Page 6 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
Ruuuuffff.Rosie jumped, glad there was a lid on her flask. For the first time, she spotted a small, scruffy brown and white terrier curled up in his basket in the corner, his eyebrows raised at her.
‘Apart from you, Onions. But you ain’t no good with a hammer.’
With Agnes’s Gloucestershire accent, the dog’s name sounded more like Un-yunz. Even though Rosie’s family spoke with an excessively well-to-do air, the local accent always made Rosie feel more at home. Rosie’s own lilt was somewhere in between.
‘He won’t hurt you. He’s as deaf as a post and he’s only got three teeth,’ said Agnes. ‘And there are the others, of course.’ She swept her arms around. ‘Fourteen stray cats, six unfortunate mongrels and...’ Before she could say the word, a chicken flapped through the kitchen. ‘A whole lot of hens. The place has become an informal sanctuary for waifs, wild things, and anything that needs a home.’
Agnes gave Rosie a quizzical look, like she was wondering which of those categories Rosie might fit into. She wasn’t far wrong.
‘Anyway, you haven’t got time for my sob story. We must get on. You carry your tea; I’ll take your bag.’
And with that, Agnes grabbed Rosie’s bag and bustled her towards the rear of the kitchen and out through a back door.
‘I’ll show you around the lake,’ said Agnes, pacing off again like she wasn’t the kind of woman who took no for an answer.
The lake? ‘I really should explain,’ shouted Rosie, hobbling to keep up. She still wasn’t sure what this was all about, and she should really ask to use a phone and be on her way.
‘Yes, yes. More time for your yapping when we get there.’
Rosie sighed and limped onwards. Well, the woman had her bag, which was stuffed with clothes and her laptop, and at least all of this was providing a welcome distraction from her Monday from hell. In this curious place she could almost forget all of that other stuff had even happened. In fact, she might get another glimpse of the gruff guy if she followed on. The more she thought of it, the more she could see him as the hero in a future romantic novel. And didn’t a writer need to embrace a bit of bookish research?
5
They pushed their way through wild undergrowth and prickly bushes, Agnes taking it in her stride as though her frog-eyed wellies were on autopilot. Something told Rosie that this woman would push on through anything, and before Rosie knew it, she was lifting her own chin a little. Perhaps Agnes’s no-nonsense determination was just the tonic.
The fresh country air was certainly working wonders in quietening Rosie’s busy thoughts, and she couldn’t help noticing the contrast from the false lights and busyness of town life. Though in the distance, she did see a glow of something. Adjusting her eyes, she could make out fields in all shades of autumn. They were filled with row upon row of pumpkins, in shades of burnt orange and warm maple, like something from a seasonal photo. To her wild imagination, they spoke of autumn hopes and Cinderella dreams, and she wanted to pause and soak it all in. But her host didn’t look like she was in the mood to whip out her wand and play fairy godmother, and she certainly wasn’t stopping.
With her bruised toes and heeled boots that didn’t work in the countryside, Rosie couldn’t quite keep up. She’d never walked well in heels, but when she’d tried to sneak around the office in ballet pumps, Kelvin had told her off for wearing ‘slippers’. After several fields of trudging, with Rosie never quite managing to get level with Agnes or get her to stop and listen, they arrived at a rickety wooden gate.
Agnes frisked her own pockets and seemed to realise they were empty. She shook the lock on the gate and tutted. ‘Head like a sieve. Never mind, there’s no going back.’
‘Actually, I probably should,’ said Rosie, taking a moment to gather her senses between worn-out breaths. She didn’t know what was going on here, but she should put a stop to this burgeoning mistake and get going. There was no burning need to go snooping after Pumpkin Man or do impromptu novel research.
‘Frogs don’t jump backwards.’ The woman looked down at her wellies. ‘And nor should you.’
Rosie scratched her head. Didn’t they?
Then, like a champion hammer thrower, Agnes threw Rosie’s holdall over the gate. Rosie winced, hoping she’d bundled enough clothes around her laptop to cushion the fall. In hindsight, most of that stuff could have stayed in the car. Though if she was honest, Agnes was right about one thing: Rosie was in no rush to go back anywhere. Even this odd march through the cold and brambly countryside with a slightly scary stranger was more appealing. Maybeever onwardswas as good a plan as any.
Agnes climbed onto the gate, which creaked a little in protest. Before Rosie could work out exactly what was going on, Agnes had somehow swung her not unsubstantial frame over the top of the thing in some kind of wobbling gate vault and had landed swiftly on the other side. She waved at Rosie to do the same.
Rosie stepped back. ‘No, I shouldn’t. I mean...’ She pointed in the vague direction of her broken-down car, which was probably a good few miles out of sight.
Agnes beckoned again. ‘Come on, girl. Who’s eaten your self-belief? If you’re one of those employees who slacks off at the first hurdle...’
‘I’m a very good employee,’ Rosie heard herself bite back, even though she was not here to fight for a job she knew precisely nothing about. It was simply a matter of principle. She straightened herself.
‘Glad to hear it. Now, prove it and get your short arse over this fence. I’ve got cats to groom, and this interview wasn’t meant to take all day.’
‘I’m not actually here for...’
‘Shh! You’re surely not going to be beaten by a pensioner.’
Agnes leaned over the fence to relieve Rosie of her flask, grabbed Rosie’s bag from the ground, and began to walk off, once again leaving Rosie with little choice but to go after her – because now Agnes had her stuffandher cuppa. If she could just get hershort arseover that gate.
‘Honestly,’ Rosie muttered as she climbed onto the first rung, trying to remember how Agnes had hauled herself over. Something to do with swinging one arm, and then a leg, and then... ‘Ohhhhhh! Bugger it.’
Rosie crash-landed into a heap on the mud, which was not particularly soft on a cold day. Her bum cheeks felt it, and who on earth thought it was a good idea to wear beige? At least she’d got over the fence, which was probably the only thing she’d succeeded at all day. Maybe that was a good sign.
