Chaos At Carlton Copse - A Short Story By Stephanie Poppins

Welcome to my Christmas Romantic Short Story Chaos at Charlton Copse Stephen Charlton stood in the doorway of the old brown barn,

His breath collecting before him in misty white paths.

The cold December wind had wiped the sky crystal clear,

But the strong gusts shot through the gap between the barn and the farmhouse to cut through him like a benchmark blade.

There was to be no sun today,

Just a pale white light that would fade quicker than it arrived.

There was no time to lose.

100 bronze turkeys,

I'll never shift them now,

He said bitterly,

But he had to.

The hired lad had gone and there was no one else he could expect to do the job for such a small wage.

Maybe if I'd offered more,

He said to himself,

But he didn't have any more.

And now there were all the orders he couldn't fulfil.

He'd have to pay his customers back every one,

But where would he get the money from?

Money don't grow on trees,

Wasn't that what his late mother always said,

And didn't he know it?

He pictured the post still lying on the doormat.

Final notice,

60 days,

Last reminder,

The bill said.

And he had the mobile abattoir to pay before Christmas too.

This was the end of the line,

There was nowhere else to go.

Just one week left of Christmas and no one else to call.

If he could just sell the prime birds,

He might survive until the new year and the next government subsidy.

He had to sell the birds,

But that was never going to happen now.

Stephen Charlton was only 34 years old,

But he felt like he'd already lived a hundred lifetimes.

A handsome man when he made the effort,

He was well built,

Strong with a fire that burned deep in his blue eyes.

But that fire was starting to wane.

He sank onto a heavy haystack,

His thick legs blue against the corn-coloured mass.

There was always the truck,

But he needed the truck.

Then there was the watch that his father had left him,

But that was special,

He loved that watch.

But he didn't see he had much choice.

It went against the grain,

Asking for help.

He'd always done everything alone,

He was an only child,

And that was the way he was brought up,

To be self-sufficient.

But now he was in a rut.

He looked out to the dales that stretched across the horizon in waves of winter bear fields and ancient stone walls.

Below the farm lay Charlton Cobb's.

It had been in his family for four generations,

And he,

Stephen Charlton,

Would be the one to lose it all.

The diseased herd had been the last straw.

A small organic farm in the age of supermarket chains could barely compete at the best of times.

But this was the worst of times.

Stephen smirked at the irony,

Dickens was his weak spot.

He tugged at his heartstrings every time,

And that was just as well,

He supposed.

He was unlikely to realise any other passion in a remote place such as this.

Not that he'd ever been any good with women anyway.

Too plain spoken,

He reckoned.

Get focused,

Charlton.

OK,

It'll have to be the watch.

I'll visit Sullivan's later and they'll do me a deal.

Maybe I'll even pawn it.

At least then I'll have the chance of getting it back.

And as for the turkeys,

I'll just have to freeze them.

There'll be no realising that investment this Christmas.

Not single-handed,

Anyway.

He glanced across to where a dog barked in the distance.

That was his nearest neighbour,

Almost a kilometre away,

Albeit within a clear,

Undisturbed view.

The other local farm,

The one he'd grown up with,

Had long since been sold off,

Its fields carved up for holiday lets.

How nice to play at country life at the weekend and return to luxury living in the week,

He muttered.

Those temporary boarders are always so bloody irresponsible with their city ways.

Chucking things out of their windows and expecting others to clean up after them.

But this didn't sound like him.

He wasn't really a bitter man.

Far from it.

Even if theirs was an easier life,

Stephen Charlton was a farmer through and through.

This was in his blood.

The sound of tyres on gravel brought him back with a bump.

Good news,

I hope,

He smiled,

Getting up.

Ever the optimist,

Charlton,

That's it.

He made his way round to the front of the house,

Through the old arch passage that hung with vines planted before he was born.

And what should he see but a battered blue fiesta lurching into the yard,

Its exhaust coughing up blue-black smoke.

His jaw relaxed.

Maybe things would be okay after all.

But when at last the driver switched the engine off and emerged in a cascade of colour and crochet,

He ate his words.

