The Pebblewick Chronicles - coming up - October: Harvest Time

October: Harvest Time

October arrived in Pebblewick carrying the unmistakable sense that summer had finally surrendered.

The bright, carefree days of August felt suddenly distant. The mornings were cooler now, the air touched by a faint sharpness that hinted at approaching winter. A damp breeze drifted in from the sea, carrying with it the mingled scents of salt, wet leaves and wood smoke from chimneys beginning to earn their keep once more.

Above the village, the sky rarely seemed able to make up its mind. One moment pale autumn sunshine spilled across the harbour, turning the water to silver; the next, heavy grey clouds rolled in from the horizon like advancing fleets. Sudden showers swept through without warning, rattling softly against windows, polishing pavements and cobblestones, then vanishing almost as quickly as they had appeared.

The gulls, as always, seemed entirely indifferent to the weather.

October also brought something else.

Or rather, someone.

A new resident arrived in Pebblewick.

The peculiar thing was that nobody saw him arrive.

Nobody knew who he belonged to.

Nobody knew where he had come from.

One morning, he simply appeared.

It happened whilst I was attempting to redesign the front window of The Salty Page.

The village school had organised a Harvest Competition. The children had selected a theme, and every shopkeeper had been invited, encouraged or mildly pressured, depending on their perspective, to create a display inspired by it.

The chosen theme was, with breathtaking originality:

Harvest.

I had enthusiastically agreed to participate before making the fatal mistake of considering what a harvest-themed display in a bookshop might actually involve.

By ten o'clock I had discovered the answer was apparently anything and everything.

Books about farming occupied one side of the window.

Books about cooking occupied the other.

Books about the countryside sat in the middle.

A basket of apples provided what I believed was a suitably agricultural atmosphere.

Unfortunately, nothing looked quite right.

I moved the basket.

Then moved it back.

I stood several books upright.

They looked awkward.

I laid them flat.

They looked worse.

A large volume on traditional British farming appeared promising for nearly forty seconds before being removed entirely.

Then restored.

Then removed again.

I was beginning to realise that arranging a shop window involved considerably more skill than I had ever imagined.

Every few minutes I stepped outside to inspect my progress.

Each time I returned indoors and changed something else.

Had Mrs Thistlewood been present, she would undoubtedly have possessed several strong opinions regarding the matter.

Fortunately, she was elsewhere.

I was repositioning a book about apples for what must have been the fourth time when I noticed him.

He was sitting on the low stone wall opposite the shop.

Watching me.

My hands paused.

He did not move.

I glanced up and down Harbour Street.

A fisherman carrying nets walked past.

Mrs Pritchard emerged from the post office.

Two schoolchildren hurried by beneath oversized raincoats.

Nobody seemed remotely interested in him.

I looked back toward the window display.

Perhaps, I reasoned, he would leave once he realised I had spotted him.

He did not.

Ten minutes later, I looked again.

Still there.

I moved the basket of apples.

Still there.

I swapped two books around.

Still there.

Perhaps somebody would come along and collect him.

Nobody did.

A brief shower drifted in from the harbour.

Rain rattled against the glass, and the view beyond dissolved into a grey curtain of water. The fishing boats disappeared entirely. Even the far side of Harbour Street became little more than a blur.

I stood inside the doorway watching the rain.

After several minutes, the shower passed.

Sunlight cautiously emerged from between the clouds.

The harbour reappeared.

And he was still there.

Tiny droplets sparkled upon his bright red hat.

By lunchtime it had become clear that he had no intention of going anywhere.

The newcomer was, in fact, a garden gnome.

A particularly determined-looking one.

He stood perhaps eighteen inches high, fashioned from painted pottery and dressed in the traditional attire expected of his profession. A pointed scarlet hat sat upon his head at a jaunty angle. Beneath it was a round face with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, a large nose and a thick white beard that reached almost to his belt.

He wore a faded green jacket over brown trousers and heavy black boots planted firmly upon the stone wall.

One hand rested comfortably against his stomach.

The other gripped a miniature spade.

He was clearly not new.

His paintwork had faded in places. Small chips marked the edge of his hat. There was a scratch across one cheek, traces of dried mud around his boots and a thin crack running down the back of his hat.

He looked like a traveller who had seen rather more of the world than most garden ornaments.

What unsettled me, however, was his expression.

He was smiling.

Not a cheerful smile.

Not quite.

It was the sort of smile one occasionally encountered on people who knew something they had no intention of explaining.

The smile of an individual who had arrived uninvited and felt perfectly entitled to remain.

I found myself staring through the window at him.

He appeared to stare back.

Rationally, I knew this was impossible.

Emotionally, I was considerably less certain.

At last curiosity overcame common sense.

I stepped outside.

The October wind tugged gently at my waistcoat. Damp leaves skittered along Harbour Street like nervous mice.

Crossing the road, I stopped directly in front of the wall.

The gnome remained perfectly motionless.

Up close, he looked even older. Tiny flecks of moss clung stubbornly to the grooves in his boots, and the paint around his beard had weathered soft and pale with age.

I examined the wall behind him.

Nothing.

I looked underneath his coat.

Nothing there either.

No maker's mark.

No label.

No note.

No clue whatsoever.

Just a garden gnome sitting calmly on a stone wall in the middle of Pebblewick.

I stepped backwards.

He continued smiling.

I was almost certain it was exactly the same smile as before.

Almost.

Still, I found I did not entirely trust it.

Returning to The Salty Page, I took up position behind the counter.

From there I could still see him through the window.

Red hat.

White beard.

Blue eyes.

Little spade.

Watching.

By that point I had forgotten all about the harvest display.

The books could arrange themselves for all I cared.

Pebblewick had acquired a new resident.

And somehow, I suspected, this would not be the last time I found him sitting exactly where he pleased.