In her imagination, that evening years ago had ended differently and Tarran was a different person, a kind one. They had talked, whispered, exchanged affectionate words full of promise, and he had stared at her as if leaving was painful . . .
Looking across the car park now, she watched him climb into the passenger seat of Digger Whelks’s car. The two laughed like idiots, doubled over, and Digger punched his friend on the arm before they high-fived. She had no doubt that she was the topic under discussion. Digger beeped the horn three times in farewell and she heard the crunch of gravel under the tyres as he made a speedy exit.
Of course you’re keen to get away from someone like me . . . Of course you are . . .
With shaking fingers, Hitch turned the key and started the engine. This time she switched the radio off and drove slowly and quietly with caution along the deserted lanes to Waycott Farm. With only a mile or so to go, she swerved left and pulled the pickup into a layby.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly with white-knuckled hands, she let her head hang down until her forehead touched the leather-bound circle. She sat like that for a second or two, maybe more, before her tears fell like hot rain, cascading down her cheeks, smudging the remnants of her make-up and making breathing difficult as she gulped for air.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
Her cry was loud and unrestrained, the sound of distress, frustration and sadness expressed in the only way she knew how. Out here at this time of night, she knew it would carry, possibly even scare the girls.
But that was just too bad. As her mum had reminded her earlier, the hens weren’t girls, they weren’t her friends.
They were bloody chickens.
‘You all right, my girlie?’
It was, she knew, the closest her mum would come to admitting she had heard Hitch crying in the kitchen the previous evening when she arrived home from the pub. Hitch had recognised the soft creak of her tread on the stairs and pictured her hovering in her nightgown on the step, pulling her wine-coloured velvet bathrobe together at the neck, debating whether to come down or stay hidden in the shadows. Her mum had chosen the latter, not that Hitch minded, preferring to face her misery alone, and what could her mum possibly have said that might in any way have thrown light on how she felt? How could she begin to explain her secret desire to seek moments of solace beneath someone like Tarran Buttermore, a man she didn’t even really like and who didn’t like her, just trying to feel . . . something?
‘Yep,’ Hitch answered, bending forward as she scooped the soft cow shit on to the wide shovel, dumping it into the wheelbarrow, which wobbled on the cold, concrete floor.
‘Reckon weather’s picking up – that’ll be better for your foot. I know it’s uncomfortable in the cold.’
‘Yep.’
Immune now to the repulsive stink of the manure, she banged the shovel on the edge of the barrow to free the stubborn lumps stuck to the side.
‘We’ve got one guest in today, a corporate booking, man from London – a banker, if memory serves. You’ll get on with the room after that?’
‘Yep.’
‘You need a hand, my darlin’?’
‘Nope.’
Her mum finally walked away and Hitch felt her shoulders sag. She took a deep breath, her stomach folding with embarrassment when she pictured herself giving simpering looks of invitation to Tarran, who had been laughing at her, sharing the joke with his friends. She had woken with sadness on her chest like a weight and a slow chill that started in her gut and spread throughout her limbs. Today she had got out of bed with great reluctance, trying to rid herself of the cold, lingering feeling of nothingness. Her mum was right: Hitch’s foot ached to the point of pain and her spirits were low. She had stared in the bathroom mirror, looking intently at the face that stared back, just to make sure she was really there.
Even Buddy, in tune with her emotions, seemed to have lost his playful bounce and had earlier crept by her side across the yard with his head low, ears back, as if able to sense her malaise, so in love with her that her sadness crushed him.
Austley Morton was a small village, and everyone knew everyone else, and everyone went to the Barley Mow, and everyone knew the mouthy Buttermores, and everyone would know that she had put on her perfume, made herself available, only to be knocked back . . . Word travelled fast when there was little else to talk about. Gossip like this was rich social fodder. She shuddered at the thought.
Bending low, she scooped again at the dung, the irritating scrape of the sharp metal shovel on the concrete enough to set her teeth on edge. She was shivering, despite the fact that her mum was right: the weather was picking up. With the big spade in her hand, she stood briefly at the entrance to the cowshed and leaned on it, looking out over the brow of the fields and down to the river, where the sun rose, touching everything that grew on God’s green earth with a golden finger. It was, as ever, uniquely beautiful, fleeting, and all the more moving for it.
She tried to imagine the view that greeted Jonathan each morning, no doubt sun-grazed, snow-capped mountains, shiny, lean horses, white picket fences and that big, big, blue sky! Her gaze fell on the shit-splattered spade in her hand – how could she blame him for trading this for that? It was a horrible realisation that part of her frustration with him and his actions lay in old-fashioned jealousy.
Her baby brother had done it.
He had used his initiative and escaped.
