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‘There’s only one thing a man wants from a woman, Annie,’ Ma warns as we complete our usual morning chores together. ‘You be careful now. That Sketch Talbot is a nice boy, but he’s all grown up today, and he’ll have notions.’
I blush. I’m so flabbergasted I almost drop the teapot on the kitchen tiles. ‘Sketch may be a man today, Ma, but he’s a gentleman. A true gentleman.’
Ma smiles, but I can still spot worry in the tired lines around her eyes. I don’t think she’s concerned Sketch might try to take advantage of me. I think she realises Sketch is only four months older than I am. If Sketch becomes a man today, that means I am less than half a year away from becoming a woman. Women get married and have families of their own. They don’t live with their mothers. Ma is worried she will lose me. I want to reassure her. I want to tell her I will always be here, but I’m worried too. I’m worried I will lose myself in the man I’ve fallen head over heels in love with. I’ve tried so hard not to allow how much I love him to consume me, but I’ve failed. Ma doesn’t need to worry about Sketch taking advantage of me. But she should be afraid that I want to give myself to him. Because I do. I want it so badly I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself.
When Sketch picks me up this morning, he certainly doesn’t seem older. His dark, almost-black hair is slicked back off his face. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and his cherry lips are curled into a delicious smile. His leather jacket is too warm for this unusually balmy weather, but it stretches out across the back seat of his car nonetheless, as if he’s incapable of leaving the house without it.
I wave goodbye to my mother and skip down the steps outside my house and slide into Sketch’s car with a smile so huge I must look as excited as I feel. I know that as soon as we drive out the gate and out of view, Sketch will stop the car, put out his cigarette, and kiss me, just like always, but today when I kiss him back, I won’t be thinking about a busy day on the farm. I’ll be thinking about the gift I want to give him later.
Birthday or not, life on the farm continues as usual. Sketch is busy out in the fields, and I have the house to myself for a couple of hours. I’m as excited as a child on Christmas Eve as I tie Mrs Talbot’s old apron around my waist and stoke the stove. The pantry is stocked with fresh ingredients straight from the land. Milk, butter, bright-coloured vegetables, and meat so tender it slides off the bone. The selection in the summer is so much greater than in winter, and the bright orange carrots beside leafy green cabbage is as vivid and exciting as one of Sketch’s paintings. It’s a cook’s paradise, and I’ve eaten like royalty these past few months. I fetch the eggs, sugar and flour that I wrapped in a tea towel and hid behind some empty milk bottles and get to work. Today we’re going to have the best meal of all.
Sketch, Mr Talbot and I sit down together every afternoon at one o’clock without fail and tuck into whatever meal I’ve chosen to cook that day. It was a little awkward at first, eating with the head of the household – the man paying my wages – but Mr Talbot assured me it was a pleasure to have a woman’s company in the house again. It took a little getting used to, but I believe him. Sketch and Mr Talbot treat me like a member of the family, and if it wasn’t for my pay packet at the end of the week, I could easily believe I was.
The afternoons are by far the best part of my day. Sketch’s farm work is mostly done. The cattle are milked, the pigs fed, and the chickens are back in their coops. Mr Talbot spends between two thirty and four o’clock every day napping by the fire. Sketch and I spend the same hour and a half in the orchard.
Today is no exception. I wash up after our meal and hang the pots back on the pot rack in order of size. I pack up the leftover soda bread and thick cut bacon to take home to my mother this evening. I’ve hidden it, as usual, in the sleeve of my coat, so my father won’t notice it when I get home, and snatch it for himself before she has time to eat it. Sketch’s birthday cake lies on a wire tray next to the sink to cool. I threw a tea towel over it, so he can’t spy it and spoil the surprise.
Sketch knocks on the door of the pantry from the outside, which always makes me blush. It’s odd that he knocks on the door of his own house. But once I turned around to find him unexpectedly behind me, and I dropped a pot of boiling potatoes. Neither of us were burnt, thankfully, but Sketch felt so horrendous for scaring me that he’s knocked on the door ever since.
‘Come in.’ I smile, wrapping some of the fresh-out-of-the-stove bread-and-butter pudding in brown paper to take to the orchard with us.
‘That smells delicious,’ Sketch says, kicking off his mucky wellington boots by the door. He leans his shoulders against the doorframe and watches me.
‘It’s your pops’ favourite,’ I say as I secure the paper with some twine.
‘Annie, you really are spoiling us,’ Sketch says, noticing the large slice I’ve left by the stove for Mr Talbot to enjoy when he wakes up.
Sketch fetches a spoon from the top drawer and scrapes caramelised sugar from the inside of the baking tray I’ve left on the countertop.
‘Careful, that’s still hot,’ I warn as he shoves the spoon into his mouth.
‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’ Sketch laughs, waving his hand up and down in front of his open mouth.
‘I told you it was hot,’ I giggle.
‘But worth it,’ he says. ‘Delicious.’
Sketch drops the spoon into the sink, and it hits the bottom of the steel basin with a gentle clink.
‘Shh,’ I warn. ‘You’ll wake your pops.’
If we wake Mr Talbot, it would ruin our afternoon alone. Only because Mr Talbot would insist we sit and enjoy bread-and-butter pudding together and not because he’d fly into a vicious rage. But I’m desperate to soak up a couple of hours alone with Sketch. I turn around and press my back into the edge of the countertop as I place a single finger over my puckered lips and plead with Sketch to be quiet.
Sketch tosses me a confident look that forces my breath to jam somewhere deep in my chest. He makes his way over to me and stops when he’s close enough for the heat of his body to reach out and caress me but not close enough to feel his T-shirt brush up against my apron. His warm, sugary lips dust my neck with gentle kisses, and a tingle runs the length of my spine.
‘Let’s leave this, eh?’ Sketch takes the parcel of bread-and-butter pudding from my hands and sets it down on the countertop. ‘Besides, we need to save room for the birthday cake you’re hiding under that tea towel over there.’
‘Sketch,’ I scold, slapping his shoulder playfully.
‘Come on,’ Sketch says taking my hand. Our fingers find their way between each other comfortably. ‘I have something for you.’
‘You have something for me?’ I repeat, my feet sticking to the spot. ‘But it’syourbirthday.’
‘I know what day it is, Annie.’ Sketch laughs.
I pout and look into Sketch’s eyes. Ma is wrong. He’s still just a boy. A giddy boy full of enthusiasm.
‘Are you coming?’ he says, tugging on my hand.
