The Things I Know(25)

‘And you like it? Don’t mind getting up to do it every day?’

She saw the flicker of something in his eyes, challenging her. ‘It’s complicated. I love it. I love them. But living here is hard a lot of the time. There aren’t many days like this when I get to chat and have a bit of time to myself. There’s always something that needs doing and it’s always me that needs to do it.’

‘And you live here with your cousin, who I have to ignore, and with your mum and dad?’

‘Yep, and casual labour in the summer months and when we’re busy – mainly people we call up from the village and other farming families.’

‘And has your cousin lived here all his life?’

‘God, no. My cousin is horrible!’ she spat, as she whipped her head around. She could see that the ferocity of her response threw him a little. She wasn’t finished and her words flew from her mouth. ‘He thinks he owns the place, but he doesn’t! It’s my mum and dad’s farm and when they give it up it’ll go to my brother, Jonathan.’

‘And what will you do then?’

‘I’ll work for him, maybe, collect the eggs and carry on like I do now, but I’ll probably have my own home by then. Or I might do something else altogether.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sighed and he changed the topic.

‘Why don’t you like your cousin?’

‘Because he’s disrespectful to my parents and he’s teased me my whole life. Each individual thing he says doesn’t bother me so much, but when I string them all together his insults are loud inside my head and it’s not fair and he’s not nice. Like I said, he’s horrible.’

Her words changed the atmosphere, peppered their happy conversation with angry dots of frustration. The water now looked foggy and the breeze that whipped around them was no longer invigorating but instead left her feeling a little cold. She noticed the shiver to his limbs and the way he rubbed the tops of his arms, seeking warmth.

‘I suppose we’d better think about getting back.’ She stood and wiped the back of her jeans, whistling Buddy to heel as they began the walk home.

I know I’ve met someone I like.

I know Mr Grayson Potts is a little bit odd but he’s also a little bit lovely.

I know he makes my stomach feel like there’s a bubble of something in it, something like happiness.

I know I want to look at him and talk to him.

I know this should not be the case, as I’ve only just met him, but it is the case. This I know.

What I don’t know is if he likes me back or if I’ve blown it by talking absolute nonsense.





FIVE

It was strange for her to feel the pull of concern directed at the guest who ate his supper alone on the other side of the kitchen wall – or, more accurately, concern and a little fascination. He had again declined the offer to eat with her and her family and she now pictured him sitting at the head of the dark wooden table where her great-great-grandparents had taken their wedding breakfast and wondered if he too was enjoying the steak pie with the same smacking of lips and moans of appreciation offered by her parents and Emery. Her own appetite was diminished, as subtle feelings of anticipation that she couldn’t quite yet place filled her stomach. It was a rare thing to feel connected to someone she had only known for a matter of hours and yet this was exactly how it was: a connection of sorts, strings of recognition and interest threaded through the wall to Mr Grayson Potts and back again.

She pictured him in profile earlier, seated on the flat rock at the river’s edge, looking around in wonder like a child who had seen the sea for the first time.

It was ridiculous, yes.

But no less true for it.

‘We got a good price per head on the calves today,’ her mother said, head down, moving her face to meet the spoon loaded with meat and the rich, dark gravy and not, as most people would do, lifting the spoon to her lips.

‘Market busy?’ Emery’s voice, loud as ever, in her ears.

‘Usual, really,’ her mum muttered, as she reached for a chunk of bread to clean the bowl, mopping up the scraps and not wasting a lick of pie sauce. ‘And how have you been, my lovely? Everything all right?’ Her mum held her bread still, as if waiting for the all-clear, always expecting Hitch to be one step away from a disaster that never came. How she wished her mum would relax, so they all could.

‘Yep, all good, Mum.’

‘Guest settled in?’

Hitch nodded.

‘More than settled in, eh, Hitch?’ Emery chortled.

‘We bumped into Thurston Buttermore at the market,’ her dad piped up, smiling and nodding, as was his way – a kind man who treasured any and each interaction within the farming community to which he belonged.

Hitch felt her cheeks flame pink and the prickly heat of embarrassment bloom on her chest, thinking about the previous night in the pub and wondering how much Thurston’s son had shared with his father.

‘Oh?’ Emery pricked up his ears, interested in what might have been happening over at the Buttermores’ farm, the biggest in the area, with the family well known for their abundance of cash and love of any new gadgetry. They farmed within the protection of a large supermarket, the representatives of which bought their produce and cosied up to Buttermore senior at a lavish annual dinner where palms were greased, brandy was sipped and tender, tender meat was served in front of a roaring fire.