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Today is no different from any other Friday, except we indulge in an iced bun from the corner bakery, and I watch Sketch’s lips sweep around the creamy vanilla treat and imagine how good they will feel pressed against mine later.
‘So what do you say, Annie?’ Sketch asks, finishing his bun just as we get into the car.
‘What do I think about what?’ I ask coyly, knowing exactly what he means. He asks the same question at the same time every Friday.
‘What do you think about running away?’ He smiles.
I think it sounds like the plot from a romance novel. And I can’t hide my overzealous grin as I imagine Sketch, the hero, sweeping me off my feet as we dash into the sunset.
‘We’d just catch a boat and be gone,’ Sketch says with a snap of his fingers as we roll up the long, winding driveway leading to the large farmhouse. ‘We’d sail to Wales first and then France. I could make a living selling paintings. The French have good taste in art,’ he says as if he knows, and he has such passion in his eyes I believe him.
‘Where would we live?’ I giggle as we come to a jerky stop next to a lonely apple tree that grows in an odd spot where the dusty driveway meets the grass.
‘The south of France is dripping in sunshine,’ Sketch adds. ‘It’s an artist’s paradise. We’d travel by day, and when our feet are too tired to walk another step, we’d fall on the beach and sleep the night away as the waves creep in to kiss our toes.’
‘It sounds delightful, doesn’t it?’ I swoon. ‘Say we’ll go someday. Say we’ll wear berets and eat baguettes. Even if we only ever discuss it.’
‘No.’ Sketch’s eyes widen. ‘We’ll do it. We’ll do it for real. I’m serious, Annie. There’s a big, bad world out there, and I, for one, want to see it. I want to see it with you by my side.’
‘Someday,’ I pacify, repeating my usual answer. ‘Maybe someday.’
Three months have passed since I first started working at the Talbot’s farm, and we’ve fallen into a comfortable routine. I spend the mornings cooking and cleaning, and the afternoons reading aloud by the stove as Sketch paints. Sometimes, I even indulge in the notion that the farm is my home, and I’m not just an employee. For a couple of hours every day, I let myself believe that I belong here, and I don’t have to go back to my father’s house ever again. But, of course, evenings come, and reality stings.
Going home is hard, but it’s always made easier by my mother’s bright smile when I reach the front door. Seeing her warm and putting on weight is wonderful. The leftovers I bring home most days have done her a world of good. She’s still underweight, but her collarbones don’t protrude through her blouse any more, and her skin is bright and her cheeks are rosy. She’s really very pretty. I’ve always known it, but seeing her healthy and glowing reminds me of how she looked when I was a young child.
Of course, my pay packet has been well received by Pa. It was inevitable that he’d spend less time at home and more time in the Blackwell Tavern. His absence is a welcome relief for Ma during the day, but when he returns at night, drunk as a skunk, it’s terrifying.
The extra liquor made everything so bad initially that every morning for the first two weeks I gave Sketch my notice. And every evening, swayed by a goodnight kiss, I would promise him just one more day.
On the first morning of week three Sketch took one look at the red and purple that smeared across my cheekbone in the shape of Pa’s knuckles, and he hopped out of the car.
Pa’s bicycle had a terrible accident that day. The front tyre folded over on itself, and the chain snapped in several places. The bicycle was a write-off. I never asked Sketch if he was responsible, and he never confessed. But one thing is for sure, walking five miles home from the pub takes three times as long as cycling, and the crisp night air does wonders to sober up Pa before he reaches home. Three months of working at the Talbot’s farm has been horrendous for Pa’s liver, but it’s been wonderful for Ma’s health and my heart.
This morning, just like every other, Sketch opens the front door of the farm and steps aside like a gentleman to let me in ahead of him. And this morning, as with every morning, I hop over the concrete slab just in front of the door and land in the hall with a bang as the heels of my shoes pound against the floor tiles. The concrete slab wobbles and creaks when you step on it, and I’m certain it will break soon. And this morning, as with every morning, Sketch laughs at my efforts and steps right in the centre of the slab after I pass. He closes the door behind us, and this morning, unlike any other morning, a sudden gust of wind charges in and blows straight up my skirt, raising the blue satin into the air and exposing my knickers. I can feel Sketch’s eyes drop onto the cheeks of my buttocks, and I take ever so slightly longer than I should to guide my skirt back into its rightful place and walk towards the kitchen.
The inside of the Talbot’s farmhouse is the opposite of my home. For such a large building, it’s warm and inviting, and the people inside love each other. Mr Talbot isn’t great with words, and he buries his feelings deeper than the slurry pit in the backyard, but I see it in the way he looks at his son. Sure, Sketch would rather hold a paintbrush than a shovel, but the sparkle of pride in Mr Talbot’s eyes is unmissable. Sketch has a kind soul and Mr Talbot knows it. And I can only imagine the love within the walls of this house when Mrs Talbot was alive. It must have been a wonderful place to grow up.
But despite its warmth and charm, when I first started coming the house was very obviously missing a woman’s touch.
‘Pops boxed up all Ma’s bits and pieces when she died,’ Sketch explained on my first day when I asked why most of the drawers in the kitchen were empty. Aside from teaspoons and butter knives, there really was little else in the kitchen, and the scullery was even more depressing.
‘We came home after her funeral, and Pops literally swept through the house like a whirlwind and packed up all her possessions. By the next morning, it was as if she had never even lived here.’ Sketch choked back tears before he made his way up to the attic to fetch a small cardboard box with bold handwritten black letters on top.Blair’s Kitchen Things, it said.
We didn’t discuss Mrs Talbot’s possessions again, but over the past three months, I’ve gradually noticed more and more feminine bits and pieces appearing around the house. I can only assume they belong to Mrs Talbot, and Sketch is slowly retrieving them from the attic and reinstating them in their rightful places. The yellow and cream cushions that arrived on the kitchen chairs a month back brighten up the whole room. I sometimes imagine Mrs Talbot sitting by the warmth of the stove as she embroidered the beautiful floral design onto each of the six cushions with pride.
Sketch smiles without realising every time he passes by something that belonged to his mother. The candleholder in the centre of the kitchen table makes his eyes dance with memories, and her apron that I often wear turns him into a giddy schoolboy impatiently waiting for freshly baked brown bread.
Even though I’ve grown used to noticing Mrs Talbot’s things reappearing, the large painting of her that I notice suddenly hanging in the hall today takes my breath away.
‘I spent so long trying to push her memory away,’ Sketch confesses, placing his hand on the small of my back as we both gaze up at the beautiful woman captured in watercolour. ‘You know, so it wouldn’t hurt so much.’
I nod. My heart aches for him.
‘We never discuss her,’ Sketch says. ‘Pops wouldn’t even say her name after she died. I think he just wanted to forget she ever existed.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why would you want to forget someone you loved with all your heart?’
Sketch doesn’t answer my question. He slides his arm around my waist, and with his hand firmly clutching my hip, he pulls me close to him. I can feel his hunger for closeness. I can sense his desperate need to hold me. My upper body softens, and I soak up his need for my love as if I were a sponge. The top of my head comes in line with his shoulder, and I can feel his deep, breath dance across the top of my hair. His grip tightens on my hip, and I turn just enough to curl into him in response. My ear presses against his chest, and I can hear the beating of his heart through his crisp white cotton T-shirt. I cherish the sound that plays out like the rhythm of a disciplined drum.
