Page 4 of Always Be My Pumpkin

‘Are you sure about all this cosy stuff?’ Sarah asks, as we stroll down the lantern-lit street towards the Corner Bar. ‘I saw a fab Morrigan costume in Abbeyville with giant black feathers and wings. I could scare the wits out of half the village with an outfit like that.’ She cackles gleefully.

‘That would look great on you.’ I grin. ‘Go for it. Nothing wrong with a good scare.’

I hesitate, because Sarah loves Halloween, and for her, it’s a case of the gorier, the better, but she still offered to join me at the meeting to support our cosy cause.

‘But it’s not everyone’s thing,’ I say cautiously. ‘And maybe we could be more inclusive this year. Have more cosy in the library, and in the village throughout the day, and still have creepy in the Corner Bar after dark, and for the movie night too. We’ll have something for everyone then.’

‘Sounds fair.’ Sarah nods. ‘And speaking of cosy, I do love pumpkin spiced lattes, but you can’t get those anywhere in this village.’ She nudges me with her elbow as we reach our destination. ‘Hey, if you can find someone who can make decent coffee for the festival, I’ll back any plan you want.’

‘I’m sure I can manage that. I think Conal, our temporary library assistant, trained as a barista.’ Then I groan. ‘But I also need to convince Finbarr and Gertrude, and the rest of the committee. And I’m not in their best books since I took off for London, so just for tonight, don’t mention ravens or crows, and pretend that you really love crochet and pumpkins.’

3

We don’t have a village hall, so we’re holding the meeting in a room at the back of the Corner Bar. It’s the only space suitable and it gets used for everything – meetings, discos, the annual Halloween Ball. I wish the library was large enough to accommodate more gatherings, but we barely have space for books, and there’s only one small room upstairs that all our many groups have to share. I raised this with our county librarian as soon as I came back from my career break, but Gertrude reminded me, abruptly, that she was still library manager, and it wasn’t up to me to start making demands. So, for now, I’m staying quiet and keeping my head down.

A waft of spiced apple and cinnamon hits as soon as I open the door. We’re running late and most of the knit and crochet group are already gathered around a table at the back. I peek through a gap in their huddle and I spot Flynn, ladling out drinks from a large metal urn.

‘You go grab seats,’ I tell Sarah. ‘And I’ll get us a drink.’

I don’t think she’s seen Flynn yet, so I usher her towards some empty seats up the front then I turn and make my way towards him. I push back my shoulders and try to project confidence. He’s standing there all breezy and carefree, and I want to show that I’m breezy too. I’m not miffed that he didn’t bother to say goodbye earlier, and I’m definitely not still part of the walking wounded because he abandoned me when I needed him most. That was years ago now and I barely remember it. I wish.

I have a whole light-hearted speech ready to go, but when I open my mouth the only word I manage is Hi and even that comes out strained. What the hell is wrong with me? Flynn Anderson used to be the one person in the world I could say anything to. Now my throat closes in his presence and my head’s a cloud of cotton wool. My arms ache to reach for a hug, but there’s a three-feet-deep table and a large metal urn between us. And ten years of distance and unanswered questions and papering over the cracks in my heart.

He hands me a glass of mulled cider and holds out a plate of oat and raisin cookies. Then I realise he’s speaking to me, so I take a gulp from my glass and pray to God there’s alcohol in there to settle my fizzing nerves.

‘It’s non-alcoholic.’ He smiles. ‘Gertrude thought it would be safer. She said these meetings can get heated.’ Then he laughs that gorgeous warm laugh, and my stomach feels like an aeroplane taking flight. God, he looks good.

‘I’m sorry I had to dash off earlier. I’m helping my uncle do a clear-out and I got a call to say the removal van had arrived.’ He bites his lower lip and I swallow. ‘I did want to nip upstairs and say goodbye, but Gertrude said you were too busy and she’d tell you I had to go and that I’d be here tonight.’

Gertrude had told me nothing of the sort, but I nod and say, ‘It’s good to see you again.’ I hesitate a beat before I add, ‘It’s been so long.’

