We stayed silent. I glanced at Charlie. She looked a bit wide-eyed. Finally unable to contain herself any longer, the spaniel made a dash over to the sofa to give us an excited sniff, until Marly called her back with a sharp “Ginger, here.”
“But as weird as this overabundance of Charlies is,” Marly went on, as Ginger returned to her heel, “it’s got me two shop managers for the price of one, and I’m not the sort of woman who looks a gift horse in the mouth, even if she suspects the gift horse is playing funny buggers, do you know what I’m saying?”
We confirmed that yes, we got the idea.
“Fact is, either the island postal service is being more crap than usual, or someone is messing with us all, or one of you is lying about getting Rosie’s letter. But honestly, she wants you both here, I’m run off my feet, and until you arrived, Galoshes was in charge of the farm shop, and she can’t tell a profit margin from a turnip, so unless you’re going to rob me, which I wouldn’t recommend, by the way—”
Who would dare?
“—then I’m going to make the most of the free labor and let you both stay on until harvest festival—October 6th. All right? That’s about two months. Then we look at the state of things and hope you’ve both earned your keep.”
Charlie and I nodded.
She glared at us. “I don’t trust either of you right now. But I’m not saying I won’t one day. We’re open-minded people here on Ormer. We believe in second chances. But cross us and you’ll realize that this place isn’t always as sweet as it looks to the tourists.We’ve got our own rules, and we make sure people keep to them, that’s all I’m saying.”
Drip, drip,drip, went Marly’s waterproofs.
“Now,” she said abruptly, marching back toward the door. Ginger scrabbled to catch up. “Weather’s clearing up. Time for a nice picnic lunch.”
So that’s what we did. I’ll be back to write again soon—Charlie wants to discuss something about kitchen rotas. I already know I’m going to hate this conversation.
Bye for now,
Charlie Jones
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day two sober (cont.)
Let me have a go at describing Bramblebay Farm.
Think…tumbledown stone walls, rolling golden fields, gnarly hedgerows, ripening blackberries, rich chocolate clumps of soil, knobble-kneed sheep, great swaths of wildflowers…and behind it all, the occasional glimpse of a flawless blue sea.
My endless hangover eased a little along with the rain as we headed out for the tour and picnic. I felt better just being outside, though traveling across the farm in Marly’s rattling, rusty tractor did ramp up the nausea a bit. The farm is two hundred acres, mostly arable, but a few animals, too, and several fields of apple and pear trees. We covered what felt like most of this before the promised picnic actually occurred.
Rosie met us there with a large basket on her arm. She was more practically dressed today—less flowy tie-dye—but there was still an oversized moon pendant sticking out of the zipper of her waterproof jacket.
We set up for lunch in the orchard, Ginger lying between us all. The grass was long and wet, peppered with flowers, and we had to dodge the wasps that were already circling some of the fallen apples. It smelled amazing—that post-rain scent, with the hint of sweetness from the fruit. It felt as if we were somewhere wilder than an orchard. Everything is a little wilder than average here—extra lush, extra verdant.
Marly bombarded us both with information about the running of the farm during the journey to the orchard, so I’d not heard much from Charlie. But now that we were eating sandwiches (cheese and pickle, butgoodcheese, island cheese, and locally produced pickle, too—I need to check this out for the shop), it was conspicuous how quiet she was being.
As we ate, Marly asked us why we both wanted the job. Charlie and I glanced at each other; she looked slightly tense, I thought. I was, too—was this going to be an interview after all?
“I’ll go first,” Charlie said.
She was in a knee-length floral dress, her hair pinned back, and was wearing wellies, the kind with a buckle on the side. Pure class, that’s what my dad would have said, but I wasn’t sure—there was something about it that looked like a game of dress-up.
“I want a new start,” she said. “I want to strip things back to the basics, and I think your amazing farm shop is such a perfect place to do that. I love that you sell local people local produce, like, we grow things, we pick them, we cook them, we eat them, it’s so much more…connectedthan the way we live in a city.”
“You felt disconnected?” Rosie said softly. “A little lost?”
“God, yes,” Charlie said. “I felt like I needed to go back to the starting line, you know?”
Rosie was gazing at Charlie with a total fascination that I’m not sure this conversation deserved. Was nobody aware that this was the vaguest possible answer to this question? Connectedness, fresh starts, a load of fluff about local produce that she presumably thought would chime with the two farmers sitting across from us?
“And what is it you want to do here?” Marly asked her.
