The Things I Know(11)

Hitch pulled on her beanie and Barbour and whistled to Buddy and the two left the kitchen. She loaded the washing machine in Big Barn and shut in her beloved dog. ‘Back in a mo, Bud,’ she said, as she made her way over to the chicken coop.

The hens were out in the run, pecking around in the grass and gossiping. Hitch pulled back the fencing gates and made her way inside, wary of her footfall.

‘Hello, girls! How are we doing? How are you, Mrs Cluck? And look at you, Daisy Duke – you look very pretty today. And what’s this? Ah, who’s a clever girl?’ She reached down into the nest box and plucked out a fresh egg. ‘Helga! You’re a marvel. Thank you!’ With the egg in her hand, she carefully refastened the fences and walked back to Big Barn with the prize resting in her hand.

She slid back the door and jolted at the sight of Emery sitting with Buddy on the saggy sofa. He was smoking.

‘No smoking in here. It’s a fire risk.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘What’re you going to do? Tell your dad? I’m scared!’

‘Come on, Buddy!’ She ignored the horrible man as Buddy ran to her. ‘Good boy.’ She kept her hand on the top of his head, taking comfort from the warmth of his coat as they made their way back to the kitchen. She’d stir the lamb, add the softer veg, season again and then see about setting the fires, ready for lighting later, when the new bed-and-breakfast guests arrived.

She washed her hands, warming them under the hot tap before taking her favourite place at the range, where she stared at the postcard of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, which her dad had propped up on the shelf. She thought of Jonathan and wondered what it might be like to wake each day in the sunshine.

The front doorbell drew her from her musings and Hitch welcomed Mr and Mrs MacDonald, giving them a key to the front door and saying hello to their little boy, who hid behind his mum’s legs.

‘He’s a bit shy,’ his dad explained, and averted his gaze, the way some people did. She knew it was done out of politeness, so they didn’t stare, didn’t make her feel uncomfortable, didn’t draw attention to her scar, her face, but the fact that they felt the need to look away at all meant it had the very opposite effect. And in spite of Mr Macdonald’s very best efforts, she felt her face colour under his lack of scrutiny.

It made her feel ugly.

Uglier.

Dr Newson had said she might be able to have further surgery, but she was beyond scared – petrified, in fact – remembering perfectly what it had felt like as a kid to wake post-operation with pain from an infection that felt like fire, everyone telling her it shouldn’t be that bad, and her screaming at them that it was. Her fear of further surgery was multi-layered – supposing they made her condition worse? And what did it really matter anyway? She never saw anyone important, never went anywhere, never did anything.

Standing now in the bathroom, she ran her brush through her long hair, letting it loose about her shoulders. Next she applied a liberal spray of the perfume her brother had sent for Christmas. It had arrived beautifully wrapped in a fancy box with a gold ribbon. She spritzed her neck and wrists and finally dabbed a little bronzer over her cheeks. Hitch looked back at herself in the mirror and smiled, her hand held over her mouth, before making her way back down the creaking stairs.

‘This is proper tasty, thank you.’ Pops winked at her and she mopped up his gratitude like a sponge. ‘Where you off to, my lovely – somewhere nice?’ he asked, as if she had a whole host of options and a whole heap of choice. He sat at the table with her mum and Emery, all devouring the lamb stew, the peppery scent of which filled the room.

‘Just up the Barley Mow.’ She gave a gentle laugh, as if she ever went anywhere else.

‘Are you driving?’ her dad asked, spooning the soft lamb and a chunk of carrot into his mouth.

‘Yep, I’ll take the pickup, Dad, if that’s okay? I won’t be late.’

‘Should think not – you’ve got an early start, my lovely, and I like to know you’re tucked up safe. You know we don’t sleep properly until you’re in,’ her mum reminded her, through her own mouthful.

Hitch glanced at the postcard high up on the shelf and wondered how it was that Jonathan not only got to go to bed at a time of his own choosing without their mum’s scrutiny, but he got to do it in another bloody country.



She climbed into the ancient, mud-caked Subaru and switched on the engine, letting the cab warm a little before putting the radio on and turning up the volume. She drove the lanes at a fierce speed, shifting up and down the gears with the confidence of someone who knew every inch of ground and every twist and turn in the road. Her heart rate rose at the prospect of meeting someone travelling at equal speed in the opposite direction and knowing there would be neither time nor space to avoid the inevitable. Her thumping heart was accompanied by the booming beat of Kylie that blared from her cranked-down windows.

By the time she arrived at the remote Barley Mow, whose crumbling exterior gave the best hint of the sticky-floored dive of a pub inside, her blood was pumping fast and she was feeling pretty good. She drove the truck to the dark, far corner of the car park before throwing the keys into her handbag. With a final tousle to her hair and swallowing the spike of nerves in her throat, she pushed open the door and let her eyes sweep the place. Several familiar faces turned to look at her as she made her way in.