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‘Pops overheard you telling me about the painting your father burned,’ Sketch explains.
My mouth gapes, and my hand slaps across it, creating a popping sound.
‘Don’t worry.’ Sketch takes a step forward to press his chest against mine. ‘Pops is no fool. He understands your father can be, eh, difficult. Pops won’t cause trouble for you. Or your ma.’
I’ve known for quite some time that Mr Talbot doesn’t approve of the man my father is. I like him all the more for it.
‘When Pops finished calling your pa all sorts of names I can’t repeat in front of a lady, he asked me if I had more paintings of Ma that I liked,’ Sketch says.
‘And you said…?’
‘I showed him my folder.’
‘You did?’ I say. ‘Wow. That’s huge. What did he say?’
‘Nothing.’ Sketch smiles. ‘He just looked.’
‘Oh, Sketch,’ I say. ‘I’m so glad you finally got to show your father your work.’
‘Pops flicked through all the paintings,’ Sketch says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘He didn’t say they were good or anything like that, but he didn’t say they weren’t.’
‘And this is your pop’s favourite?’
‘Actually. It’s my favourite,’ Sketch says.
My eyes narrow. ‘What about the brush strokes. You said you weren’t happy with them.’
‘I’m not.’ Sketch smiles. ‘I had little to no skill when I painted this, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not about the paint on the page. It’s how I felt while I was painting it. How it makes Pops feel.’
‘I’m so proud of you,’ I say, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.
‘You should see how he smiles when he looks at her face, Annie. It’s almost as if he slips into a world where she’s still here.’ Sketch sighs.
‘I understand,’ I nod. ‘I feel that way about books. They’re my escape from real life. Sometimes when I was younger and lonely or scared, I’d hide under my bed and read for hours. I’d get so lost in the story I could almost forget Pa was drinking the afternoon away.’
‘I’m glad you had stories,’ Sketch says.
‘Me too.’
‘Maybe you should write your own someday.’
I laugh, and my throaty gargle echoes around the huge hall and attempts to creep its way up the sweeping staircase.
‘I’m serious,’ he continues. ‘I’m glad you could lose yourself in books, especially after I left your life so suddenly. Maybe someday, someone will need to lose themselves in something you write. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to do that for someone? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to help someone with your words?’
I can understand some of Sketch’s pain from when his mother died. My father is very much alive, but I grieve for a loving relationship that’s long gone. Sketch loses himself in painting; for me, it’s reading. And for my pa, it’s the devil’s curse of fiery whiskey.
‘Annie,’ Sketch whispers, calling my attention back to him. ‘You don’t have to be lonely or scared any more. I’m here. I will never leave you again.’
Sketch runs his fingers under my chin and tilts my head back before he presses his warm, firm lips against mine.
TWENTY-FOUR
ANNIE
Winter and spring rush by, and summer arrives suddenly. One day, the wind just up and left, and it hasn’t rained in almost a week. The warm days bring with them long evenings full of sunshine and fireflies. It’s a busy time on the farm. The first of the hay was cut last week, and the new-born lambs and calves are growing fast; they’re almost eight weeks old. That makes it eight weeks of avoiding Sketch’s pleas to go to the summer dances with him. The rejection in his eyes every time I turn him down hurts my heart, but we both know why I refuse.
I plan to make it up to Sketch today. I set tuppence aside from my wages this month and last. It was a risk but Pa was either too drunk or nursing a sore head and didn’t notice. I bought the freshest flour, sugar and eggs at market. I could easily use ingredients from the farmhouse pantry but it’s important to me that when I bake Sketch a special birthday cake it’s truly a gift from me. Ma says today is a milestone. She says a boy becomes a man on his twenty-first birthday.
