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‘I have no doubt Annie will work hard. It’s what I’m paying her for. But she’s no use to me if the cold gets into her bones, and she gets the flu or TB. She can’t feed the cattle from her dying bed.’
‘Are you arguing with me, boy?’ Pa stomps his foot like a tantrum-throwing five-year-old.
‘I’m just telling you how it is, sir. Between the hours of eleven and five on Monday through Friday, Annie is my employee. We shook on it, sir, if you recall.’
My father straightens as if Sketch’s words have slapped him across the face, and I dare to crack a subtle smile. I realise Sketch never intended to punch my father physically. But Sketch is determined to teach my father a lesson in other ways. Sketch will use his words, not his fists. I’m once again reminded that Sketch Talbot is so much more than simply a farmer’s son.
‘I remember,’ Pa growls as redness creeps across his forehead and down his temples.
‘Good.’ Sketch wrinkles his nose. ‘Well, then you’ll understand that while in my employment, it’s reasonable to expect that correct attire – call it a uniform, if you will – shall be worn.’
‘All this fuss for a damn coat,’ Pa grumbles, furiously accepting defeat. ‘Well, I won’t pay for it. You can’t expect a penny out of me for that awful black thing.’
‘Certainly not,’ Sketch says. ‘But I’m in the business of making money, Mr Fagan – as you said yourself, no charity. I’ve no doubt that you will understand that I had to dock Annie’s wages accordingly today.’ Sketch turns around and drops his eyes to the wellington boots on my feet, winking at me before he turns back to face Pa. ‘Consider the boots a bonus.’
I reach into my pocket and rummage around for the half a crown. I pull my hand back out, swallowing up the coin in my palm. I smile as I extend my arm to shake hands with Sketch. Employee to employer. Best friend to best friend. Girl with a secret half-crown in her hand to the boy who gave it to her.
Sketch shakes my hand, grinning like the Cheshire cat, but he refuses to take the coin. I feel his palm press the cool silver metal back into my hand. Sketch drags his hand away, and I’ve no choice but to clasp my fingers around the coin before it falls and my father sees it.
My father turns his back on us, bored, and walks back into the house, leaving the door open just enough to keep a lazy eye on me. Pa makes his way over to the hall table where a half-empty bottle of port and a grubby glass wait for him.
My glare moves from my father’s hand as he pours to Sketch’s eyes, and confused, I look for a reason he won’t take his money back. We’ve been over this. I thought he respected me.
‘I know you want to earn your way, Annie,’ he whispers. ‘But mucking out a pig sty is no place for a lady.’
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ I argue softly, mildly insulted.
‘Read to me, Annie. Teach me to lose myself between the page,’ Sketch says. ‘Can you do that?’
Sketch always had trouble with words in school, and I remember slouching in my desk so he could lean over my shoulder and copy me.
‘Like a tutor?’ I say.
Sketch nods. ‘Exactly. Today’s half-crown is to buy us our first book. See, it’s not for you. It’s for me.’
‘Okay.’ I say and smile, slipping the coin back into my pocket. ‘I’ll read to you. But I’ll clean and cook too. This has to be a fair arrangement, and I’m sure your father would agree.’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Pa snaps, returning to the porch with a glass full of alcohol in his hand. ‘It’s a minute past five. Annie’s not on your clock now, boy.’
‘We’re discussing the itinerary for tomorrow, sir. We’ve a busy day ahead,’ Sketch chirps, smugly satisfied that he’s telling a twisted truth, but a truth all the same.
‘It’s a minute past five, Annie.’ Pa’s voice is deep and rough like the wind that scales the sidewall of the garden to bellow against me, trying to rip open my coat. ‘Don’t make me say it again.’
I turn towards Sketch, and my lips twitch to one side, but I don’t chance words that might irk Pa even more.
‘Until tomorrow, Annie,’ Sketch says. ‘’Don’t forget your coat.’
‘Goodbye,’ I say.
I hurry up the porch steps and kick my wellington boots off before I reach the door. Pa stands purposely in the doorway. My skin crawls as I brush past; his heavy breathing rattling his round belly against me.
‘Get dinner started. Spuds are in the kitchen.’ Pa slams the door behind us, and it rattles wearily on its rusty hinges.
My eyes narrow as I turn around to find a grotesque smirk on Pa’s face. My eyes drink him in, and the taste is bitter. His broad shoulders and above-average height exude strength, and age is slow to take its toll on him. I gaze at the man who created me. The man who should love me. The man who terrifies me.
‘Where’s Ma?’ I dare to ask, almost afraid of the answer.
‘She’s taken to the bed,’ Pa croaks, loosening his belt as he makes his way to the arm chair beside the roaring fire. ‘She’s not feeling well.’
