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The barns were cold close to opening hours. Not outdoor cold, thanks to some large industrial heaters, but “everyone who lives here wears a fur coat of some kind 24/7” cold. Ed’s never made a habit of arriving at work quite so early, but it was Christmas Eve and he had big plans.
“Hey,” hissed Ed into the fetid darkness, “Everyone awake?”
As expected, a chorus of bleating, lowing and strangely human voices greeted him.
“Oh good–early breakfast!”
“Ed!”
“Good morning, Ed!”
“Ooo, come to spend Christmas Eve morning with us so we can have a little gossip?”
“You will not believe what that young fella from the shop and his boyfriend got up to in here back in April!”
It’s only the third Christmas Eve since he discovered that his unusual Christmas Day birthday came with an even more unusual ability–one that he’d definitely never considered when he set up the tiny farm museum that had now grown into a ‘must-see rural destination’ according to the internet influencers that flocked to the farm shop, petting zoo and light display this time of year. Not once, as he’d taken in small livestock overflow from rescues, had he considered that he’d ever be able to have a conversation with them, once a year on Christmas Eve. (Luckily, this seemed to be just a ‘him’ thing, or he’d be even more overrun by influencers
But he wasn’t thinking about all those young, perfectly outfitted folks mugging for their phone cameras. Today, with the help of this barn, he was going to bag himself an honest-to-god fiancée.
“Morning, all!” he huffed cheerfully, reaching into the bucket full of carrots he’d brought in order to bribe the occupants of the barn into good behavior. “Big day today!”
“Well, of course it’s a big day–it’s Christmas Eve!” bleated Q-tip, the Valois sheep.
“Only day we get to chat to you!” added Quixote, the donkey. “And while we’re on the subject, I’d like to talk to you about a new feed bucket. Maybe in a nice blue rather than this depressing grey?”
“Hey, hey, forget about feed buckets!” complained Vincent Van Goat, a small brown and orange pygmy dwarf with an insatiable appetite. He tossed his head and small horn nubs toward a larger, fawn colored animal in his stall. “What’s with my new roommate here? He’s been here for two months! When’s he gonna be getting his own digs?”
“It’s not like you’re a picnic to live with, y’know,” drawled his stallmate, Buck Norris. “You’re like a hairy trashbin!”
“Which Christmas movie are we watching this year?” cut in Milkshake, the Jersey cow.
Ed’s voice finally rose above the clamor.
“Oi, everyone keep their fucking trotters on!” he bellowed. “Alright, in order of complaint, new red feed buckets are arriving next week, Vince, you and Buck are gonna have to suck it up until the second barn’s renovated in March and this year and we’re watching A Muppet Christmas Carol–you lot’ll like it, there are loads of animal puppets and singing vegetables. But before any of that, I came in early so I could…spruce the place up a little.”
“That’s awful nice of you, Ed,” snorted Spam, one of the gingery Tamworth pigs, “But you know us–don’t need anything fancy. A nice bucket of slop and we’re as happy as pigs in—well, you know how that saying goes.”
“Yeah, I definitely know how that saying goes, mate,” Ed replied, wrinkling his nose. “But I’m gonna spruce up the place because…I’m proposing to Stede today.”
The entire barn erupted in a cacophony of sound from the ecstatic livestock.
“I told you!” Vincent bleated to his compatriots at the top of his voice. “Didn’t I tell you? I said he was gonna put a ring on it! Pay up, suckers!”
“Two years to the day!” swooned Q-tip to her penmate, Mick Fleecewood. “Isn’t it romantic?”
“‘Bout time he made an honest man of him!” Mick agreed.
“How’re you going to do it?” asked Milkshake, fluttering her huge eyelashes at him.
Even after three Christmases, Ed still had a hard time believing he was casually discussing his private life with the occupants of the barn. He reached into one of the large, handled paper bags he’d brought in and pulled out a small bakery box.
“You lot remember how he gave me that birthday cupcake? I got Roach to make him one–lemon with raspberry filling–his favorite. And—”
He opened the top of the box and made sure all the excited occupants of the stalls could see the gold ring balancing on top of the beautiful, whipped teal icing and Will You Marry Me? written in graceful script under the lid. Ed had to conceal a wriggle of delight, thinking of Stede when he tiptoed out the door of their flat that morning–sprawled out in bed, snoring into his pillow with a gentle, cartoonish honk-shoo.
