‘You knew him well?’

He looks at me with a raised eyebrow, like he knows I’m prodding for information and he isn’t sure he trusts me yet. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘I spent my weekends over here from when I was old enough to hold a shearing knife and a saw – not together, that’s a recipe for disaster. My mum and dad were extremely impressed to find out I often cut school so I could come back here and cut Christmas trees instead. Our farm was more of a regular farm back then, livestock and all sorts of produce, but the Christmas trees were so much more exciting. Evergreene was like a grandfather to me, you know, the naughty one who encourages you to do things your parents would never allow you to, and then gives you a cheeky wink, puts on an innocent face and denies all knowledge when caught?’ He puts on a shaky, elderly voice. ‘“What do you mean Noel was in the back cutting Christmas trees when he was supposed to be in maths class? Really? I had no idea. I thought it was an overgrown elf running around with that chainsaw.” Only to be followed be piercing shrieks of “You let him use a CHAINSAW?”’ He looks down at the tiles again and I can feel the sadness settle over him. ‘But many years have passed since then.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He never recovered after a stroke and died a few months later. Over four years ago now.’

‘No family to inherit this place?’

‘Just one absolute git of a son who was never interested in Christmas trees. When we were younger, he got his jollies off by zooming around the village on his motorbike, deliberately frightening livestock and old ladies. He only saw this place in pound signs, and I hope he’s extremely disappointed with the fifty grand you paid, but I gather the estate agents were at their wits end with trying to sell it. They must’ve been over the moon that an idiot who doesn’t know anything about Christmas trees turned up.’ He looks over with a teasing grin. ‘I bet you don’t even know what type of tree you get every year, do you?’

‘Oi. I know exactly what type my tree is – a plastic one.’

He doesn’t hide the look of horror on his face, and I hold up a hand to stop him. ‘I know, I know, it’s an affront to all of Scotland. I sent it to the tip before I left London. We used to have a real one growing up but not since …’ I swallow hard, unable to tell him that I only had a plastic one in the flat because I spent Christmas at my parents’ house, and since they died, I haven’t felt much like celebrating Christmas. ‘Well, a plastic one’s easier, isn’t it?’