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‘Holly, please?’ Nana calls, her hand trying to trace a circle against the duvet where she hopes I’ll sit.
I breathe out slowly and steadily, and my bottom lip seems to hide behind my top teeth without me telling it to.
‘Is he here?’ Nana asks as I lower myself to sit on the bed beside her, taking care to tuck myself next to her hip without hurting her.
‘Is who here, Nana?’ I ask, keeping my voice low and calm.
My grandmother closes her eyes and long deep breaths puff out of her as if it’s taking every ounce of energy she possesses just to breathe. I wonder if she’s talking about Sketch. I wonder if the medication is making her drowsy and delusional. I almost hope it is. I hope she’s thinking about him, and it’s making her happy.
Nana’s hand twitches, and I feel her thin, fragile fingers fan my hip. ‘Nathan, Holly,’ Nana puffs. ‘Did Nathan come?’
I turn my head away so Nana can’t see the tears that I just can’t hold back any more. I suck air in through my nose and force it back out slowly through my mouth so my body doesn’t shake as I silently cry.
‘He did, Nana,’ I say, wiping my eyes before I twist my head over my shoulder so she can see me smile. ‘Nate came to see you.’
‘Good.’ Nana swallows, her eyes closing. ‘And he came to see you too.’
FIFTEEN
ANNIE
The country lane has grown narrower and narrower for the past half mile, and I begin to wonder if we will drive off the end of the earth if we keep going. The engine purrs and splutters as Sketch pulls up on the grass when the road suddenly disappears. The car wobbles as it struggles to get a grip on the wet and uneven ground. Sketch tucks the car in neatly under a huge horse chestnut tree with branches that hang low like tired arms, their twiggy tips like knobby fingers attempting to tickle the ground as they sway in the wind.
‘We’re here,’ he says, opening the driver’s door and hopping out.
I wait for him to come around to my side of the car, but when he doesn’t appear after a minute or so, I open the door myself and jump out, luckily avoiding a puddle.
I pull my cardigan tighter around me and fold my arms across my chest, but the stubborn wind still finds its way inside the wool to bite me. Before I have a chance to close the car door, the wind catches it and slams it shut with a loud bang that shakes the whole car.
‘Are you all right?’ Sketch says, peeking out from behind the back of the car.
‘Sorry,’ I grimace. ‘I didn’t realise the wind was so strong.’
Sketch doesn’t reply. I can see he has the boot open, and I assume he’s rummaging around for something. I wonder if I should offer to help him look for whatever it is.
A dull, rusted farmer’s gate hangs crooked on its hinges next to us. The wind drags it open and closed as if it’s a flag waving in the breeze. The creak of the old hinges crackle like the beating of a tin drum, and it’s the only sound for miles. I take a moment and look around at the beauty and stillness that seems to stretch on for an eternity. The simplicity of the scenic countryside is soothing. Lush green hedges mark out individual fields. Fields of corn, barley and tall grass. Squares of yellows, browns and various shades of green stretch out like a giant patchwork quilt over the land. It’s beautiful and timeless. It’s as if nothing can touch this place. I imagine if I stood in this very spot one hundred years from now, it would look exactly as it does this very moment.
The shutting of the car boot drags my eyes away from nature and I find Sketch walking towards me. My gaze settles on the strap of a khaki backpack that’s slung over his right shoulder. The thick strap nestles into the leather of his jacket and seems to drag on his back, and I can tell whatever is inside is heavy. I notice some messy oil-paint stains around the buckles, and I hazard a guess that his brushes and paints are nestled safely inside. I’m so curious it hurts but I don’t dare ask. My father taught me that no woman should ever question a man’s privacy.
‘Even the most ordinary of men have their secrets, Annie,’ my mother would unwittingly concur.
Sketch Talbot is no ordinary man, but my lips remain sealed nonetheless. It’ll take more than a rekindled friendship to break the habit of submission that’s been drilled into me most of my life.
‘Here,’ Sketch says, offering me a pair of grey wellington boots and a black winter coat that I didn’t notice he carried under his arm. ‘They were my mother’s, but I think you’re about the same size. I thought you might like them.’
I gather the coat and boots into my arms, unsure what to say.
‘It’s very mucky.’ Sketch points into the nearest field. ‘I don’t want you to ruin your good shoes.’
Sketch doesn’t look at my feet. He doesn’t acknowledge that I’m wearing the same shoes as yesterday. The ones with a hole in the side. The only ones I have. The ones that I can’t get mucky because if I do, my father will flip out. And Sketch knows it.
I blush. I want to say thank you, but a teary lump forms in my throat, so I decide against chancing words.
Sketch smiles and offers me his free shoulder. I grab on to steady myself as I stand on one leg to slip off my shoe and drag on the first stubborn wellington. I wriggle and twist my foot as I struggle to push my toes all the way in.
‘Haven’t you ever worn wellies before?’ Sketch laughs at my efforts.
I shake my head and wobble as I switch feet. ‘No. Never,’ I confess. ‘I’ve never been on a farm either. I’ve never even seen a pig. Well, not unless it’s bacon frying in a pan.’