“Oh, he’ll love that!” cooed Quixote.
Footsteps suddenly sounded in the barn, bells jingling with every step. He didn’t even have to turn around to know it was his general manager in the costume Ed had picked out for him to wear on weekends. It was Iz’s own fault, really–he’d tried to goad Ed into action when, five years ago, during a bit of a financial crunch, he scoffed that the farm would never make enough to be open by the next Christmas “or I’ll dress up like a fucking elf”. Ed had held him to it, and every holiday season, he enjoyed watching the thundercloud of his manager’s face under the jingly, green hat above the green, fur-trimmed tunic and turned up, curly slippers, which, also, incidentally, were festooned with bells.
“Oh, he’s got a face like a goat’s arse,” whispered Q-Tip.
“I’ve never seen my own arse, but if it looks anything like Vince’s, I think you’re right,” muttered Buck.
Ed could hardly conceal his grin, so he turned toward the pens.
“Morning, Jingle McKringleberry,” he said, cramming a carrot into Vincent’s mouth to keep him from shouting out his displeasure.
“Yeah, very funny, Edward,” Izzy snapped. “It’s that fucking bird again.”
That caught Ed’s attention.
“Ursula?” he groaned. “Christ, what’s she done now?”
“She’s only fucking escaped, that’s what she’s done,” growled the festively-be-decked shorter man. “That fucking dinosaur is wandering round the village somewhere on Christmas Eve, just waiting to happen to someone.”
Ed had not wanted to take on the emu in the first place. Despite having one other at the museum (the well-behaved Albert) Ursula had been so bad-tempered from the start, he wasn’t sure she’d be a good fit—but her owner said it was either Ed’s farm or the Farm, so here they all were. Even Stede, who had all the animals on the farm literally eating out of his hand, couldn’t make friends with the feathery nuisance, approaching her with extreme caution. (As well as a cricket helmet with faceguard and judo sparring vest after their first meeting which ended in a concussion and broken rib.) Ed had been ready for an oversized barbecue right then and there, but Stede had patted his hand from the A&E bed and told him she’d obviously come from a hobby farmer who was in over his head and it wasn’t any wonder she was unsocialized, the poor thing. It had made him love Stede more and gave him a grudging tolerance of the bird–at least, until this morning. Didn’t that fucking menace realize he’d got a proposal to prepare for?
“I wouldn’t want to go up against Ursula,” Quixote said quietly.
“You’re a donkey,” retorted Bratwurst, Spam’s stallmate. “You’re kind of a shoo-in to win an arse-kicking contest.”
“Yeah, but Ursula’s mostly a dinosaur with an 80-million-year head start to perfect her technique. I don’t like those odds,” the donkey replied.
Izzy glanced round the pens at the noise.
“What’s eating this lot?” he grumbled.
“That is very livestock-insensitive language!” bristled Milkshake.
Ed cleared his throat.
“Gave ‘em some extra carrots this morning, with it being Christmas and all,” he told Izzy. “There’s not anyone else who can go after her, is there? It’s just that I’ve got all this stuff to put up and—”
Izzy cut him off.
“You know that twat’s gonna say yes whether or not you put up a bunch of frilly streamers, Edward, but someone in the village is gonna say ‘Why is there a giant fuck-off turkey in my back garden?’ if we don’t find her sharpish!”
As much as he hated to admit that his ridiculously dressed manager was right, he knew it wasn’t something he could put off.
“Alright, fine, I’ll go find the fucker,” Ed sighed. “Arch here yet? Stupid murderbird likes her for some reason.”
Izzy jerked his head in direction of the giant tortoise enclosure.
“Think I saw her on her way to feed Gibraltar. As soon as she gets him sorted, she can help you.” The manager shifted uncomfortably. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna go sort myself out. These tights ride right up my arse.”
Ed bit the side of his cheek, trying hard not to laugh. “Alright, off you go–customers at the gate are awaiting the pitter-patter of tiny feet.”
A green, fur-trimmed arm shot him the finger through the barn door as Ed set all of his decorating supplies down with a huff.
“Alright. I’ll be back in a tick. How hard can it be to catch an emu anyway?”
“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t asked that question,” bleated Vincent unhelpfully.
It was true. Ed wished he hadn’t asked. But he’d learned a few valuable lessons that morning.
Firstly, he now knew how much it cost to replace four wing mirrors, a recycling bin, two separate garden gates and a football. Emus, apparently, got very upset by all of those things. Ed just considered himself lucky that he and Archie got to Ursula in time to keep her from stomping Mr. McBride’s Maltipoo, Clarence.
Secondly, he discovered the source of Ursula’s affection for Archie turned out to be the Mars bars his farm hand been feeding the emu for months–something he was definitely not going to tell Stede–but as the chocolate morsels allowed her to slip a lead around the avian catastrophe’s neck and lead her all the way back to the farm gates, he was going to let that one slide.
Thirdly, time seemed to move a little faster on Christmas Eve Day, because by the time he was on his way back to the barn, the farm museum was open and already crowded with people, looking to cram as much holiday magic as possible into their day. Ed sped up towards the barn, aware that he was going to have to do some cramming of his own if he wanted to have the place looking perfect for the big moment. He smiled dreamily to himself as he walked, imagining the look on Stede’s face when he popped the question–those twinkly, hazel eyes soft, crinkled and brimming with happy tears as Ed slipped the ring on his finger, promising him the forever that had been a foregone conclusion since the moment they laid eyes on each other.
His daydream, however, dissipated like smoke when he heard running footsteps behind him and Frenchie skidded to a halt at his side.
“Mornin, boss. We’ve got a little problem over at the big man’s grotto.”
“Look, man,” Ed interrupted testily, “The whole reason I hired the lot of you was so that I could delegate stuff like this, so I’m gonna delegate the fuck out of it right now--to you.”
Frenchie’s face scrunched up in a way that told Ed delegation might not be an option.
“I just reeeeeally think you need to have a look before we call emergency services,”
Ed felt a little headache beginning behind his right eye. Okay, maybe he could make do with a few less streamers and still have the barn looking good by the time Stede came in at 2 to do his rounds.
“Show me,” he said wearily.
“How,” Ed began slowly, looking up to the top of the small building, “in the fuck did this happen?”
“Well, you know how it goes,” Frenchie replied, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, “People have a couple of pints before coming here and before you know it, things get out of hand and someone ends up stuck upside down in a chimney.”
Ed looked at his watch in frustration.
“Christ, the pubs have only been open for an hour!”
Santa’s Cottage had been a big hit the last few years. Wee John, a mate of Frenchie’s with a truly amazing talent for costuming, spent the season in the lovingly finished and lighted wooden house, listening to children’s holiday wishes dressed as Father Christmas. But this was definitely the first year the tradition had been interrupted by a third party attempting to co-opt Santa’s gig.
Muffled curses sounded from inside the non-functioning chimney which currently had a pair of legs and part of a backside sticking straight out of it. A few of the guy’s mates were standing beside the cottage, in fits of drunken laughter. Ed clocked six to ten phone cameras pointed upwards and groaned inwardly. Between this and Ursula’s jailbreak, the farm museum was racking up some seriously sketchy Christmas social media attention.
The legs above kicked frantically and a particularly unpleasant swear emanating from within made Ed thump the side of the structure sharply.
“Oi!” he barked. “There are kids out here, man–keep it down. You’re the one that decided to jolly-old-St. Nick it into a fake chimney!”
The legs drooped and their owner’s profanities subsided to grumbling. Ed groaned and scrubbed a gloved hand over his face as Wee John popped his head out the half-size door, Santa hat flopping over one eye.
“Has anyone rung the fire brigade so we can get this dickhead out?” he asked, pointing back inside. “He’s kinda ruining the vibes.”
“Uh, well, Jim and Pete are getting that big ladder from the tractor shed and a big can of cooking oil from the cafe to see if we can get him out ourselves first. We figured a fire truck would probably put paid to business for the day,” Frenchie replied.
