The Things I Know(37)

Hitch thought about their guest eating his supper, as requested, alone in the dining room next door. ‘No, Mum, I’m not distracted, and even if I was, generally these distractions have a habit of disappearing after a day or two, so no harm done.’ She felt the burn of anger on her cheeks. How dare he try to cause trouble, telling tales, and probably false ones at that, to her mum?

‘Best keep your eye on them birds,’ Emery suggested.

‘I don’t need you to tell me that.’ She looked daggers at him.

‘For the love of God, can’t I have one meal without you two bickering like kids!’ Her mum threw down her cutlery and rested her elbows on the table. ‘Emery’s only trying to help, love. He works hard here, Hitch, and you don’t give him an inch! He’s family, and I know he’s not your brother, but he’s still family!’

Hitch stared at Emery, whose smile was subtle. ‘Can I take the pickup, Dad?’

‘Off again?’ Emery asked, almost casually.

‘Drop dead, Emery!’

‘Hitch, please!’

‘For the love of God!’

Her mum and dad shouted at her almost simultaneously as she grabbed the car keys and her jacket and walked through to the dining room, where Mr Grayson Potts, their soon-to-be-departing guest, sat with his hands folded on the table, in front of an empty plate with the white linen napkin tucked into his shirt collar.

‘Are we going to the pub or what?’ she asked loudly, caring little if her family on the other side of the dining-room wall heard or not.



The Barley Mow had the usual crowd in. Hitch kept her eyes on the bar, deliberately away from Tarran Buttermore, Digger Whelks and their whole pathetic crew, who now crowded around the pool table, heckling and waiting impatiently for their turn on the cue, sipping warm, flat lager between goes and nipping outside for a smoke every now and then.

‘All right, Hitch?’ Shelley stood behind the bar and might have been addressing her, but her eyes were very firmly on Grayson.

‘Yep, you, Shell?’

‘Not bad.’ She chewed her gum with her mouth open. ‘Who’s this?’ she said, addressing Hitch but continuing to stare at Grayson.

‘This is my friend Grayson.’

He gave the customary lift of his hand in greeting.

‘All right?’ Shelley said with a nod.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Hitch asked Grayson, who looked around the pub with confidence, seeming keen to take it all in.

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Two ciders, please, Shell.’ Hitch pulled the small fold of banknotes from her jeans pocket and paid.

She handed Grayson his pint and walked to the table in the corner, a wonky table, but the one with the clearest view of the room; she didn’t want her back to anyone. Tarran’s snicker was loud and her heart raced in her chest. She sidled on to the red faux-leather padded bench and shot him a look, intimidated by the way he and the boys were laughing, red-faced and with shoulders hunched, their behaviour juvenile and unbecoming. The source of their comedy, she realised, was Grayson, who walked slowly with his pint in his outstretched hand, creeping at a snail’s pace with his tongue out, as if there might be a penalty for spilling even a droplet of his pint. She smiled at him and he widened his eyes in her direction, an acknowledgment of her encouragement, but still he didn’t deviate from his mission.

Finally he sat down, pushing his long fringe across his forehead and behind his left ear. ‘So this is your local?’

‘Yep.’ She sipped her drink, wondering why she had thought it a good idea to bring him here, knowing deep down it was partly to show Tarran and his shitty gang that she had a friend. The realisation now that at some level tonight she was using Grayson as collateral filled her with self-loathing. He was sweet, lovely and deserved more.

‘Drink up!’ she smiled, nodding at his pint. ‘I think we should go somewhere else.’

‘Somewhere else?’ He stared at her with a small laugh on his lips, as if he had missed the point. ‘We’ve only just sat down.’

‘It’s boring in here.’ She drank quickly.

‘We can make it less boring. We can chat.’

‘What do you want to chat about?’ The edge to her tone was almost instinctive and she watched him shrink back against the chair.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’

As she formulated the words of apology to explain that it was her anxiety talking, the door opened and her heart sank as Emery walked in.

‘Hey, big man!’ Tarran shouted from behind the pool table. Emery raised his hand in greeting and walked straight over to the wonky table in the corner.

‘Fancy meeting you here!’ he said, winking at his cousin. ‘And you’re our guest at Waycott Farm. Sorry I didn’t get the chance to say hello properly earlier.’ He held out his hand. Grayson reached up to offer his own. Hitch watched as Emery shook it with such force that, when released, Grayson sported a white imprint of the man’s fingertips.

‘What is it you want, Emery?’ she demanded, not only dreading him mocking her in front of this man she liked, but also feeling a pulse of protection towards Grayson and wanting to get him as far away from her enemy as possible.

‘Now is that any way to greet your own family?’ He shook his head in mock-distress. ‘That’s not nice, is it, Mr . . . ?’