Three whole weeks ago,

He'd placed an advertisement for a seasonal hand during the all-too-important turkey season.

But all he'd got in return was a teenager who'd never even seen a dead turkey,

Let alone plucked one.

It lasted less than an hour.

And now,

This.

She looks as if she's on her way to a rave,

He sighed.

I just can't catch a break.

Hiya,

You looking for help?

Lively voice said from beneath a hand-knitted hat.

Your car?

Something just dropped off your car.

Stephen Charlton was unimpressed.

Oh,

Don't worry about it,

That's the exhaust.

I don't suppose you've got any large rubber bands,

Have you?

He snatched a look at her painted nails and stifled a smirk.

Really?

This was beyond ridiculous.

She was ridiculous.

This one's going to end up costing you more trouble than she's worth.

He could just hear his father's words now.

I'm Margaret,

Or Mags,

Whatever floats your boat,

She said excitedly.

And her accent,

What on earth was that accent?

Oh no,

This was not happening.

He had a lot to do and this was a waste of time.

Well,

Margaret,

He said boldly,

Are you sure you're here to pluck turkeys?

She pulled her woolly hat down over the shock of red hair that whipped free in the wind and met his look of incredulity.

Of course,

Sorry I'm late,

Hospital ran over this morning.

Stephen stared at the orange vision before him.

She was younger than necessary,

Mid-twenties he suspected,

And wearing high heels of all things.

But something in her eyes spoke of a maturity he'd not seen in one so young.

Nothing bad,

I hope.

Pneumonia,

They're keeping mum in another week,

At least.

Her voice wavered slightly,

Then steadied again.

But I can work,

I need to work.

We've got bills to pay and I've taken leave from my job.

What job?

Graphic designer,

Freelance.

And I do another part-time job on the side when I'm called.

She spoke with a touch of defiance as though she expected judgment,

And all at once Stephen felt bad he'd delivered as expected.

But this isn't design work.

It's cold,

It's dirty,

And it's hard on the back.

Six in the morning until the work's done.

I grew up on a farm,

Mr Charlton.

Down south,

I know what hard work looks like.

Her large brown eyes met his without flinching.

And Stephen had to admit,

The girl was pretty in an asymmetrical kind of a way.

Right then.

He turned towards the barn.

Let's see if you can remember.

There's a lot to do and my back's against the wall.

But before we get started,

I could murder a cup of tea.

Stephen froze.

She had a nerve,

Didn't she?

Do you want the work or don't you?

Yeah,

Of course.

But I work a lot better after a hot cup of tea.

The next four hours proved Stephen at least 50% wrong.

After replacing her heels for boots and digging out a brand new pair of rubber gloves,

Margaret persuaded him she knew her way around a farm,

Even if she was clearly out of practice.

After her obligatory cup of tea,

She dived straight in.

First to disinfect,

Then to get to work.

And after a time,

He could see she wasn't going to stop.

He watched her as she cleaned and prepared the small processing shed for plucking.

The turkeys were back from the abattoir and she seemed to understand just how limited their time was.

Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

But he could do without the singing.

Oh,

Well,

At least she had headphones.

So he didn't have to talk to her.

Stephen Charlton hated small talk.

It was a few hours later before she took the headphones off and she addressed him as though they were in the middle of a conversation,

Rather than going about their own business single-handedly.

Still using overhead feeders then?

She asked,

Surveying the setup.

You save time with rail systems,

You know.

And as for your turkey drinkers,

Who did the woman think she was?

She had a lot of opinions for someone who spent her time in a graphic design office.

They cost money I don't have,

Stephen said reluctantly.

The last thing he wanted was anyone knowing his business.

Keep it short and sweet,

He reckoned.

That was the way.

Fair enough.

What about the ventilation,

Though?

It seems a bit close in here.

Turkeys like it warm throughout the year.

And they like air,

Too.

Ammonia build-up will cost you your bird,

You know.

Stephen's hand stopped mid-pluck.

I've been working with turkey since I was eight years old,

Miss.

.

.

I didn't catch your last name.

I didn't give it,

Margaret smiled.

Just making conversation.

They worked in silence after that.

