‘It’s almost like you’re pleased I’m here, sister.’ Thom smirked.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Sennen remained straight faced. ‘You haven’t dumped the new one already, have you? Or maybe she’s dumped you?’ She leaned down to play with Henry’s ears.
‘Very bloody funny;nobodydumps Thomas Jory.’
Rita tutted. ‘Thomas! Stop it… I didn’t raise a man who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.’
Sennen quipped, laughing, ‘Yeah,Thomas! Seriously, your ego needs its own postcode.’
‘That’s enough, you two.’ As Rita put the huge pot of chilli she’d made earlier onto the hob to heat up, she felt a warm flutter in her chest. She loved having the twins here together, in their chaotic, exasperating glory. It made the house feel full in a way it hadn’t for a while. Even Henry managed to ease himself up from his Aga-fronted bed, wagging his tail furiously.
She poured a glass of wine for herself and Sennen. And as Thom grabbed a beer, Rita’s mind drifted to the awful time when Archie’s will had gone missing and her only son had seemed to turn against her. What a long way they had come since then.
They clinked glasses. ‘Cheers to the three of us,’ Thom said.
‘Aw… that’s sad,’ Sennen murmured, her eyes glistening. ‘Dad used to say, cheers to the four musketeers.’
‘Come on,’ Rita said softly, resting a hand on her daughter’s. ‘He would have wanted us to be happy.’ Tears pricked at her eyes.
‘I miss him,’ Sennen said quietly.
‘We all do,’ Thom said, then, ever the pragmatic one, ‘but we can’t bring him back.’ His eyes then sparkled. ‘Do you rememberthe time he set light to the Christmas pudding and ended up setting the oven mitts on fire?’ A smirk tugged at his lips.
Rita laughed. ‘How could I forget? He ran around the kitchen like a headless chicken while you and Sennen were doubled over laughing as I threw a bowl of water over him.’
Rita felt a lump in her throat. ‘I do miss the silly bugger.’
Sennen sighed, her eyes glistening. ‘Just think of it as he lives on in us, Mum. In the way we laugh, the way we argue, the way he always made complete chaos of a Christmas pudding and we called it tradition.’
Thom nodded. ‘Exactly. He’s stuck with us forever.’
‘Or us him, more like.’ Sennen smiled.
Rita felt tears prick her eyes, but they weren’t all sad; they were warm, soft tears of memory and love. They clinked glasses.
‘So, cheers to thethreeof us,’ Thom said, lifting his drink.
‘Andto Dad.’ Sennen’s voice wobbled.
‘Cheers to the Jorys,’ Rita echoed.
They drank, the warmth and alcohol spreading through them. Rita looked at her children, full of energy, humour, and that spark of Archie she could still see in their laughter, and felt an odd, tender comfort. Life had moved on, but the love remained, strong and stubborn, like the echo of a favourite song that never quite faded.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and letting the memories wash over them. Rita took a slow, steadying breath. Jago would never be Archie, and no one could ever take Archie’s place. And that… was perfectly OK.
SEVEN
Early the next morning, with both Sennen and Thom sleeping off the plentiful wine shared alongside their late-night chatting, Rita grabbed her wicker egg basket and slung a bag of grain over her shoulder. Not used to drinking so much lately, she felt slightly nauseous.
She rarely moaned about her chores, but today, squelching across the muddy grass in her boots, as the cows over at Hawthorn Acre voiced their milking indignation, she wished she were still tucked up cosy in her warm bed.
The stench of the farmyard hit her as soon as she opened the chicken coop. Gagging, she doubled over and unexpectedly vomited onto the grass. With watery eyes she grabbed a tissue from her pocket and wiped her mouth. Then, cursing the smell and her own weak constitution, she continued tending to her brood.
The four hens squawked in a chorus so loud it could probably wake the dead, or at least poor old Nigel. She shook her head. God, she missed that hilarious cockerel. The memory of him dying from shock at Kelly’s attempt to shut him up with a shotgun had become a running joke, even if it still stung a bit.
Rita blew out a big breath. ‘Come on, girls, Mumma’s got a hangover; quieten down a bit.’
Rita continued to scatter the feed, careful not to get pecked in the process, and laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure who’s worse, you or the goats,’ she muttered. The hens, as if in response, squawked in unison, knowing that theirMummawould soon be happy once she put her hands on the warm eggs they had just laid for her.
