One of the alpacas has eaten the Baby Jesus. I’m not sure which one. Frankly, they all look the picture of innocence, but I know them better.
‘I’m going to be watching your poo very closely over the next few days,’ I warn them. The thought troubles our troupe not one jot. Johnny Rotten, Tina Turner and Rod Stewart all stare me down. Rod gives a delicate little burp. Perhaps he was the perpetrator. He looks like the sort who wouldn’t think twice about scoffing down the Messiah. I will find out.
But, more pressing, what will I now use for the new-born reputed saviour of mankind, destined to be the centrepiece of my nativity tableau? Stupidly, I paid the vast sum of sixty-five pounds on eBay for a lifelike doll which clearly looked tastier than I could ever have imagined. Now all that’s left of him is a few chewed remnants of plastic that provide evidence of his untimely demise.
‘Did you see the culprit, Little Dog?’ I ask. But my faithful one-eyed terrier mash-up simply bares his teeth in his usual rictus grin and doesn’t dish any dirt on the alpacas. He knows, though, and he knows that I know he knows.
While I’m still musing on it, Lucas crosses the yard and comes to stand next to me in the barn. He’s sixteen now and, though he’s not my son, he might as well be, as I harbour all of the same maternal feelings for him.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
I nod towards our troublesome trio. ‘These guys will be the death of me.’ They all give us doe eyes and flutter their long lashes, feigning innocence. I snort at them. ‘Don’t give me that.’
‘Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths,’ Lucas observes.
But we both know better.
I acquired these guys when their owners moved abroad. They’re pack animals and came as a job lot. How could I turn them down? I’d never owned alpacas before. I thought they’d be sweet, fun. I was wrong.
Tina is definitely our diva and rules the boys with a rod of iron. She’s chocolate-brown with an impressive pom-pom of hair which she likes to toss about. Rod is white with skinny legs and knobbly knees. He’s usually to be found humming and gazing into space and is our most contented alpaca. But that’s not saying a lot. Johnny Rotten is definitely channelling the punk rocker he’s named after. He has a tan coat with hair like a Mohican in a shade that’s almost orange. Despite being pampered like the rest of them, Johnny will bite you as soon as look at you. Actually, I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s the one who chowed down Jesus. Hmm.
Before we go any further, I should also tell you how Lucas came to be under my loving care. Here at Hope Farm, as well as taking in tricky animals, we look after disadvantaged kids too. We’re not your usual farm. Far from it. We don’t have crops or animals that we (whisper) eat. Instead, we offer alternative education for students who can’t cope or are currently excluded from mainstream schools. I set this place up as a charity a few years ago now and we take in kids – mostly teenagers – who have behavioural difficulties, mental health issues or are on the autistic spectrum. That’s how Lucas arrived here too.
Originally, Lucas was brought to the farm by his father, Shelby Dacre, who was at the end of his tether with his wayward son who had been expelled from his private school for antisocial behaviour. Their relationship had been strained since Shelby had recently lost his wife to cancer. Lucas, understandably, was floundering without his mum and getting any form of communication out of him at all was an uphill struggle. In Lucas’s eyes his father hadn’t mourned his mother sufficiently. Shelby had dealt with his grief by dating much younger actresses and submerging himself in his work. Lucas, at a terrible time, had been largely left to his own devices and had grown angrier which manifested in challenging behaviour. Instead of pulling together, father and son had grown increasingly apart – to the point where Shelby no longer felt able to deal with his disruptive son. That’s where I came in.
When he arrived here, I hadn’t expected to bond so easily with Lucas. He’s difficult, testing, terse, uncommunicative, moody – all of the usual teenage behaviour – but we connected straightaway. He talked to me when he couldn’t speak to anyone else.