“Oh, no way!” the Explore Ormer woman said, beaming at me. “You’re Charlie! I’m Red. Tour guide, as of six weeks ago—I’m pretty new around here, too, but it already feels like home. I’ve been helping out at the shop as well, since Rosie and Marly are so busy on the farm for harvest season—everyone’s been desperate for you to arrive. I saw Rog bringing your luggage up from this morning’s boat, I wondered when you’d get here! Didn’t pack light, did you!”
Actually tried to pack as little as possible—donated bags and bags of stuff before leaving the mainland. Briefly wished I was a “oh, my whole life is in this bag” sort of woman, but some things you just can’t change.
Red pointed through an archway cut into the rock, with the words “Welcome to the Isle of Ormer” in chipped paint above it.
“Head through there to get the rattle up to the Rue, if you don’t fancy walking in the heat.”
I understood very little of this, particularly the rattle part, but was painfully aware of already seeming clueless, so just nodded and hoped all would become clear once through the archway.
This was not the case. Ahead of me was a steep, dusty road, a random collection of seemingly abandoned tractors and a trailer that read “Rog’s Carting and Gardening and Waste Disposal! Call this number! I do all sorts!!”
Hovered for a while, listening to the waves, the seagulls, the chu-chu-chug of the old tractor engines. There were a few people about, all looking busy, all ignoring me. No sign of rude CJ cap guy. Was more disappointed about that than I should have been. Eventually Red and the plodding gang of tourists appeared behind me.
“Oh, still here!” she said cheerfully. “Rog!”
Rog popped out of one of the abandoned-looking tractors like a cartoon character appearing from inside a flowerpot. He was wiry and sun beaten, and when he smiled, he flashed several gold teeth.He wasn’t a big man, but I felt quite sure that Rog would beat almost anyone in a fight, like a scrawny alley cat.
“Fifty pence each for the rattle,” he said, stretching out a palm.
The tourists dutifully unzipped their bum bags and produced fifty-pence pieces. Had they been forewarned about this? I wasn’t getting an Apple Pay vibe from Rog and was starting to sweat. Would I be kicked off the island because I didn’t have a fifty-pence coin? What was a rattle, and was it going to be as unpleasant as it sounded?
“Don’t worry, this is Charlie, the new shop manager,” Red said, clocking my stricken expression. “She’s good for it.”
Rog eyed me with interest.
“Ooh. Welcome to Ormer,” he said. “Hope you like cows.”
I blinked. Why did that sound vaguely threatening?
“Hop on, then, here we go,” he said.
Red began to usher the obedient tourists onto the trailer. I saw now that it was in fact some sort of transportation system—Rog was fixing it up to one of the ancient tractors, and the tourists were settling themselves into the rudimentary seats along the trailer’s sides.
I joined them, and after a moment we started making our way up the wide rocky track cut into the hill. The trailer did indeed rattle. Alot. Clinging to the side, I was struck once again by a wave of panic. Was this life now? Dirt roads, decrepit tractors, ominous-sounding cows?
I gripped my seat, then lunged to catch my handbag as it went sliding out of my lap. Rog was driving the tractor as though it was a sports car, one palm flat on the steering wheel as he dragged us around a bend. A large cart horse plodded by, pulling a carriage containing two of the workers from the harbor. They barely blinked as they passed through the cloud of dust kicked up by Rog’s tractor.
Had to shade my eyes with my hand when we reached the top of the hill. The track opened out to reveal a stunning sea view. Thewater of the Channel was dreamily blue, and the island’s greenery tumbled away from us toward the cliffs, a scramble of wildflowers and bracken.
The panic quieted. Who wouldn’t want to start life over in this place? It wasmagical.
Ahead of us were some single-story shops, flat fronted and painted magnolia yellow. I recognized it instantly: it was the Rue, the dusty track that serves as Ormer’s high street. The carriage pulled away ahead of us, the cart horse swishing its tail to bat the summer flies away. There was a Wild Westness about it all, as though any second now a ball of tumbleweed would go rolling by.
Rog hopped off the tractor as Red helped the slightly shaken tourists out of the trailer.
“For Bramblebay Farm, you want to go thataway until you see the dairy,” Rog said to me, producing a bottle of water from one of the pockets in his cargo pants and taking a swig. “Then turn right. If you hit the sea, you’ve gone too far.”
“Right,” I said. “Thank you. I think I’m supposed to be staying at the old stables—is that near the farm itself?”
“Everything’s near everything, love,” Rog said with a grin.
Felt horribly aware that I sounded like the archetypal city girl turning up in the one-horse town in stilettos. (Metaphorically—obviously wore trainers, I’m notthatclueless.) Drew myself up a bit.
“Of course. I’ll figure it out.”
Twenty minutes later, standing in the middle of a field surrounded by cows, was not quite so confident.
There was the dairy. There was the little footpath cut into the undergrowth, heading right. Hadn’t hit the sea yet, but could see it hazily in the distance between two trees. And between the cows.
