I stare at him, puzzled. This seems a total non sequitur.
“Nice bathrooms,” clarifies Dad, seeing that I look blank. “Power showers.”
OK, I’m still not with him. What do power showers in Little Blandon have to do with me?
“Just in case you were looking,” Dad continues. “We could help you with a deposit, maybe. The prices aren’t bad.”
And then suddenly I get it. He’s suggesting I buy a property in Somerset?
“Dad…” I barely know how to answer. How can I even begin? “Dad, you know I’m heading back to London….”
“Well, I know that’s your plan. But plans change, don’t they?” He shoots me a sidelong, slightly shifty glance. “Worthwhile knowing what your options are, at least, isn’t it?”
“But, Dad…” I come to a standstill, the breeze lifting my hair. I don’t know how many times I can say, “I want to live in London.” I feel like I’m bashing my head against a wall.
There’s quiet, except for the distant sound of cows. The sky is light and blue above us, but I feel weighed down with guilt.
“Katie, love…” Dad’s face crumples with concern. “I feel like we’ve been getting you back these last months. You’re not so thin. Not so anxious. That girl up there…that’s not you.”
I know he means well. But right now his words are pressing all my sore spots. I’ve been trying to bolster my confidence so desperately all these weeks, telling myself this job loss is only a blip. But maybe Dad’s hit the nail on the head: Maybe that girl’s not me. Maybe I can’t cut it in London. Maybe I should leave it for other people.
A little voice inside me is already protesting: Don’t give up! It’s only been three months; you can still do it! But it’s hard. When every recruitment officer and headhunter seems to have the opposite opinion.
“I’d better get on,” I say at last. Somehow I manage a half smile—then I turn and head toward the farmhouse.
—
I’m just double-checking what activities we have lined up for tomorrow, when Denise appears at the kitchen door, holding a large plastic crate. It’s what she uses for picking up what she calls “them glampers’ crap.”
“All done,” she says. “Been round the site. All spotless.”
“Great; thanks, Denise,” I say. “You’re a star.”
And she is. In a way. She doesn’t always turn up—but when she does, she’s very thorough. She’s ten years older than me and has three daughters and you can see them being marched to school in the mornings, with the tightest plaits I’ve ever seen.
“The things them people leave behind.” She nods at the crate.
“Did they leave a real mess?” I say sympathetically.
It’s always a surprise to me, how nice families in tasteful outfits from Boden can be so messy. And inconsiderate. One lot wouldn’t stop feeding Colin the alpaca all kinds of dumb stuff, however much we told them not to.
“You’ll never guess.” Denise’s eyes are flashing with a kind of dark triumph. “Look at this!” She pulls a Rampant Rabbit out of her crate and I gasp.
“No! No!”
“What’s that?” Biddy looks round from the cooker. “Is it a toy?”
Damn Denise. I do not want to have to explain to my stepmother what a Rampant Rabbit is.
“It’s…a thing,” I say hurriedly. “Denise, put it away. Which yurt was it in?”
“Dunno,” she says with an unconcerned shrug.
“Denise!” I clasp my head. “We’ve been over this. You have to label the lost property. Then we can send it on to the guests.”
“You sending that through the post?” Denise gives a short laugh.
“Well…” I hesitate. “Dunno. Maybe not.”
“Or this?” She brandishes a tube of cream labeled FOR PERSISTENT GENITAL WARTS.
“Oh God.” I make a face. “Really?”
“Nice top, though.” She plucks a purple T-shirt from the crate and holds it up against herself. “Can I have this?”
“No! Let’s have a look.” I peer into the crate, and, she’s right, it’s full. There’s a water pistol, a pair of children’s wellies, a bundle of papers, a baseball cap….“God, they’ve been messy this time.” My phone rings and I answer, “Ansters Farm, how may I help?”
“Oh, hello!” It’s the voluble voice of the mum in the stripy top. “Katie, is that you?”
“Yes! Is this…?”
Shit. What’s her name? I’ve forgotten already.
“Barbara! We’re on our way back. About twenty minutes away. We left behind…”
Her voice descends into crackles. The signal is so bad on the local roads, I’m amazed she got through at all.
“Barbara?” I raise my voice. “Hello, Barbara, can you hear me?”
“…very sensitive…” Her voice suddenly comes down the line again in a buzz of static. “I’m sure you found it…you can imagine how I feel…”
Oh my God. Did Barbara leave behind the Rampant Rabbit? I clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh. Barbara with her clean, makeup-free face and her wholesome triplets?
“Um…”
“…absolutely mortified…had to come and get it in person…see you soon…” Her voice disappears. I gape at the silent phone, then look up.