Stephen told himself he was glad of it.

He didn't need conversation.

He needed the work done,

Money earned,

And his farm saved.

The rest was distraction.

But he had to admit another face in this lonely place was kind of nice.

It meant he could get the job done.

And what more to life was there than his farm?

It was early afternoon,

And now time for lunch.

We'll stop,

He said,

Waving for her attention.

Let's get some air.

Margaret looked up,

Her face flushed with a mixture of concentration and effort.

Aren't you,

Ar?

They left for the dry stone wall at the edge of the farm garden.

Stephen handed her a sandwich,

And they sat staring at the silvery sky.

The silver thread of the Charlton brook that ran through the woodland yonder,

All the way down to the meadow at the bottom of the hill.

It's lovely here,

She said quietly.

I forget just how much I miss country life.

Stephen said nothing.

Lovely didn't pay the bank.

Lovely didn't fix the tractor or patch the roof or keep the cold out at night.

Do you ever go down the pub?

She asked suddenly.

The King's Head's a brilliant reputation,

Hasn't it?

And it has a quiz night.

On Christmas Eve,

I think.

No time for pubs.

What about the young farmer's dance then?

There must be one of those at Christmas.

Not interested.

Margaret studied Stephen for a moment,

Her head tilted.

Are you always this much fun?

Stephen felt a hot flush rise up to his neck.

I've got a farm to run,

Miss whatever-your-name-is,

As if you hadn't noticed.

Right.

Then Margaret stood up,

Brushed the crumbs from her crocheted trousers and said,

I'll get back to it then,

And left for the turkey shed.

For the rest of that week,

Margaret and Stephen fell into an uneasy routine.

Margaret arrived each morning in her beaten-up banger,

Worked with the live turkeys without complaint,

And left each evening as the early winter darkness fell across the dales.

Meanwhile,

Stephen carried on plucking.

He was almost there now.

Then he would leave for deliveries,

And with any luck,

It would be a good Christmas after all.

It hadn't taken long for Margaret to give up trying to make conversation.

Stephen had obviously told himself this was how he liked to do business.

But unbeknownst to her,

He found himself watching her more and more as time went on.

The way she gentled the younger turkeys with patient hands,

The unconscious grace with which she moved through the familiar rhythms of farm work,

The fact she always wiped her forehead with her left hand rather than her right,

Yet swept and cleaned with her right.

As the days progressed,

Stephen found himself bringing her a hot drink and leaving it on the side.

No words given,

But it was always back in the same place,

Stained with a crisp lipstick mark when he went to collect it.

He knew nothing about this woman,

But he was coming to understand she was what the farm needed.

And this alone bothered him more than it should.

He worked alone.

He'd always worked alone.

Since his parents died,

He'd become more self-sufficient than ever.

So why this now?

Never mind,

It wouldn't be long before Christmas was over and Margaret,

Whatever her name was,

Was a distant memory.

And all at once it was the last night of the week.

They said goodbye cordially,

Margaret with cash in hand and Stephen with a tired look of appreciation on his face.

You're shattered,

She said smiling,

But you made it.

They're all done,

Well done.

Stephen liked that.

It had been a long time since anyone had said that,

But there was no time for sentiment now.

He had deliveries to make and commitments to fulfil.

Thank you,

Margaret,

He said.

You have been amazing and I couldn't have done it without you.

This was the biggest compliment he paid anyone in a long time,

Least of all a woman.

He hoped it meant something,

But then again,

He never really did understand women.

You can go back to your neat and tidy now.

Margaret smiled back,

But he fancied a tiny look of regret in her eye.

Onwards and upwards,

She replied a little too loudly and then she left just as quickly as she had come.

Stephen Charlton was returning home,

His last trip of the week.

At the edge of the farm,

The cop stood in silhouette as it always did,

A congregation of deep greens and browns rendered black against the dying light.

Up in the trees,

The crows returned in ragged formations,

Their cries softening as they settled into the high branches.

He paused at his gate to watch the first star prick through the smoky haze.

And that was when he smelt it.

Smoke.

But he'd lit no fire,

And there was no one thereabouts.

