Page 20 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

‘Bombs?’ Owen frowned.

‘Bath bombs. They are round things that you put in the bath, and they go all fizzy and smell nice.’

‘She had some for Christmas last year.’ Harriet felt the need to explain that she hadn’t bought them, that they’d been a gift.

‘Fizzy, eh? Sort of like lying in a bath of lemonade?’

Sara gave him a ‘you’re being silly’ look. ‘Do you ever have a bath?’

‘No.I can’t remember the last time I had one.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘Not really. Although it might be nice to lie in fizzy water,’ he said, chuckling.

‘He could come to our house for a bath, couldn’t he, Mam?’ Bobby had been following the conversation and he sounded very pleased with himself to have thought of a solution to Owen’s lack of recent bath experiences.

Harriet was horrified, and even Sara looked shocked. ‘You can’t just invite people for a bath,’ she said, amazed that her son would even suggest such a thing.

‘Why not?’

‘Because, because…’ Harriet floundered, not knowing where to start.

‘He could come for tea, then have a bath afterwards,’ Bobby said.

‘Shut up, you div,’ Sara hissed, elbowing him.

‘What?’ Bobby demanded, and Harriet could see that he was genuinely bewildered.

‘Er, I don’t think that’s a good idea, sprout,’ Owen said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’ He caught Harriet’s eye and she realised he was trying hard to hold back his mirth.

She bit her lip, her own laughter not far from the surface. God, she loved that boy!

‘Come on, let’s leave Owen in peace,’ she said, ushering her children outside. ‘Etta hasn’t finished her walk yet and it’ll be dark soon.’

After saying their goodbyes (Bobby with a great deal of reluctance), Harriet shooed her children towards the kissing gate at the opposite end of the field. Hopefully, by the time they had circumnavigated the next pasture and retraced their steps to the lane, Owen would be safely tucked up in his van. Not that she didn’t want to see or speak to him – she did. But that was the problem: Harriet didn’t need to make her life any more complicated than it already was. And she had a feeling that if she gave in to her rapidly growing attraction to Owen, her life would become very complicated indeed.

After overhearing Harriet talk about her children in the cafe, Owen had felt as though he’d already met them. But now that he’d met them for real, they were nothing like he’d imagined, he mused, as he watched them wander across the field, the dog scampering ahead.

His eyes were drawn to Harriet’s tall, upright figure, the jacket she was wearing doing little to hide her curves. He studied her small waist and full hips, her long, slim legs encased in a pair of faded jeans. She was wearing her hair down, cascading over her shoulders, and from the back he thought she could be mistaken for a teenager herself.

Her daughter was the image of her, and Owen imagined Harriet would have looked very similar at the same age. He had expected Sara to be a bit of a madam, but she’d seemed like a normal kid – although he wasn’t quite sure what a normal kid was like, as he’d not had much to do with children. The boy was a poppet, though, and Owen grinned as he remembered the horrified expression on Harriet’s face when Bobby invited him to their house for a bath. It had been priceless.

Owen smiled ruefully as he doused the flames, thinking that it might be quite nice to have a bath for once. It had been such a long time since he’d had a soak, although he wasn’t sure about a bath bomb. He briefly thought of heating some water and using the small tin bath he used for washing his clothes. But when he tried to imagine folding his six-foot-one frame into it, he chortled at the vision of getting stuck and having to carry a tin bath on his back like a snail’s shell as he tried to extricate himself from it. It wouldn’t be a good look.

After ensuring the fire was out, Owen went back inside the van for the night. He had some work to do, and meeting Harriet again had reminded him that he needed to write up her enamel-pot purchase. That she had bought it second-hand had surprised him; he’d never thought she would take him up on his challenge, despite her saying she would. He began to think that theDon’t Buy Newseries of blog posts that he had planned might grow wings and fly after all, without the need to ask for volunteers.

He did feel slightly uneasy that Harriet didn’t know she was centre stage, but he justified not telling her by trying to convince himself that it was more authentic this way; if she knew other people would be following her progress, it might influence what she did or didn’t buy. But no matter how much he kept telling himself that was the reason, the truth was that he was worried she might refuse. And if she refused and he wasn’t able to share it with readers ofPlanet B, then it might make staying in Foxmore pointless and uncomfortable. And he really wanted to stay here.

Before he could address the issue of whether it was Foxmore that had captured his attention or Harriet herself, he heard a vehicle pull up alongside the gate and a door slam as an elderly gent got out.

Aled Harris owned the farm that the field was part of, and he’d been pleased with the prospect of earning a bit of cash from Owen’s stay. Owen knew that many farmers were short of money, and he didn’t begrudge the bargain he’d struck with the old chap.He guessed Aled to be in his late sixties, still going strong when other men his age would have retired; farming wasn’t an easy way of life.

‘Awright, butt?’ Aled asked. ‘Thought I’d see how you are settling in.’

Owen smiled. He hadn’t been called butt or buttie, as it was short for,in a long time. ‘Fine, thanks,’ he said.

There hadn’t been any settling in to be done. He had picked a spot not too far from the water tap, and the trough underneath it, and had parked up. It had been as simple as that. It wasn’t like camping with a tent – he was like a snail, carrying his house with him wherever he went.

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