Page 8 of Escape to Starshine Cove
“No, we did that last year, when that lone drifter rode into town on a piebald pony…”
I stare at him, and everyone around me bursts into guffaws of laughter. He was joking. Of course he was joking. Crikey, this being around people business takes some getting used to.
The dog shuffles around, and jumps down to the ground. He ambles over towards Lottie, and takes a quick sniff at her hind quarters before sitting down next to her. She licks his ear, and that’s that – friends for life, I suspect. If only it was that simple with people.
Just then, the little girls come streaking across the green, pigtails flying, and arrive in a mass of quivering excitement.
“Granddad, you silly!” the older one – Lilly – says. “The treats weren’t in the kitchen at all!”
“Oh no, I’m sorry, girls – I must have forgotten,” he replies, his face deadpan. “Be gentle with that dog, now, mind – he’s not like Lottie, you can’t climb on him or roll around with him till he knows you.”
They crouch down, and place a bone-shaped biscuit on the ground in front of him. Lottie immediately snaffles it, so they try again, offering it to my dog – who isn’t actually mine – directly. He sniffs it, licks it, then takes it, leading to chorus of oohs and aahs. This continues for a few minutes, the dog becoming ever more confident, until they are throwing them in the air for him to catch.
“Can we clean him?” says the younger girl. “He smells bad!”
“I think that’s something best left to his mum, don’t you?” George replies. I gaze around, and then realise he means me. I have become a dog’s mum, it seems.
The girls stare at me, as though seeing me for the first time, and Lilly adds: “Well, can we clean her instead?”
She is so straightforward about it, so matter-of-fact, that it makes me laugh out loud.
“I think I probably need it,” I reply, gesturing to my bird’s-nest hair. The girls seem to take this as a yes, and immediately produce a small backpack decorated with pictures of ladybirds. From it they produce a tiny hairbrush, a comb, and a pair of scissors. I am about to object when I realise they are those blunt-edged plastic ones that little people use in school.
They drag chairs over to me, and start to examine me, then begin the detox process. It is very strange, but also quite comforting. Everyone around me seems highly amused. A man with thick, shaggy hair and a bushy beard warns them to be nice, that I’m not a doll, and I assume he is their dad. I hope he’s the kind of dad whose kids listen to him.
“So,” I say, trying to ignore an especially hard tug on a tangle, “is there anyone who can help with my car? Is there a phone I can use? Mine doesn’t seem to be working.”
“We do get a signal here, but it’s random, comes and goes as it pleases,” answers Connie, grinning as my head is pulled from one side to another and the girls squabble over who gets an especially matted strand. “You can use the landline, of course, and in the meantime, Ged will go and tow it back here for you.”
“Is he a mechanic?”
“No, but he has a tractor and a tow bar. Best we can do. But nothing’s likely to be sorted today, so why don’t you stay for the night? You can wash your dog and have a G&T and enjoy a good sleep. Things will look different in the morning.”
Things will look different in the morning…she’s right, I know. I won’t feel as tired, or as dirty, or as desperate. I will be able to sit and watch the sunrise, and spend time on that perfect beach, and rest my weary soul. It is all too tempting.
“Ouch!” I utter as the girls comb my ears instead of my hair. “But where would I stay?”
“At the pub,” answers the younger girl, frowning as she experiments with my too-long fringe, “that’s where everyone stays.”
Her tone implies I am indeed very stupid for not knowing this. Maybe I am.
Connie nods, and says to Gandalf: “Trevor, will you do the honours?”
He nods solemnly and pulls a small device out of one of the many pockets on his patched cargo pants. At first I think it’s a phone, but soon realise it’s actually a walkie-talkie. I really have fallen down the rabbit hole. He presses a button, and speaks into it: “Druid 1 to Pub Daddy, over.”
Nobody else seems to find this strange at all, and maybe it makes sense in a village the size of a dot that has intermittent phone signals.
There’s a crackle, then a reply, and some kind of conversation I can barely follow that involves references to lost sheep, mangers, and safe harbour. Connie rolls her eyes, so I suspect there is some extra ham being added to the ham radio.
Eventually he looks up, serious behind his wizard beard, and announces: “The gods are smiling. He was fully booked, but had a cancellation about half an hour ago.”
There is a communal smile, and Connie sees my confusion.
“Right about when you arrived,” she says smugly. “You see? It was all meant to work out like this.”
“If you say so,” I reply, not wanting to be rude. I’m a scientist, and don’t even read horoscopes. One person’s coincidence is another person’s act of fate, I suppose.
The girls have finished with my hair, and I must admit it feels better when I run my fingers through it. They don’t snap in two, for a start.