This entire farm seemed dead set on putting paid to his proposal plans, he thought darkly, when a scrabbling from above grabbed his attention. One of the man’s equally intoxicated friends had climbed up on the roof and was now tugging at his stuck compatriot’s legs.
“Oi, mate!” Ed called in alarm, “We’ve got some folks coming with a ladder, you need to get down before–”
With a Winnie the Pooh-like pop, the man in question was dislodged from the tiny chimney, but the force of his removal catapulted both him and his companion over the edge of the roof, faster than Ed could calculate how much something like this could put up their insurance premiums. Gasps went up in the assembled crowd as he and Frenchie dashed round the side of the cottage to assess the material and possibly human damage.
Both men, dressed in purpose-made ugly Christmas sweaters, lay groaning and slumped over a pile of hay bales that had thankfully broken their fall. Jim was standing over them with a giant jug of viscous-looking liquid and look of disappointment on their face.
“Too bad–I was looking forward to dumping oil all over some cabrónes borrachos.”
“Maybe Father Christmas could interest you in a new machete to deal with these two anyway?” Ed asked hopefully.
Jim gave him a sly sideways glance.
“¿Como yo quiera?”
Ed slapped them on the back.
“Si, como tu quiera.”
Jim gave a wicked grin and grabbed the collar of one of the two roof raiders.
“Bien. Now, go get married or whatever.”
Ed had only told two people at the museum about his plans–Jim, because he knew they’d be super chill about it, and Izzy because…well, he was Izzy. As Ed’s oldest friend, he knew the disgruntled elf would be annoyed and pleased for him in equal measure, but he was glad now that he had one other ally who understood his desire to get back to the barn to get ready for one of the most important moments of his life. He gave Jim another grateful slap on the arm and left the scene of the chimney incursion as fast as his legs could carry him. Nothing was going to stand in his way.
“Ed?”
Nope, he definitely didn’t hear Lucius calling to him from the open door of the gift shop.
“Hey, Ed!”
Absolutely couldn’t hear a thing.
“Oi! Louis Hamilton, slow your roll!”
Ed’s shoulders slumped and he took a few deep, cleansing breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth before turning to his shop manager.
“What do you need?”
“Look, you know I enjoy a good sparring match on the phone, but I’ve got someone on the line even I can’t get rid of,” Lucius explained, rolling his eyes. “Wants to talk to the owner.”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuk,” Ed swore under his breath before heading inside to pick up the phone off the table from behind the till. “Edward Teach, how can I help?”
“This the owner?” a peevish male voice on the other end said, “Only I don’t want to spend any more time jabbering to staff.”
The back of Ed’s neck prickled with annoyance.
“Yeah, I’m the owner and proprietor.”
“Good. Look, I’m in a bit of a bind, mate, and I hope you can help me out. You’ve got a couple of ponies there, yeah?”
Jon Bon and Mr. Blobby were popular, docile inhabitants of one of the paddocks on the outskirts of the farm. Mr. Blobby was a light, cream colored animal with spots and Jon Bon a chestnut brown with a wild, blonde mane, but Ed wasn’t sure what either of them had to do with the unlikable customer on the phone.
“Uh, yeah, we have.”
“Glad to hear it. See, I promised the kiddywink one for Christmas, but time kinda got away from me–you know how it is–so how much to take one off your hands?”
“I’m sorry,” Ed started, not feeling sorry at all, “Let me make sure I heard you right. You promised your kid a pony for Christmas and then waited until Christmas Eve to try to find one?”
“Oh, come on, mate,” the man chuckled, “It’s the thought that counts, right? I mean, I know you’re probably busy today, but I did try Amazon first. Can you believe you can’t get ‘em on there?”
“Can I believe…that Amazon doesn't sell…livestock?” Ed asked incredulously, but the man seemed to lack even the tiniest bit of self-awareness.
“Anyway, just name your price and I’ll send a trailer round for it.”
Ed could hear the blood beginning to pound in his ears.
“We don’t sell animals, mate,” he snapped, “This is a farm museum and petting zoo.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that. Everything’s got a price.”
“Look, I can’t even begin to tell you what kind of morning I’ve had, but I can’t definitely tell you this isn’t a one-stop pony shop!”
