The Things I Know(73)
The breakfast things were scrubbed and put away and the bed turned down, and now, with the basket packed in readiness for their promised picnic at the flat rock, Thomasina raced outside to meet her beau. She watched him idle on the flint wall as he tapped his phone against his palm. It was nice to watch him unobserved, see the tension gone from his shoulders and the way he jerked his head to flick his long fringe. Gone was the nervous finger push through his hair. He breathed deeply, throwing his head back and taking in great lungfuls of the clean air under the big, clear sky. Having spent time as one of the ‘mole rats’ in the grubby Underground, she understood his need to do so. He even clicked his fingers, calling to Mr Chops, who, as usual, patrolled the lane, snuffling around in the grass verge. She liked the fact that Grayson Potts was within reach on this cold yet sun-filled day. What more did she need?
He was right: they could not be satisfied with anything other than this, every day. It sounded so straightforward when she thought about the big picture, but the truth was that any change would need careful planning on both their parts. She was more than ready for the challenge, knowing the reward was great. Only that very morning while she packed the picnic basket, she had had one brilliant idea of how to start bringing her dreams to fulfilment . . . She patted the card she’d written out that morning; it lay in her pocket like a precious thing.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she called out. ‘You look miles away.’
Grayson looked up sharply, as if he hadn’t heard her approach, and hopped down from the wall. ‘I was.’
Buddy skittered to a halt in front of him and pushed his muzzle into his leg, demanding the affection his mistress gave so freely. Grayson petted him.
‘I think you rather like that dog of mine!’ she teased.
‘I have to admit, the whole shit thing aside, he’s a lovely dog.’
‘That makes me happy,’ she admitted, noting the look of tension that crossed his brow, an unwelcome addition to this perfect day. ‘So, come on, what are you thinking about?’ she pushed.
‘Lots of things.’
‘Don’t give me too much detail there, Grayson!’
He raised his arms and let them fall. ‘Literally, my head is full. I’m still thinking about yesterday and rowing with Emery at the table. I can’t believe he smashed a plate and made that mess . . . I’m embarrassed, and I don’t want your parents to think I do stuff like that.’
‘They do know that. Apparently, Emery did come back last night, but late. Mum heard him pack a bag and leave, and he hasn’t turned up to work today.’
‘I didn’t know I was capable of speaking up like that. I’ve never fought back, not really.’
‘I think it’s the dawn of a new age for you – for us.’
He nodded, biting his lip as if vexed.
‘What else are you thinking about, Grayson?’
He picked a long straw of grass from the verge and wound it around his fingers, fidgeting. ‘I’m thinking about my job and how happy you make me, how much I enjoyed this morning . . .’ He blew out slowly through pursed lips.
‘Wow! You weren’t joking – lots of things!’ Thomasina beamed up at him. ‘It was nice for me to see you cooking. It made things feel a bit permanent – not that I’m suggesting . . . Not at all. I mean, I’m not . . .’ She stopped talking, flushed hot, and reached for Buddy.
‘I know what you mean: me too. I have never cooked in the flat.’
‘Never?’ she asked incredulously.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he began, ‘but you’ve been there . . .’
‘Yes, I have.’ She blinked quickly, trying to imagine cooking in the kitchenette under his mother’s watchful gaze.
‘What did you think of the place? I’m interested. You’re the only non-family member to have spent time within its walls.’
‘What, no one over for tea? No birthday party? Nothing?’ The very thought saddened her.
‘Nothing,’ he confirmed. ‘I have never had a birthday party.’
‘Well, I thought it was small,’ she said, ‘but then I know most people don’t live with as much space as we have here. We’re lucky.’ She nodded over the wall at the ramshackle farmhouse, where any one room shared the proportions of the entire surface area of his London home.
‘Hmmm . . . small, not cosy.’ He recalled their conversation the day after their first meeting, which now felt like an age ago.
‘Constricted,’ she said, reminding him of his earlier, more accurate, assessment and holding his gaze. With this one word she told him that she understood. ‘Although, having said all that, for a long time now I’ve often felt hemmed in here, trapped, no matter how much space we have.’
‘And so what are you going to do about it?’ he asked straight out, stopping abruptly in the lane to look down at her.
‘Move away, I guess, teach, learn, all the things we talked about – and I think I might have figured out a way to get started. Something that’ll help me save and set me on the right track. It’ll build my confidence.’
‘Sounds intriguing!’
‘Can I show you something?’ She bit her lip.
He nodded and she peeled the postcard from her pocket, holding it up so he could read it. Written in a block print, neat and not too fussy, were the words: