The Things I Know(26)
The thought of Tarran Buttermore stole the last of Hitch’s appetite. She placed her fork on the table and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. In her mind she heard the three toots of Digger Whelks’s car horn and swallowed the shame that soured her tongue. Rubbing her arms, she tried to ward off the unexpected chill that snaked down her bones, and at that moment was glad that Mr Grayson Potts was on the other side of the wall.
‘You done?’ Emery nodded towards her food.
She nodded. Without waiting for further invitation, he reached across the table and grabbed her plate, tipping her leftover pie unceremoniously on to his own.
‘You were saying you saw Thurston Buttermore?’ Emery reminded her dad.
‘Yes!’ Her dad gave a chuckle. ‘He reminded me I was getting on a bit, cheeky beggar, and said how sweet this spot is, right by the river. More or less said he’d give me a pretty price for Waycott should I ever change my mind about selling. You see, he might have the acreage and a fancy shed full of machinery, but he hasn’t got our view or this beautiful old house, has he?’
‘You think you might change your mind about selling, Pops?’ Hitch stared at him, trying to imagine a world where this farm, this land, home to her beloved chickens, and where the Waycotts had resided for generations, came under the ownership of someone else, someone like Tarran Buttermore.
Pops looked at her briefly before turning his attention back to his pie crust. ‘I used to say I’d never sell—’
‘You have always said you’d never sell,’ she interrupted him. ‘You speak about it all the time: Jonathan coming home and maybe building a cottage in the lower paddock for you and Mum, just like you’ve always planned . . . It’d be weird, Pops, to have someone else living here.’
Her dad abandoned his fork on the plate and she shot a look at Emery, warning him to let her dad finish his food without him reaching over and helping himself to the old man’s fare. Emery held her gaze.
‘There’s many a vegetarian starving on a desert island who would eat his beloved dog,’ her dad said softly.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Hitch asked, with more aggression than she had intended, as unwanted images formed in her mind of herself and Buddy on a hot and desolate shore.
Her dad sat back in his chair. The creak of the hand-turned wooden spindles, fashioned on a lathe by her great-grandfather, rose up and filled the space above his head, warming the air before his words drifted upwards. He spoke slowly and with conviction, eloquent in a way that suggested this speech had been rehearsed in his mind, and that fact alone was enough to fan the flames of her fear.
‘What it means, my little love, is that selling Waycott Farm was something I could never conceive of. Never.’ He placed his roughened palm on the table. ‘My father and my father’s father and the one before that and before that . . . They all toiled on the soil, with some of the same tools that I use today. You and your brother were born here in the attic, and the room in which I sleep, the same room my parents slept in every night of their married life, is the room into which your mother walked as my bride and where we have lain together every night since. I’ve slept easy for all these years because I could see you here in your dotage and that brought me peace. This farm was built with Waycott blood and Waycott sweat. My family lie buried over yonder and there isn’t a brick nor stone nor blade of grass that I don’t treasure.’ The unmistakable catch to his voice matched the glisten of tears in his eyes.
The other three around the table stared at him. Even Emery stopped chewing and listened.
‘But here’s the thing, Hitch – needs must.’ The farm had not prospered as he had intended and, facing defeat, Pops raised his hands, as if this drastic solution was now a fait accompli. Hitch felt ashamed that, alongside her sorrow and unease, lay a golden sliver of joy that looked a lot like opportunity.
Her father adopted a hushed tone. ‘I’m not saying now, I’m not saying soon and I’m not saying for certain, but I’m saying that, if we can’t survive, then it makes no sense to starve within these glorious walls.’ He reached for his handkerchief. ‘Margins are tight and getting tighter and I’m tired of being so squeezed. No matter how hard, I have to think of all the possibilities.’ He blew his nose. ‘All the possibilities.’
Emery finished his mouthful, and her mum sat in silence, staring at her husband with a rarely seen expression that to Hitch looked a lot like love.
With a busy mind, she slowly cleared the table and piled the dirty dishes into the sink before taking a plate of cheese and crackers into Mr Potts – Grayson. There was something heart-rending about seeing him all alone at the head of the table with the empty bowl in front of him and a napkin tucked into his shirt collar.
‘How was your supper?’ She knew her tone echoed with the sadness of the knowledge she now carried, but reminded herself that this man was still a guest and a stranger and she should try and summon a smile.
‘Good.’ He folded his hands over his stomach.
‘I got you some cheese.’ She popped the worn breadboard on the table and pointed to the selection of cheeses. ‘This is a local goat’s cheese, and this one’s strong Cheddar, and—’
‘I’m very sorry, Thomasina.’ He stared at the offering, which she had daintily arranged with crackers and chutneys. ‘I don’t like cheese.’