Spring on the Little Cornish Isles: The Flower Farm. Phillipa Ashley
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wanted at least to fill the crates. Half an hour later she drove the quad bike into the yard, laden with crates. Everyone had gone from the packing shed, so she took the crates into the fridge herself, almost toppling over with the weight of them. Then she went back to the bike.
With a sigh, she looked at the one corner of the field they’d not got round to, still with the flowers in bud at the perfect stage. They seemed to mock her, saying, ‘Pick me, pick me.’
It was five-thirty p.m. and the sun was hovering just above the horizon, the sea silvery in the early evening light. Although she’d been warm from the recent work, she’d been in and out of the fridge and now felt the evening chill. How long would it take, she thought, to finish that corner? How long before the Godrevys got back from the wedding on St Piran’s? It depended on the tides, and even though Will and Jess were perfectly capable of piloting their boat after dark, perhaps they might want to be back before then. That didn’t give her much time if she wanted to finish the job before Will’s return.
Gaby drove the quad to the top of the field and sat looking at the tiny patch in the corner that was bugging the heck out of her. It was like a compulsion: she had to finish the field for Stevie, even though he’d have laughed and told her to go down the pub.
Oh, sod it. She could virtually finish the field, have a lightning-quick shower and still show up at the Gannet. She climbed off the quad, picked up a crate and marched across the field.
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