His mind refused to acknowledge what was happening.

Everything was good now,

Everything was settled.

But no,

Not yet.

And all at once he was running,

Following his nose to the old hay barn at the edge of his land,

Where orange light flickered through gaps in the wooden walls.

His heart stopped.

It wasn't possible,

Was it?

He sped back to the nearest outbuilding and grabbed the extinguisher from the equipment store.

But as he ran back,

He knew it was futile.

The barn was old.

It was dry timber and ancient thatch.

The interior had become an inferno.

Its heat blasted his face as he approached and singed his eyebrows.

He aimed the extinguisher at the base of the flames,

But it was no use.

And as they grew higher and higher,

He moved back,

Devastated.

There were other barns close by.

They would catch two before he knew it,

And all would be lost.

The turkeys were safe,

Thank God.

On the other side of the farm,

There was that.

This was the grain store,

The winter food store.

He needed help.

He needed the fire brigade.

And now.

.

.

He ran for his phone.

But where was it?

In the passenger side of his old Land Rover,

Yes.

He grabbed it,

Made the call,

Then stood frozen to watch his investment go up in flames.

It was only ten minutes until the fire truck arrived.

But it felt like ten years.

The lights came first,

An impatient flash of blue and red,

Then the distant rumble of the engine itself.

Within minutes,

Charlton Copse was chaos.

Firefighters in yellow jackets,

Hoses snaking across frozen ground,

Water arcing through the air in silver streams,

That hissed and steamed against the flames.

Get those turkey sheds wetted down,

Someone called.

Just in case.

Stephen moved in a daze,

Following orders,

Helping drag hoses,

His mind numb with shock and shame.

This was it.

This was how it was going to end.

And that was when he saw her.

Margaret,

In a fluorescent yellow fire jacket,

Her hair tucked under a helmet,

Working one of the other hoses with practised efficiency.

She glanced over,

Caught his eye and gave him a brief nod before turning back to the fire.

Stephen stared in disbelief.

She was a firefighter.

A part-time firefighter.

And there was no doubt she knew what she was doing.

She moved with an adrenaline-fuelled confidence.

The girl he dismissed as a townie playing farmhand.

Just for extra cash.

An hour later,

All was fully extinguished.

Not so Stephen's mood.

The grain barn and the storage next to it had collapsed into a smoking heap of charred timber.

But the turkeys were fine,

Oblivious to everything but the noise.

As the moon peeped through the blackened Yorkshire sky,

He stood in his yard,

Covered in soot and ash.

It's over,

He said.

That's it.

His stomach sank.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He could not do this alone any more.

He sank onto the dry stone wall and watched the truck get ready to go.

Unaware that Margaret was standing in the shadows,

Waiting for the right time.

She stripped off her fire jacket and tossed it to the side.

Her soft skin was smudged with smoke.

Her eyes red-rimmed.

But what did that matter?

He was alone and she couldn't leave him like this.

The turkeys are fine,

Stephen,

She began,

Making him jump.

I checked them myself.

You still here?

The words came out rougher than he intended.

Don't mention it,

She joked.

Sorry,

I mean thanks.

I meant thanks.

Margaret studied his face in the moonlight.

You should get some sleep and call your insurance company in the morning.

How long have you been a firefighter?

Five years.

It seemed like a good way to give back to the community,

You know.

The community.

The thing Stephen had deliberately isolated himself from.

Convinced that asking for help was failure.

He looked up.

I tried to handle it myself,

But I couldn't.

I know,

Mr Charlton.

Margaret's voice was soft,

Gentle now.

And Stephen felt something crack in his chest.

A wall he'd spent years building.

Just Stephen will do,

He said.

I'm just Stephen.

Margaret smiled back,

And for the first time,

Stephen didn't try to resist the warm feeling it gave him.

Right then,

Stephen.

Well,

You better get some sleep.

I've got to go.

Someone's got to feed those turkeys in the morning.

And I'm off the clock now,

Remember?

She chuckled,

Trying to lighten the mood.

Then,

Before she left,

She added.

And maybe think about coming to the pub tomorrow night,

Christmas Eve,

For the quiz.