A mirthless chuckle came down the line.
“Okay, okay, listen, I didn’t want to pull out the ‘do you know who I am’ card, but–”
“Then don’t pull it out!” Ed bellowed into the receiver. “I don’t give a fuck who you are, you dickhead, the animals are not. For. Sale! We’re like a big fucking family–granted, it’s one where all the kids shit on the floor, but it’s family all the same! Maybe if you go pay more attention to yours, you wouldn’t be needing to try to buy their fucking love with a goddamn pony on Christmas Eve! So, thanks for calling the farm museum–have a Happy Holiday and shove it up your arse!”
Ed missed the days of receiver cradles so you could really, properly hang up on someone by slamming the phone down, but he had to content himself with violently stabbing the red button with a frustrated growl. It was then that he noticed the silence behind him was suddenly very loud.
He turned to see a line of customers, their hands full of artisanal cheese, honey, baked goods, knitwear, candy and Christmas brik-a-brac all staring at him with shocked expressions. One woman had her hands firmly planted over her child’s ears.
“Ohhhh kay,” Lucius said finally, prying the phone out of his hands, “In future, I’ll just pretend I’m the manager, I think.”
“Make sure they all get like 20% off or something,” Ed muttered.
“Will do,” Lucius answered, giving him a little shove toward the door. “Maybe you should go have a little tea and Xanax break, yeah?”
Ed made himself scarce before he could make eye-contact with any of the stunned shoppers, especially the kid. But just outside the threshold of the shop, he stopped short. Even from a distance, he could see the whole of the barn was in darkness.
He clenched his teeth in frustration, taking long strides while looking again at his watch–it was already 1.45. Stede would be there any minute and not only had he not gotten the decorations up, but now the fucking electricity was out? The building would be cleared of visitors, at least, as it was the one part he’d asked Izzy to play in his whole plan–if there was one thing Izzy was fantastic at, it was clearing a room–but it felt like the entire universe was conspiring against his plans today. Was it too much to ask that he could make everything completely perfect to ask the love of his life to marry him?
Ed stalked into the darkness, irritation ringing in his voice as he fumbled for the light switch.
“I suppose I’m going to get an earful from you lot now for the—”
To his surprise, the switch flipped upwards, but instead of the high, overhead fluorescents coming to life, the soft glow of hundreds of white fairy lights lit up the rafters. Gauzy purple ribbons decorated the top rungs of all the pens in the barn and he could swear there was soft Christmas music playing from somewhere. For just a second, confusion stopped him in his tracks.
These aren’t the decorations I bought, are they? How did this–
“Hello, love.”
Ed’s head whipped round to take in Stede, standing at one end of the barn, smiling at him beatifically. He wasn’t wearing his normal weatherproof jacket and thick, water-resistant work trousers, but a beautifully tailored gray suit with a soft pink button-down shirt, tie and matching pocket square. He looked so put together, Ed immediately became painfully aware of his own muddy, disheveled appearance, brushing his chilled fingers down his parka.
“Mate,” he said slowly, his brain feeling stuffed with cotton wool, “What’s all this?”
Q-Tip’s voice echoed across the space.
“Really, Ed? Even you should be able to figure this one out!”
Gazing around at the occupants of the barn, he suddenly noticed each animal had a bow made of the same ribbon decorating the stalls round each of their necks. The fairy lights above twinkled, reflecting in seven pairs of dark, happy eyes, all fixed on him.
Stede walked over to him slowly, that expression Ed had imagined earlier firmly fixed on his lovely face. The vet gave a nervous little chuckle.
“I can’t believe this all worked out so well, really–I expected you to come crashing in here before I’d finished but…”
He shrugged, grinning widely and took Ed’s cold hands in his own.
“I wanted to do this here because…well, I thought it would be lovely to share it with the friends who probably won’t be welcome inside a wedding venue.”
“Discriminatory, by the way,” muttered Vincent.
Realization crashed down on him like a cartoon piano, tying his tongue in a knot. Ed had been so wrapped up in his own proposal plans, the thought had never occurred to him that Stede might have plans of his own.