I want to say why didn’t you let me know you were coming back? But Flynn didn’t know I’d be here either. Our last contact was Christmas. And my last Instagram post was a pic of me in London, with Jamie. I’ve taken that down now, but I haven’t posted a single thing since. Flynn’s face clouds and he hesitates. And I stand waiting like a fool, hoping he’ll say something sweet, like Yeah, it’s been way too long.

But there’s no chance for him to say anything as Moll Stringer barges past me, muttering about young ones holding up the queue, then she leans on her gnarly old walking stick as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I watch as Flynn switches his gaze, and his smile, to her.

I want to growl and tell her to back off. I was here first. But I don’t, of course. I grab a tray and some napkins, then add another glass of cider and turn to her. ‘Why don’t I bring this over for you, Moll? And would you like some cookies? You go and sit down, and I’ll be there with these in a tick.’

‘It’s far from cookies you were reared,’ she grunts at me. ‘But I’ll take two of them biscuits. And two for my brother as well.’ She gives me a curt nod then waggles her stick at two women behind me to make way. In fairness, they are holding full glasses and half-eaten cookies, yet they’re still standing at the front of the queue, practically drooling over Flynn.

I take my tray and nod goodbye to him. His eyes crinkle at the corners like they always used to. And my heart skips like it used to all those years ago too. But I give myself a mental kick and remind myself to cop the feck on. Sure, he has a gorgeous soft smile, but he shares it with everyone, even Moll. It was never mine to keep, and after all the time we’ve spent apart, I can’t think of it as mine any more.

I deliver my offering to Moll and take my seat beside Sarah. I’m about to offer her a cookie when I spot a folded scrap of paper in the centre of the plate. I noticed Flynn jotting something down when I was talking to Moll, but it never occurred to me that his note was for me.

I’m going to stay for a pint after the meeting. It would be good to catch up, if you’re free.

I get a warm feeling in my chest at the thought of spending more time with Flynn after the meeting, and hopefully, finding out why he’s back, and for how long. The fact that he wrote me a note, like old times, feels like maybe our friendship, our connection, isn’t as faded as I’d feared.

I take a sip of my mulled cider and try to focus on the meeting. Gertrude and her husband, Finbarr, are leading from the front. Finbarr stands tall behind his lectern and Gertrude is seated to his right with her laptop balanced on her knees. Finbarr smooths his neat grey beard, then taps his mic and booms, one two three, one two three. The room’s not that large, and his voice is loud enough to carry to the next town, but he likes to remind everyone that he’s our community council chair – the nearest thing we have to a mayor – and as far as he’s concerned, he’s the man in charge around here.

The meeting gets underway, and everyone agrees that the potholes on the road into the village are a thundering disgrace, and Finbarr volunteers to lead a delegation to County Hall to demand immediate repair. Then it’s on to raffle tickets, and Moll Stringer takes to the floor waving her stick to insist that banging on doors after dark should be made a criminal offence.

After a bit of huffing and puffing – mostly Moll – it’s agreed that the community council, even Finbarr, doesn’t quite have the authority to go that far. But most sympathise with the sentiment, and Gertrude offers to email the local paper and church leaders with a plea to cease and desist – knocking on doors late in the evening – to be read out on the pulpits and printed in the parish newsletter and the Oakwood weekly notes.

I check the time on my phone and wonder when we’re going to get to the Halloween festival, or Seachtain na Samhna, as we’ve decided to call it this year. It was definitely on the agenda that Gertrude sent out this afternoon. Quite a few of our regulars are new to the village and don’t have any Irish, so I had a lot of fun helping everyone pronounce that.

Shock-tin na Sow-na was as close as I could get. Seachtain means week and Samhain (sow-in) marks the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. A time of endings and new beginnings. A time to reset. I like the sound of it, and I love the idea of linking our festival week to Celtic traditions, as long as it’s not only terrifying ones like the headless horsemen, or An Dullahan as Finbarr insists on being called when he dons his gory costume every year.

I scan Gertrude’s email and see that Festival Planning is last on the list. We’re almost there but still have to get through Keeping our village garden centre open. I’m pretty sure the garden centre she’s referring to belongs to Flynn’s uncle, Pat, as opposed to the whole village, and last I heard he was planning on retiring after Christmas and moving to Spain. If Gertrude and Finbarr are about to propose a community takeover, we could be in for a long night.