Page 5 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

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.

Maybe ever onwards was 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 stuff and her cuppa. If she could just get her short arse over 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.

‘Bloody nice try,’ came Agnes’s surprised voice, having turned back to face her. ‘Didn’t think you had it in you. Maybe you and your backside have passed the first hurdle after all.’

As Agnes began to chuckle to herself, Rosie felt one of those laugh or cry moments bubbling up inside her.

She’d woken up that morning thinking she was going to have a quiet day at her desk with a laptop and a calorific cupcake.

She’d ended up getting fired, eating all four of them and walking in on her boyfriend getting naked with a sexy android.

Now she was on her sore behind in a field, with no idea what the heck was going on.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, Rosie felt a ripple of laughter forcing its way through her.

The sensation shook upwards from her belly and burst into her throat, taking her whole body by storm.

Great tears of absurdity began rolling down her face and she was absolutely letting them.

It was quite possibly the most cathartic, desperately needed laugh Rosie had ever experienced.

Agnes strode over, yanked her up by the arms and swiped the stray grass from her coat.

‘I knew you were a frog,’ she said, looking Rosie up and down as if she’d only just noticed how out of place she looked in her office clothes.

‘Welcome to the country. You’re not what I expected, and I’ll have to have words with Farmer Wilbur about his unlikely recommendations.

But nature doesn’t judge.’ She shrugged. ‘And Agnes loves a trier.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosie, even though she wasn’t quite sure what for.

Then as she took a deep breath and straightened up, her eyes were drawn to something. It was impossible to miss it. The lake .

Parts of it were hidden by the autumnal wisps of bulrushes, but as she stepped forward to take a look, she could have sworn the sun came out in celebration, even though she hadn’t seen a blush of it since first thing that morning.

Much like the balm of the pumpkins in the far-off fields, the sight of the lake took her breath away.

Its water rippled and shimmered, deep olive with hints of gold where the light kissed its tiny peaks.

It seemed to hold a majestic stillness, even though under its quiet surface she guessed there must be life.

And suddenly, Rosie was imagining herself walking wildly along the wooden jetty under the warmth of a setting sun. Inviting depths, cool water fresh against her skin. Somehow there was laughter too, and the whistle of birdsong, and glowing pumpkin lanterns...

Rosie shook her head, because that was verging on ridiculous.

Her cantankerous writer’s head was having a field day.

She could barely swim, and she’d never liked her fleshy thighs in a swimsuit.

And who on earth were these people she could laugh and swim with?

Perpetually shaking off acquaintances who asked too many questions and preferring the sanctity of books, she didn’t have many close friends these days – or certainly none around here.

Maybe she should break free from Autumn Meadows before any more strange ideas intoxicated her.

Next thing, she’d be imagining Zain the walnut-eyed pumpkin carrier diving in, looking broad-shouldered and burly in a pair of swim shorts.

No. Neither men, nor her choice in them, could be trusted one tiny bit. Her life had no room for any of that.

‘Well now, the sun hasn’t come out in days. Something around here likes you.’

As Agnes said it, Rosie heard movement on one side of the lake.

Beyond the bulrushes, she caught the outline of the dark-haired, huffy man who she definitely hadn’t just been imagining in Speedos.

This time he was standing outside a log cabin, stripping off a lumberjack-style coat and kicking off his work boots in a way that made Rosie stare for just a little too long.

What was wrong with her? There was nothing exciting about a man in a jumper.

She shook her head. To her great relief, he disappeared inside the cabin without noticing that her eyeballs were inexplicably out on stalks.

When she managed to peel her gaze away from the door he’d just closed behind himself, she noticed there was an almost identical hut on the opposite side of the lake.

‘There’s Zain again,’ said Agnes. ‘Zain Kay. He used to be a farmhand, back when my late husband farmed crops here. Zain’s the only one who stuck around when the money ran out.

That’s life, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘He built the cabins himself, and I let him live in one of them. He grows the pumpkins. Speciality ones too, though he’s very precious about them.

He got some fancy seeds from America. Think he had family there, but he’s very hush-hush about his past. And good luck getting your hands on his knobbly ones. ’

Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘I certainly wasn’t planning to...’

‘Anyway, he doesn’t like people and he’s as moody as an ox without a turnip – but he’s good with nature, so he probably won’t kill ya.’

‘Right,’ said Rosie, unsure how to answer any of this, or why she wasn’t running for the hills as fast as her dodgy boots would carry her.

Yet despite Agnes’s odd revelations, she found herself following the woman around the lake, like this whole place had a pull she couldn’t quite resist. Serenity.

That was what she sensed here, and she couldn’t say when she’d felt that last. An extraordinary awareness of peace that hugged Rosie like a coat and began to ease into her skin.

She knew it was probably some kind of post-shock reaction after her traumatic morning.

Her brain had surely released funny chemicals to help relieve the stress of having the bottom fall out of her world.

And of course, she would explain to Agnes that she wasn’t here for any interview, or whatever.

She definitely, absolutely would.

But what was the harm in soaking up some much-needed tranquillity before she was forced to get back to her actual life?

The one where she had no job, no home, and a long list of outrageous ex-boyfriends.

And that was before she considered the contents of that dreadful orange letter, which for all she knew could have been scripted by a cunning chatbot too.

Yes, her writer self was enjoying this distraction. Perhaps she needed it.

‘The job comes with accommodation, of course. It’s basic, but it does the trick.

And it’s the sort of thing some folk would pay a fortune to holiday in, even if it’s just a glorified pile of old logs.

’ Agnes pointed towards the wooden hut they were approaching.

It was the one at the opposite side of the lake to that moody ox , Zain, with his woody walnut eyes.

‘Accommodation?’ Rosie repeated.

Agnes turned and looked at her strangely.

‘Well, you brought your stuff, didn’t you?

’ Agnes waved the holdall that she was still holding hostage, even if she probably didn’t mean to.

‘If you take the job, you can move right in. No point in wasting more time.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Didn’t Wilbur tell you nothin’?’

They were just a few footsteps away from the log cabin now, and Rosie had always wanted to see inside one of those things.

She had no idea who Wilbur was, or even what this job was all about.

But somehow, the frog eyes on Agnes’s wellies were staring up at her.

If frogs didn’t jump backwards, surely it wouldn’t hurt to bounce in and take a look?