“I’m an Ormerer now. We travel by horse and cart here. I think I can get away with slaying for another century or two.”
“Noted. You like it? I’m trying to wear what I actually want to wear.”
She didn’t seem to think this at all odd. Red strikes me as someone who wakes up in the morning and chooses what she wants to wear based on what will bring her joy, without thinking about whom she’ll be seeing and what they might think. How thrilling. Maybe I’ll get there one day?
Meanwhile Toby was sorting packets of dried herbs and looking more-than-usually uncomfortable about the direction this conversation had taken.
“What does this outfit say to you?” I asked Red, twirling.
I’m wearing a long skirt patterned in red and gold—somethingfrom my old life that I’ve always loved, but have styled differently now that I’m an island woman. I’m in a pair of battered brown leather boots that Rosie gave me (the woman is a font of good shoes) and a cozy cream jumper, which I’ve tucked into the skirt, because I’m too millennial to do otherwise.
“It says…earthy goddess,” Red said after a minute of gratifyingly close examination. “Earthy goddess who gets shit done.”
Delighted with this. Think it might be my true identity? Going to try it out for the rest of the day.
Tuesday September 16th 2025
Oh my God.
Think I know why the till doesn’t bloody balance.
Just nipped back to the shop at the end of the day to grab a jar of honey for my chamomile tea (which really needs the honey. Sometimes wonder if I should just not bother with the tea bag at all).
Paused at the door—light was on behind our new Bramblebay Farm Shop sign. The shop’s flagstones were freshly mopped, which meant Rog had finished up. Maybe he left the light on by accident, I thought.
Then there was a noise. A thud.
Someone was in there.
A thief! I thought. What do I do?!
Habit told me to ring 999, but immediately realized it would probably be quicker to message Jerry direct. He’s the constable, and he also supplies our milk—we speak most days. Suddenly found myself thinking of lovely Jerry the milkman in different light. He’s one of my favorite committee members, but he’s alsodeeplyunintimidating. And he was the person who was going to see off this thief?
Maybe I should ring…someone else? First thought was Jones—he can really loom and has a good glower when he’s pretending to be a dickhead. But felt a righteous feminist indignation at having to call my male counterpart to sort this situation. What a pain in the arse it is, being a woman. Maybe I should learn martial arts, then shit like this wouldn’t scare me so much.
Tiptoed around to the next window to peek in. Was aiming to get a good look at the thief, decide whether I could sort the situation without martial arts skills or men.
It was Rog. With his hand in the till.
He was humming, and shoving a couple of twenties in his back pocket.
Rog! Stealing! From the shop! Am floored, to be honest. IlikeRog. He’s sweet—he was one of the first people I ever spoke to on this island. He helped me plant the flowers in our garden, and he never complains about doing four hundred jobs at once.
Belatedly realized he was heading for the door. Looked around frantically. There was the bush I climbed over on my first day here—can’t actually believe I did that, it does not look mountable right now—and the bike racks, and the new picnic benches we finally got the committee to allow us…Nowhere to hide. At last moment I regained my wits and dove around the side of the barn, flattening myself to the wall as Rog ambled off down the track, spinning the farm shop keys on his finger.
A thief in our midst! Feel crappy about it. Our motley team at the farm shop is completely dysfunctional—nobody gets along, nobody can agree on what the shop needs, but…it’sourteam.
Am a bit gutted. But I guess Rog is going to have to manage with one fewer job.
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-one sober
Charlie left me a steaming hot coffee on the kitchen table this morning, with a note.
Sorry to skip comanager meeting, but really had to go for a run and clear my head. We need to talk when I’m back. Also, Red will need a hand at the harbor when the morning deliveries come in—all our dried fruit has been dispatched and they’ve sent us way too many prunes! Rosie has suggested we do a campaign around Keeping Ormer Regular, i.e., she is way too nice and doesn’t want to complain / return them. Don’t worry, I’m on it. Feel confident you’d agree that bowel-related promotions are not on-brand. Make sure they’re turned away, please! Xx
