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‘For a picnic, Annie.’ Sketch smiles as if he’s read my mind. When I was a kid, I used to think he could. Maybe nothing has changed.
‘I’m sorry it’s not as cosy as I’d like, but picnics in October can be a bit chilly, you know. At least we’ll be dry here.’ Sketch looks up at the interknitted branches overhead. ‘The rain won’t get in.’
‘A picnic?’ I smile. ‘Is that what’s in your bag?’
Sketch nods. ‘Packed it myself this morning. I’m not the best cook, but I can butter a slice or two of bread when I need to. I’m starving. I skipped breakfast—’ Sketch cuts himself off, most likely because he realises I skip breakfast most days.
‘You look disappointed,’ Sketch says, his face falling. ‘If you’re not hungry, it’s okay.’
‘I’m starving,’ I admit quickly, hoping to mask my disappointment that Sketch’s bag is hiding food and not paper and paint. ‘It’s a lovely surprise. Thank you.’
‘Good. Let’s eat, then.’ Sketch tilts his head to one side and waits for me to sit on the blanket on the boulder before he crosses his legs and sits on the grass that he said was too wet. Iwatch his hands as he unpacks the picnic. His slender fingers are long, and his palm is at least twice as big as mine.
‘A man’s hand is his greatest weapon,’ my mother always says. ‘A man’s curled hand makes a fist.’
Sketch is young and strong. I didn’t need to see him push a boulder across the orchard or gauge the size of his fist to know that. But I’m slowly starting to realise that it’s not strong men who hurt women. It’s weak men. My father may be tall and broad and use his fist often, but that doesn’t make him strong. He’s not strong like Sketch.
‘Tuck in,’ Sketch says, smiling brightly as he catches me watching him.
I blush and hope this isn’t one of those times he can read my mind.
There’s hot tea from a flask, matching cups, and bread and strawberry jam sandwiches. It’s simple and perfect, and I eat until I think I might explode.
‘There’s more,’ Sketch says, when I polish off my fourth slice of bread and third cup of tea.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t eat another bite.’
‘No room for cake?’ Sketch smirks.
My eyes widen like two china saucers as if Sketch has just whispered the naughtiest words into my ear.
‘It’s homemade,’ Sketch promises. ‘Pops trades a bag of spuds here and some carrots there for the best cakes in all of Galway.’
‘Fruitcake?’ I stammer, wide-eyed and hopeful.
‘The very one.’ Sketch’s eyes sparkle with attractive confidence. ‘You like fruitcake?’
‘I’ve never had it,’ I gasp. ‘But I’ve heard the women at the market talk about it, and I’ve always imagined it tastes like rainbows.’
Sketch stands. He stretches his arm out to me and opens his hand. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. We stand inches apart. Sketch cocks his head to one side and strokes his chin between his finger and thumb.
‘Rainbows?’ he muses. ‘That’s exactly it.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Oh, it is.’ Sketch smacks his lips together and scrunches his nose. ‘It’s just a pity that you’re full.’
He bends forward and snatches his rucksack off the ground, tosses a single strap over his shoulder and takes off running. ‘I’ll just feed this to the pigs, then,’ he shouts back.
My jaw drops, and it takes my legs a second or two to realise that my head is shouting at them to chase after him.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I call out, struggling to pick up speed over my laughter.
‘Come on, Annie. You’ll have to be faster than that.’ Sketch spins around to face me and keeps running backwards.
My wellingtons drag through the long, mucky grass. The left one comes close to sliding clean off a couple of times, but I wiggle and shake it back on. Sketch laughs so hard I think he’ll get a stitch soon. He hops effortlessly over the ditch into the next field, and I call out for him to wait for me as he disappears from view. I approach the ditch quickly and push myself to pick up speed. I take a deep breath as the wild hedge – nature’s wall between this field and the next – comes unavoidably close. I bend my knees and jump high, hoping I can clear the ditch and keep my wellington boots on all at the same time.
I fly through the air, instinctively stretching my arms out like a bird, and I close my eyes and savour the brief freedom. My landing isn’t quite as graceful as I crash into a waiting Sketch on the other side and send us both tumbling to the ground. Sketch lands flat on his back with me draped awkwardly on top of him. Mortified, I try to scramble to my feet, but Sketch’s arms around my waist hold my body firmly in place, and his eyes are locked on mine, holding my gaze firmly in place too.
