The Things I Know(14)

Hitch managed to compose herself. She sniffed and raised her head and did something she hadn’t done for eighteen years. She looked skyward before closing her eyes and offering up a silent prayer.

‘Please, I want something. I want someone. I want more!’

I know that I’m lonely, so lonely.

I know that I’m ugly.

I know that men don’t look twice at girls like me.

I know this is how it will always be.

I know that I’m growing weary of it . . .





FOUR

‘Hel–lo?’

From where she stood on the brow of the paddock, she heard the voice call out – male, deep, not a voice she recognised, but deliverymen were not uncommon.

Hitch lowered the chicken in her outstretched arms and tucked the bird snugly in the crook of one elbow.

‘Hello?’ she replied, and was about to make her way across the grass and down towards the wide flagstone patio of the yard when a tall man of about her age strolled towards her.

The two looked at each other and she wondered for a moment if she already knew him. He walked as if he knew where he was heading – straight towards her – before hovering awkwardly a few feet away, with a sports bag in his hand and another bag slung across his body. He wore a jacket, smart trousers that sat a little proud of his ankles and black lace-up shoes.

Buddy barked from the back door behind which he was ensconced.

‘I . . . I knocked twice, on the front door, but no one answered.’ He gestured towards the front of the house, as if she might not know where it was.

‘Right.’ Along with his cockney accent, she noticed his oddness – it was hard not to: the way he stood, the tilt to his head, his unconventional looks, but she also saw the kind crinkle at the corners of his eyes, his awkward manner and his big but brief smile, as if he was unsure of his place in the world.

And this, she understood.

‘Well, sorry to keep you waiting. Is no one in the house?’ She looked towards the kitchen, wondering where everyone had got to.

The man shook his head and used his index finger to loop his long fringe across his forehead and behind his left ear.

‘I wasn’t sure I was in the right place, but I have this.’ He pulled a brown envelope from the front pocket of his satchel. ‘And it says here, Waycott Farm.’

‘Well, this is Waycott Farm.’ She waited to see what the man wanted. Was he selling something? Or could he be their overnight guest? He didn’t look much like the archetypal banker that she’d been expecting. He looked more like a trainspotter or a librarian.

The two stood, caught in a moment of silence that was excruciating. She sought through the nervous jumble in her mind and tried and failed to think of something to say.

The man looked back down the path and eventually spoke. ‘I was wondering how you sort things out when they go wrong in the countryside.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She had lost the thread of the conversation.

‘I was just thinking that, if I was in the wrong place, I’m not sure what to do next. The taxi dropped me and left quickly, and I was thinking that, to get help, it would be a lot more challenging here than it is in a city. I mean, if ever I get locked out of the flat I live in, I can knock on a neighbour’s window. My next-door neighbour, Reggie, used to be able to open our front door with a credit card. And if I need to get anywhere in any kind of emergency, I just jump on a bus or train or the Underground. It’s easy. But out here’ – he plucked his phone from his pocket – ‘I don’t even have a phone signal.’ He held the phone to face her as if she might need proof.

‘No,’ she concurred, thinking how very little a lack of signal impacted on her own life. ‘Are you our bed-and-breakfast guest?’

‘Yes.’ He again held up the brown envelope.

‘Mr Grayson-Potts?’ His unusual name had stuck in her mind.

‘Yes.’ He nodded, staring at the chicken under her arm. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your . . .’ He paused.

She felt the bloom of embarrassment at the fact that she might have been caught dancing with the chicken, swirling, singing and humming as she turned this way and that for the benefit of the lovely hen.

‘I thought you were holding a baby in the air. At first.’ He shuffled his feet, confirming that she had indeed been caught in the act.

‘Oh no, no baby! This is Daphne.’ She had quite forgotten she was holding the chicken and ran her finger over the soft, feathery head of the pale bird.

‘Hello, Daphne.’ He made eye contact with the hen and lifted his hand in greeting.

She laughed at the formality of his introduction and instantly regretted it, as his face flushed red.

‘She likes me to make a bit of a fuss over her.’ Hitch leaned forward and whispered to him, even though they were the only two people around. ‘I’m not supposed to have favourites, of course – this is a working farm – but isn’t she just the prettiest chickie you’ve ever seen?’

‘I suppose so. Your accent is nice. Soft. It makes me think of treacle.’

Hitch smiled at the compliment and it was her turn to feel a flush on her face. There was an odd and unique gentleness to their interaction, as if they had known each other for a very long time and were comfortable in each other’s company, pleased to see each other, catching up.