand in the doorway questioning the wisdom of watching The Haunting of Hill House on Netflix last week when I was meant to be packing.

Maybe it would be braver to face the mountain lions.

Inside, it’s so dark that it’s hard to tell what condition the farmhouse is in. I find a light switch near the door, but nothing happens when I flip it. Great. So there’s no electricity either. I step inside and close the front door behind me, but it does nothing to alleviate the draught blowing through the place.

I stand still and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, half-expecting something to jump out at me, but nothing breaks the silence. It’s quiet in a way things never are in London. In my flat, you can hear the neighbours shouting through the thin walls, the traffic, the general hustle and bustle of the street outside, and the ever-present sirens in the distance. Here, the only sound is the rustling of the breeze blowing through from the empty window frames and missing roof.

It’s a small house, even smaller inside than it looked from the outside. I’m standing on a threadbare doormat that’s still got the dried remnants of mud from someone else’s boots on it. There’s a wooden staircase in front of me, to the left is what looks like the kitchen, and to the right is a living room. I can see the outline of an upside-down sofa covered with dust sheets. I hold the banister of the staircase, my fingers leaving lines in layers of undisturbed dust as I walk up slowly, using my phone to light the way. Upstairs, circled around a narrow landing walkway, I find a storage room, a tiny bathroom, and a bedroom with a single bed on its side and the wardrobe knocked over with one door hanging off. Telltale stones lie among the broken glass reflecting from the floor, evidence of what happened to the empty window frames. No one’s even bothered to board over the upstairs ones.

Half the landing and the storage room have brown stains of water running down the walls, a freezing wind is howling around my neck, and there’s the constant flapping of tarpaulin sheets where someone’s tried to repair the roof and the repair has fallen in too.

In the bathroom, there’s still toilet roll unravelling from a rusty holder and when I try to flush the discoloured water in the loo, nothing happens. Great. No electricity and no water. The estate agent had plenty of warning that I was coming today, shouldn’t they have got everything turned back on? I glance in the cracked mirror on the wall. Maybe they didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to live in it. It’s not exactly inhabitable by any stretch of the imagination.