The Things I Know(27)

She smiled at him, a genuine smile that she didn’t have to summon, not because of his dislike of what she had prepared, but merely at the novelty of being called Thomasina.

‘You don’t like cheese?’

‘No.’ Grayson shook his head. ‘I don’t,’ he said with a grimace.

She retrieved the board and spoke without too much forethought. ‘Do you like cider?’

‘To drink?’

‘Yes.’ She drummed her fingers on the edge of the wooden platter. ‘To drink!’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, I don’t know if you have plans this evening, but if you want, you could come with me to the flat rock where we sat earlier. The sky looks very different as the sun sets and I thought we could take some cider – only if you like. But I know I would like. I could do with a bit of cheering up.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her. ‘I’d like to.’

‘Okay then. I’ll meet you out at the front in about fifteen minutes?’

‘Okay.’ He smiled at her.

She rushed back into the kitchen, wanting to scrub the worst of the pots, wash her hands and clean her teeth before they set off. Her mum and dad, as per usual, had gone outside to do the evening rounds of the animals. Emery leaned against the sink. ‘A little birdy told me you’ve been fraternising with the guests.’ He tutted loudly.

‘What, are you spying on me now?’ she asked, as she wrapped the cheeseboard and popped it in the fridge before plunging the scouring pad into the suds.

‘Don’t need to,’ he sighed. ‘You’re an open book. Anyone can see what you’re about just by looking at you. Did you have a nice time up the Barley Mow?’ He laughed. ‘I heard you made a move on Tarran.’

‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

‘Don’t be like that! We’re cousins!’

Hitch whipped her head in his direction. ‘That’s right. We’re cousins. And yet the way you treat me is so mean, and I see the way you laugh at Pops, like he’s stupid! You’re the only one who gets properly paid and you still take advantage. It’s not fair, Emery. I hate you being here!’ She knew that having Grayson Potts sitting the other side of the wall gave her the strength to respond. Emery followed her gaze to the door.

‘Ah, so that’s it! You think that weird, lanky idiot is going to come to your rescue!’ He laughed loudly. ‘Christ almighty, you’re so sad. You’re worse than a dog, literally throwing yourself at anything with a cock. Tarran only the other night, and now that freak of nature in the dining room!’

She looked at the floor, her confidence evaporating under his quick-fire verbal assault. He wasn’t done.

‘You think I’m scared of him? Some dickhead banker from London?’ Emery spat his words with venom.

‘Just shut up! Shut up!’ She slammed the plates in the sink and whirled out of the room. Buddy barked, unhappy because she was.

Hitch grabbed the cider and a rug from the rack in Big Barn and went to say goodnight to the girls. They were quiet, settled, sitting on their perches and offering no more than a barely audible occasional cluck, reminding her very much of people on the verge of sleep who couldn’t find the energy or enthusiasm to chat.

‘Night night, my chickies! Sweet dreams, my lovelies. See you in the morning.’ She shook her head at the idea of having to say goodbye to them for good if her dad sold the farm. And therein lay her dilemma: while she dreamed of a different life, she just couldn’t see one, not really, not for someone like her . . . It might be selfish, but she wanted to see the world, wanted to walk the streets of New York, knowing that Waycott Farm would be waiting for her and Jonathan, just as it always had been. She couldn’t always see a future, but there was something comforting about knowing this place was full of her past.

‘It’ll be all right, girls, you’ll see. It’ll all be okay.’

Grayson stood in the middle of the lane in his trousers, navy sweater and lace-up shoes. His long fringe had fallen over his eyes. He turned to the left and right, looking out of place, like a person who had wandered off from a party of tourists or stopped to ask directions – a townie.

‘I heard what your cousin said about me being a dickhead banker from London,’ he said plainly.

She was a little taken aback, not only by the fact that he had heard, but also by his direct manner of speech. There was no sugar-coating his thoughts or disguising them in flowery words that might soften the message or spare them both the sharp spike of embarrassment.

‘Just ignore him. I told you, he’s a prick.’ She began walking along the lane, confident that Mr Grayson Potts would fall into step beside her, which he did.

‘You’ve already told me to ignore him, but I’d like to say something.’

She stopped and turned to face him. ‘What?’ Her brusque manner was born of nothing more than awkwardness about the topic in hand.

Grayson looked up the lane towards Waycott Farm and then back at her, as though checking that the coast was clear.

‘I wanted to say that I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.’

She waited to see if he had more to add. He didn’t. And strangely, his words on the subject, no matter how limited, soothed the wounds where Emery’s barbs had landed. She took a deep breath, grateful for this unexpected support and kindness when it was most needed.