Before he could answer,

She walked away,

Well aware she had now done her best.

It was up to him.

Stephen watched the tail lights disappear down the long lane and into the night.

And for the first time in months,

Possibly years,

He didn't feel quite so alone.

The next morning,

The insurance assessor arrived.

A thin man from Harrogate,

Who spent an hour photographing the collapsed hay barn and making sympathetic noises about irresponsible city folk.

Stephen knew the payout would be months away,

Though,

Even if he was on his side.

It was now early Christmas Eve,

And something had shifted inside him.

Maybe it was the exhaustion that finally cracked his need for rigid control.

Or maybe it was the memory of Margaret in that oversized fire jacket.

Either way,

He found himself doing something he hadn't done in years.

He reached out to the community,

And he asked for help.

Tom Braithwaite,

His nearest neighbour,

Would be lending him some grain until the insurance would pay out.

Three trailer loads would be arriving that afternoon,

No questions asked.

And a local builder had arranged a call after Christmas,

Paid upon money received.

So,

After a long day,

That night as the winter dark closed in,

Stephen locked up the turkey sheds,

Got in his Land Rover,

And drove up to the King's Head.

The old country pub sat on the outskirts of town,

A low stone building with mullioned windows glowing amber in the darkness.

Stephen had pastored a thousand times,

But he had not gone in.

His mother had despised pubs,

And quite rightly so,

His father had been a heavy drinker.

But the truth was,

He didn't know how to do this.

He didn't know how to walk into a room full of people and just be himself.

You're being ridiculous,

Charlton,

He muttered.

The warmth and noise hit him as soon as he opened the door.

The King's Head was busy,

Locals clustered around small tables,

The fire crackling in the stone hearth.

This was the Christmas Eve quiz,

The busiest time of the year,

But it hadn't started yet.

Paper and pencils were scattered about.

He stood just inside the door,

Immediately regretting every decision that had led him here.

Stephen!

And there was Margaret from across the room calling,

From a table with two other people,

Much older than her.

Come on over,

We need someone who knows about farming.

He navigated his way through the tables,

Acutely aware of the curious looks he was getting.

Stephen Charlton,

The hermit of Charlton,

Cops out among people,

Who could believe it.

This is Stephen,

Margaret announced as he reached the table.

He's the one I've been helping with the turkeys.

Stephen,

This is my older sister and her husband,

John.

We're terrible at quizzes,

But we'll have fun anyway.

Sit down.

Stephen shuffled uncomfortably as they made to make room for him.

Then a pint of bitter was put down before he could protest.

And he sat awkwardly next to her.

When the quiz started,

Stephen found himself caught up.

There were questions about books.

He could do that and farming,

No problem at all.

He decided this was more than he thought it would be.

Quite enjoyable,

Actually.

And when his team came second,

Margaret declared with a smile.

We always come last.

You are good luck,

Mr.

Charlton.

Another drink in,

And Stephen found himself talking more than he had done in months.

Drawn out by easy questions and genuine interest.

These were nice people.

These were his kind of people.

He realised.

Farmers and farm workers and local families who'd lived in the Dales for generations.

He'd isolated himself for so long,

He'd forgotten they even existed.

How's your mother doing?

He asked Margaret when her sister and husband left for the bar.

Better thanks.

They're letting her home tomorrow,

Just in time for Christmas.

That's good,

He replied.

I'll still need to help her out for a while,

But I can stay on at yours through Christmas if you still need me,

She said.

I know work never really ends on a farm.

And just now,

I think you need all the help you can get.

They walked out together at closing time,

The December night bitter and clear.

The frost already glittering on the parked cars.

Stephen's breath collected in the cold air as he turned to say thank you,

Casting a misty haze around him.

I never really said how I valued your help the last week.

I kind of got used to just being alone.

I forgot how to be with people.

But it was good tonight,

I needed that.

Thank you.

So did I.

Margaret replied.

And as the pub door closed and the snow began to fall,

She reached up on tiptoes and touched his lips with hers.

Merry Christmas,

Stephen Charlton,

She whispered.

And may this one be your best one yet.