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Book-learning never suited Sketch. The farm was his education. His father should be very proud.
‘I tried to let you know why I left,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ I say.
‘Please, Annie?’ Sketch says. ‘Offer me a moment to ease my conscience.’
I drag my eyes over the front of my house. I check the bedroom curtains. They don’t twitch. I watch the front door. Even the breeze doesn’t rattle the flimsy slatted timber today. No one is watching. I nod and promise Sketch, without words, that I’ll listen – if he hurries.
‘I walked to your house,’ Sketch says. ‘The day my father told me I wouldn’t be going to school ever again; I just got up and walked.’ He pauses and exhales. ‘Damn, that’s a long walk, Annie. I had blisters the size of thimbles.’
I smile empathetically. I know those blisters. I used to get them all the time, but my feet toughened up eventually. I think I could walk halfway across Ireland now, and I wouldn’t have so much as a cracked heel.
‘I stood on your front porch for ten minutes before I finally plucked up the courage to knock,’ Sketch blushes.
‘Well, you were eleven.’ I smile.
‘An eleven-year-old chicken.’ Sketch groans, disgusted with himself. ‘A chicken plucked straight off my father’s farm.’
I giggle. But Sketch’s face is poker-straight. I pull myself upright suddenly and close my mouth.
‘Annie, what’s wrong?’ Sketch asks unexpectedly.
‘Nothing,’ I say, but I twitch.
‘Really?’ he says, concerned. ‘I see that familiar fear in your eyes.’ Sketch drags the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re afraid of me, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, disgusted with myself that I’ve clearly hurt him. ‘Old habit.’
Sketch swallows and shakes his head. I suspect he wants to call my father a monster again, but his lips flatline and he scratches his head.
‘Anyway.’ He shrugs, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s letting the tension go. ‘Like I said, I came to your house. But, well, your dad wasn’t too keen on my presence. When I finally did muster the courage to knock, he told me to sling my hook. He said you weren’t home. I knew he was lying. I could hear your sweet voice carry in the wind. You were talking with your ma, I think. You were in the back garden hanging laundry perhaps. Anyway, your father made it very clear that you were an academic, and I was… well, I was a farmer’s boy. I knew my place, so I left.’
I drag my finger down the bridge of my nose. I don’t know what to say.
‘I saw you a few times around town; do you remember?’ Sketch asks.
‘I remember,’ I admit.
‘I tried to say hello, but you always had your head down or your nose in a book as you walked past. I reminded myself that you were an academic. Out of my league. It hurt less that way. I eventually gave up and figured you were better off without me.’
‘Is that when you became friends with Bridget?’ I don’t mean to sound so petty.
‘You’ll like her, Annie. If you give her a chance.’ Sketch smiles. ‘She’s good folk. The wellies were her idea.’
‘You told her about the orchard?’ My eyes widen. ‘About the picnic?’
‘I told her about you,’ Sketch smiles.
‘You told her I had nothing and I needed a stranger’s wellington boots?’ I look down at my lap. At the coat that Sketch has given me and the wellington boots I wear. I’m warm. My feet don’t sting with cold the way they usually do, and my knees don’t chatter. I’m comfortable because I’m wrapped in charity.
‘Annie have I upset you?’ Sketch asks, sheepishly.
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘You haven’t. I’m just embarrassed.’
‘That wasn’t my intention. Not for a moment.’ Sketch lowers his head. ‘Annie forgive me, won’t you?’
‘I have to get out of the car now, you know that?’ I fidget.