“Stede,” he started, not entirely knowing what to say, “I–I was–”
Stede leaned forward and kissed him gently on his cold, wind-chapped lips.
“Edward, I spent so long trying to figure out where I fit in the world, I started to think that I was just some puzzle piece whose shape was just too odd to be part of a bigger picture. But then I found you and this amazing place and realized I’d just been looking in all the wrong boxes.”
“Ooo, that’s a nice metaphor,” Milkshake put in appreciatively.
Ed’s brain was still trying to come on-line when Stede knelt on the dirty barn floor in his beautiful suit and looked up at him, the lights above reflecting whole galaxies of stars in his eyes.
“These last two years have been the best of my life, and I know want to spend the rest of it with you.”
“Oh my god, this is happening!” snorted Bratwurst excitedly.
Stede reached into his pocket, pulling out a shining, platinum band and flashed a thousand-watt smile.
“Marry, me, will you?”
The whole morning’s worth of stress caught up to Ed in a flash, like a cracked dam crumbling entirely and he was barely able to nod his vigorous agreement before bursting into tears. He was aware of sound swelling around him–a chorus of animal noises and the joyful stamping of hooves, but the only thing that mattered was the warmth of Stede’s arms around him, his hands stroking his hair and the soothing noises in his ear.
“Are you alright, darling?” Stede asked, concerned. “And, that was a yes, right?”
“Y-yes!” Ed hiccupped. “I-I had a p-plan!”
“A plan?”
“I was going to ask you! I came early and everything–even had the ring and decorations!” he squeaked, pointed at the bags next to the goat pen. “But then Ursula got out and some drunk wanker got stuck in a chimney and then some horrid bloke wanted to buy Jon Bon Pony–”
Stede’s arms tightened around him.
“Oh, love, that’s a hell of a lot for one morning, let alone the day before Christmas! I am sorry I stole your thunder, though,” he said, amusement in his voice, “Would you like me to go out and come in again so you can propose too?”
Ed huffed a sniffly laugh.
“You want your ring, don’t you?”
Stede pulled back, grinning again, his cheeks pink with cold and pleasure.
“Oh, yes, please!”
Ed gave him a loud, theatrical smooch on one cheek and turned to find the beautiful pastry he’d had at the ready, but it was nowhere to be seen. He blinked in confusion. He had put the cupcake box at the top of the decoration bag, hadn’t he? Where the hell was–?
His eyes suddenly snapped up into a pair of slightly guilty-looking, sideways goat eyes, beneath which, was a goat mouth that was very subtly tinged teal.
“So, here’s the thing,” Vincent began. “I don’t think I’m entirely at fault here–I mean, you were the one who left the–”
“You didn’t happen to notice,” Ed said through gritted teeth, “That there was a literal fucking ring in the icing of the cake in that box?”
“Man, I didn't even notice the box. You think I look at food before I eat it?” the goat asked.
Buck knocked his head into his stallmate’s.
“Nice going, numbnuts.”
Disapproving bleats, brays, oinks and moos sounded through the barn, but Stede laughed, throwing his arms around Ed, who couldn’t help scowling at the shameless animal.
“That’s quite alright, Vincent,” Stede said diplomatically, guessing the nature of the conversation, “Ed can give it to me…let’s see, if I remember my training correctly, in about 11 to 15 hours.”
“You’re welcome,” Vincent bleated snidely as Ed scowled at him even harder.
“You sure you want something on your finger that’s been through a goat?” he asked.
“As long as you put it there, I don’t care where it’s been,” Stede answered.
“Now that’s true love right there,” Quixote remarked. “Oh, and you’re not selling Jon Bon Pony, right? We have a weekly card game on Wednesdays.”
The barn was filled with the excited chatter of the animals, speculating on whether it would be a summer or winter wedding, whether or not Vincent could be trusted to be a ring bearer, all things considered and how much wedding cake they thought they could each eat before they’d literally explode. Ed let it warm him like the fire from a cozy hearth, grateful for his peculiar birthday, but even more grateful that he’d spend all the rest of them with the man beside him, looking after their big fucking family at the farm museum.
“Merry Christmas, Ed,” bleated Q-Tip.
“Merry Christmas,” he answered happily, “ya filthy animals.”