When they first came sauntering over to me, I’ll admit I panicked a bit. Cows are a lot bigger and more…muscular than they lookfrom a train window, and I don’t think I’ve seen one in person (in cow?) since I took that hungover hike after Bri’s wedding.
But the new me is a countryside person. Shelovesthe great outdoors. She’s going to work on a farm, for God’s sake. So I pulled myself together and held my ground, plotting a reasonable escape route if the cows’ slow amble developed into a sudden urge to stampede. As it happened, they just hung around, a bit like men who dance over in a club but don’t know what to do next. Fine: I know how to handle hoverers. I stared at my phone, resolutely ignoring the cows, perplexed to find that Google Maps was convinced I was standing in the middle of a supermarket.
Looked around, then back down at the map. Everything else was right—it had me loaded in the right spot. But…Can Google Maps be wrong, I typed into Google. No, apparently. And yet, this was definitely not a Carrefour.
A brief foray down an Ormer-specific rabbit hole on Reddit and I discovered the problem: this tiny island is so random and remote the maps haven’t been updated for years. No street view option either as there are no cars allowed. Once upon a time, presumably, a Carrefour had stood here, but now it was just grassland, and Rog’s directions were all I had to go on.
Trudged on, trailing cows. The path had long since disappeared, and I was just starting to lose hope when I spotted a barn behind a hedge. Perking up, I set off toward it, but I’d obviously gone wrong somewhere, because there was no break in the hedge, and no way through.
Hadn’t seen the farm shop at this point—no picture with the job ad—but it was described as a converted barn on the edge of the farm, and this looked promising. A bunch of old crates lying by the back door, a bike rack to the side…I figured I was just approaching it from the back.
I weighed it up. Return the way I had come and try to find the main entrance? Or hop the hedge?
It looked sturdy. Obviously had no idea what sort of bush it was made of, but there were branches in there that I could use as footholds, and I was hot and sticky from walking in the sun and did not fancy running the cow gauntlet again.
The less I write about this bit the better. I don’t fancy dwelling on it. The shredded Oliver Bonas dress, scratched-up thighs and entirely lost dignity are enough of a reminder.
I had bits of shrub in my hair. I was sweaty and disheveled. I had a strong suspicion I smelled of cow. This wasn’t the first impression I’d hoped to make on my new employer, but by this point I was just desperate to get out of the sun, so headed around for the front entrance.
There was no front entrance. I walked all the way around the gray stone barn and ended up back where I started: the back entrance. The only entrance.
Now that I was right in front of the door, I could see that a piece of A4 paper had been stuck beside it with the words “Bramblebay Farm Shop” scrawled in pen. “Farm shop hours vary. If you’re after one of the Nicoles, try the farmhouse,” it said underneath, with a helpful arrow pointing north, or possibly up to the sky. Then, in smaller, different handwriting, “Don’t forget Rog does all sorts! Call this number!!” And at the very bottom, in different pen altogether: “If you’re Charlie Jones, head on in, will be with you in a mo, just dealing with a goat thing!”
I was, apparently, in the right place.
To say that spirits had dipped at this point would be an understatement. The barn was almost as disheveled as I was: corrugated-iron roof clumsily patched up, windows filthy, wood peeling on the wide barn doors.
And, stepping inside, things only got worse.
Not the shop itself. That was surprisingly bright and clean, given the outside of the barn. There were fridges full of—yes, milk bottles, and sacks of potatoes on the flagstones, and shelves of chutneys and pickles in charming jewel tones.
The problem was the familiar-looking man standing directly in my way.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to step around him.
There wasn’t much room—the shop was set up with crates of vegetables narrowing the space between the door and the till.
Man didn’t move. He had his back to me and was looking around the shop. It was cap guy. He’d lost the cap, but clearly not the attitude.
“Excuse me,” I said again, louder, in that particular British way that can mean a great number of things, all offensive.
“We’re not open,” he said, barely looking at me—he seemed to be examining the stock.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I work here.”
He turned at last. Arms folded, he stared at me. His eyes weren’t quite gray, as I’d thought earlier—they were actually a washed-out shade of denim blue, shadowed under a broody frown that was way too engrained to be only on my account. He had the sort of fair skin that can end up looking tanned because of the sheer number of freckles—there were darker ones around his eyes and across his nose, too. I generally think of freckles as cutesy, but there was nothing cute about this man. Even his stubble looked pricklier than average.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Charlie Jones.”
Wondered about shaking his hand, but his arms were resolutely folded, so aborted this plan and just stood there. It took powerful strength to resist the urge to check my hair for shrubbery.
“The new farm shop manager,” I added.
“That’s right,” he said. “And who are you?”
“What?”
