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I hear a groan somewhere between my father’s throat and his belly. Sketch is trying his patience now, I can tell. I should say something and warn Sketch to take it easy, but my father has taught me better than to interrupt when men are speaking.
‘Tell me, Mr Talbot, what would you get out of this arrangement? Besides the pleasure of my darling daughter’s company, of course?’
Sketch takes a step back and his head bobs as he exaggerates looking me up and down. ‘As I said, I’m a gentleman. But I’m not a fool. There’d have to be a slight charge, of course.’
My father throws his head back, and a wicked laugh gargles in the back of his throat. ‘Now we’re getting to the bones of it, my boy. You’re a shrewd businessman, I’ll give you that. But I knew there had to be more to you than all this nice-as-pie bullshit.’
‘So, do we have a deal?’ Sketch says.
‘We most certainly do not,’ my father grunts. ‘I’m not paying you a penny, young man. Annie can walk. It’ll do her no harm. Fresh air is good for a young lass. Women get all sorts of silly notions in their head if they don’t have fresh air to clear their brain out.’
Sketch’s lips narrow, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I get the distinct impression he doesn’t share my father’s low opinion of women, thankfully.
‘I didn’t mean money, sir.’ Sketch nods.
‘Really?’ My father smirks, casting a lazy eye over me. ‘What exactly did you mean?’
Sketch clears his throat and shuffles on the spot. He suddenly seems less confident, edging more towards awkward. I cross my fingers behind my back and hope that my father’s probing and harsh tone haven’t unravelled Sketch. If he falls apart now, it could land me in a lot of trouble.
My father’s breathing is low and heavy, and I can tell the weight of last night’s alcohol is making him uncomfortable. His shoulders round and flop forward, dragging his neck and head with them, and he grunts deeply. The smell of stale whiskey seems to seep from his pores even when his mouth is closed. I’ve no doubt Sketch can smell it, too. I’m not sure how much longer my father will tolerate Sketch’s intrusion.
Sketch takes a step back and creates a comfortable distance between him and my father. I catch him swallow a large lump of stubborn air that he struggles to force down. ‘My mother died not a full six years back, sir,’ Sketch begins. ‘It’s just my pops and me now. And well, the farm is big. It takes a lot of tending to. Makes a fella mighty hungry, working the land does. Pops and me could do with a decent feeding when we get in for the evening.’
‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ my father manages. ‘It’s difficult to lose a parent. Especially at your age.’
I hear something in my father I’m not used to. Sincerity. I almost believe he’s truly sorry for Sketch’s loss. Maybe my father is human, after all.
‘But really, my boy, your dead mother isn’t my problem,’ he adds.
I sigh. That’s more like the man I know.
‘I don’t expect it would be, sir,’ Sketch continues. ‘But my pops and I need a woman’s touch around the house. Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing. We can pay a fare wage.’
‘You think young Annie here is a mighty fine cook?’ My father brightens; the mention of money has clearly got his attention.
Sketch nods. ‘I’m hoping so. Yes.’
‘And who’s going to look after me, Mr Talbot? Don’t I need feeding?’
The corners of Sketch’s lips twitch into an uncertain smile. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. Sketch is as clever as he is charming.
‘I’m sure your wife takes pleasure in looking after you, Mr Fagan.’
My father grunts and turns his attention towards my mother who is still crouched on the floor.
‘Mary,’ he calls loudly. ‘Come here and meet someone.’
My mother stands up slowly and runs her hands over her apron and composes herself impressively. She walks towards us with her head held high, but she can’t hide an awkward limp as she yields to her bruised knees.
‘Hello.’ She smiles brightly, reaching the door and taking position in the gap my father has created for her between his side and mine.
‘Hello, Mrs Fagan.’ And Sketch nods. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Sketch…’ I cough ‘…I mean, Mr Talbot, was just telling Pa how he and his pops could use some help up at their farm.’
‘Oh, you’re a farmer’s boy?’ my mother says as if she hasn’t heard every word from her crouched position on the floor.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sketch nods. ‘And I’m hoping I could offer your daughter some employment.’
