Page 41 of Always Be My Pumpkin

‘It looks perfect,’ I call from behind the desk. Then I smile. This feels like my happy place, exactly where I’m meant to be. I’ve managed to make it to Thursday afternoon without a word of criticism from Gertrude, no awkward moments with Flynn – we’re both still acting like that kiss was no big deal – and not one single sighting of Moll or Barty to put a damper on my mood. I even found time to crochet some of those beautiful sunny flowers.

‘They should be pissybeds!’

I whisk my head around to see Moll and Barty stomping towards me with scowls on their faces and mucky black plastic sacks dangling from their arms.

‘Piss-ee-beds?’ Aisha frowns at them.

‘Pissybeds, pissybeds,’ Moll rants as though it should be obvious what she means. ‘Dandelions.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Those fancy French flowers are not Irish at all. I blame it on the EU. We never should have joined.’

I count to five and breathe deep as I’ve long ago learned to do whenever the Stringers appear. No point assuring her that we definitely haven’t received an email from the European Parliament instructing us to cover the library in sunflowers. Or mentioning that they’re native to North America, not France. That would only make it worse.

‘We’re going for bright and cheerful for the children’s section,’ I say as Moll and Barty reach the desk and deposit their sacks on the countertop, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I managed to scoop up my festival flyers just in time.

‘But thanks, that’s helpful, dandelions would look cheerful too.’ I smile pleasantly. ‘And I’ll ask Pat to share a few folk tales about them. The children would love that.’

I know Pat uses dandelions in those old Irish herbal cures he makes for himself. I also know he sometimes shares them, and he’s given some to Moll and Barty. Free of charge.

Moll’s face softens but Barty just grunts.

‘Humph. Him. That’s why we’re here. That and these turnips.’

He opens his sack, lifts out a mucky specimen, and plonks it on the counter. ‘We’ll say fifty cents a head and that’s a bargain. Now, how many of these lads do you want?’

‘Em, it’s a bit early, Barty. The lantern workshop’s not on for another two weeks.’

‘I’ll bring another batch for the workshop so. You can leave these lads on the counter. I got a sign made up and everything.’ He pulls out a laminated placard from his sack, then shoves it back inside and pulls out a smaller sign that reads Stringers’ Stingy Jack Turnips. Best Price. Pay at Desk.

My mouth opens, torn between a gasp and a howl of horrified laughter. ‘We can’t sell turnips in the library. Even if they are very fine turnips.’ I bob my head to stress how impressed I am with his great unwashed offering, despite the fact that my nice clean countertop is cloaked with a layer of earthy dust.

Moll looks less impressed with me now. ‘Typical,’ she mutters, but she doesn’t say what it’s typical of.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ I say as sweetly as I can, and Barty doesn’t wait for me to finish my sentence before he whips out a laminated placard and hoists it in front of my face. Three words in large black capitals on a plain white sheet. Down With Plastic.

I clamp my lips tight to stop myself pointing out the irony. He’s standing in front of me, holding up a protest sign, laminated in clear plastic, and pulled from a black plastic sack.

‘We want you to give these out tomorrow night,’ Moll says. ‘And we’ll march on Pat’s Plants and Herbs as soon as the meeting is over.’

‘You want to march on Pat’s business? Which you do realise is closed down and fully cleared out. So, there won’t be anybody there on Friday night.’ I lean my head closer. ‘Am I hearing that right?’

Moll looks down at the countertop, then back up at me. Her faces flushes. ‘We’ll march on the Corner Bar then. He always goes for a pint Friday night.’

‘Let me get this straight. You want to march against the man who brought you a flask of his special elderflower tea the night before he left for Spain, because he heard you were coming down with a dose.’ I stare at her. ‘And it seems to have worked. You certainly have your voice back.’

Her veiny cheeks flush deeper, but I keep going. ‘The same man who called over to you every night with a fresh poultice when Barty cut his leg on those briars.’ I arch my brows. ‘And the same man who let you set up your cart to sell vegetables in the yard behind his shop.’

She looks over at Barty, and I can almost see her relenting, but then she purses her lips. They’ve been protesting every change in Oakwood for years, as though any progress is a personal attack. And even though Pat has helped her and Barty in more ways than anyone I know, she still hasn’t forgotten him standing up to her on my behalf.

It was Moll who first sowed the seeds of doubt in my mind about Dad, muttering that she didn’t know why my mother kept insisting he slipped and fell into the river that stormy night in Portville, when nobody else was there and nobody knew for sure. Flynn was with me and told her she was talking rubbish and to not dare repeat her ignorant comments again. Then he told Pat, and he had words with her too.

‘You know well that Pat has no intention of selling his property to a plastics factory.’

She shifts from foot to foot, but then Barty chips in, ‘We heard different.’

I don’t bother to ask what he heard, or who from.

‘Barty,’ I almost growl, ‘if you don’t take those placards out of my sight, right now, I will tell every person who comes in here, and everyone who comes to the meeting tomorrow night, that every single one of your turnips is rotten to the core.’

I would love to order them out, but my ethos of keeping the library as an open, welcoming space runs too deep. Thankfully, Aisha and her gang are doing such a good job of freezing them with icy glares that I don’t need to say another word, and they both slink out silently, dragging their mucky wares in their wake.