Hitch felt her tears fall and cuffed them away, having learned long ago that crying solved nothing. As a child, no matter how much her sobs soaked her pillow after a tough day, in the morning her foot would still be crooked, her fingers curled and her darn lip just as ugly. Now her body railed against trying to hold back her emotions and she cried hard, long, lingering sobs that robbed her of breath and bothered the calves, who mooed loudly behind her.
She let her head fall on to her chest and found herself temporarily paralysed with sadness. Was this it? Was this to be her life? What was the point in keeping family heirlooms, vintage cake tins, hand-scrawled recipes and deeds for houses if she was never going to have anyone to hand it on to? Would Emery – the ungrateful pig – become the custodian? The thought sent a tremor right through her. How was her life ever going to change when each day was spent on this exhausting hamster wheel? Only now, after all these years, did she fully understand that the faster she ran, the quicker she got nowhere and all that happened was that she collapsed at the end of every day, exhausted and still very much alone, trying to figure out her place in the world. All she wanted – all she had ever wanted – was a chance at happiness, to reach her full potential. That, and the opportunity to have what others took for granted: someone to talk to, someone to love who might love her right back.
Hitch managed to compose herself. She sniffed and raised her head and did something she hadn’t done for eighteen years. She looked skyward before closing her eyes and offering up a silent prayer.
‘Please, I want something. I want someone. I want more!’
I know that I’m lonely, so lonely.
I know that I’m ugly.
I know that men don’t look twice at girls like me.
I know this is how it will always be.
I know that I’m growing weary of it . . .
FOUR
‘Hel–lo?’
From where she stood on the brow of the paddock, she heard the voice call out – male, deep, not a voice she recognised, but deliverymen were not uncommon.
Hitch lowered the chicken in her outstretched arms and tucked the bird snugly in the crook of one elbow.
‘Hello?’ she replied, and was about to make her way across the grass and down towards the wide flagstone patio of the yard when a tall man of about her age strolled towards her.
The two looked at each other and she wondered for a moment if she already knew him. He walked as if he knew where he was heading – straight towards her – before hovering awkwardly a few feet away, with a sports bag in his hand and
another bag slung across his body. He wore a jacket, smart trousers that sat a little proud of his ankles and black lace-up shoes.
Buddy barked from the back door behind which he was ensconced.
‘I . . . I knocked twice, on the front door, but no one answered.’ He gestured towards the front of the house, as if she might not know where it was.
‘Right.’ Along with his cockney accent, she noticed his oddness – it was hard not to: the way he stood, the tilt to his head, his unconventional looks, but she also saw the kind crinkle at the corners of his eyes, his awkward manner and his big but brief smile, as if he was unsure of his place in the world.
And this, she understood.
‘Well, sorry to keep you waiting. Is no one in the house?’ She looked towards the kitchen, wondering where everyone had got to.
The man shook his head and used his index finger to loop his long fringe across his forehead and behind his left ear.
‘I wasn’t sure I was in the right place, but I have this.’ He pulled a brown envelope from the front pocket of his satchel. ‘And it says here, Waycott Farm.’
‘Well, this is Waycott Farm.’ She waited to see what the man wanted. Was he selling something? Or could he be their overnight guest? He didn’t look much like the archetypal banker that she’d been expecting. He looked more like a trainspotter or a librarian.
The two stood, caught in a moment of silence that was excruciating. She sought through the nervous jumble in her mind and tried and failed to think of something to say.
The man looked back down the path and eventually spoke. ‘I was wondering how you sort things out when they go wrong in the countryside.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She had lost the thread of the conversation.
‘I was just thinking that, if I was in the wrong place, I’m not sure what to do next. The taxi dropped me and left quickly, and I was thinking that, to get help, it would be a lot more challenging here than it is in a city. I mean, if ever I get locked out of the flat I live in, I can knock on a neighbour’s window. My next-door neighbour, Reggie, used to be able to open our front door with a credit card. And if I need to get anywhere in any kind of emergency, I just jump on a bus or train or the Underground. It’s easy. But out here’ – he plucked his phone from his pocket – ‘I don’t even have a phone signal.’ He held the phone to face her as if she might need proof.
‘No,’ she concurred, thinking how very little a lack of signal impacted on her own life. ‘Are you our bed-and-breakfast guest?’
‘Yes.’ He again held up the brown envelope.
‘Mr Grayson-Potts?’ His unusual name had stuck in her mind.
‘Yes.’ He nodded, staring at the chicken under her arm. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your . . .’ He paused.
She felt the bloom of embarrassment at the fact that she might have been caught dancing with the chicken, swirling, singing and humming as she turned this way and that for the benefit of the lovely hen.
‘I thought you were holding a baby in the air. At first.’ He shuffled his feet, confirming that she had indeed been caught in the act.
‘Oh no, no baby! This is Daphne.’ She had quite forgotten she was holding the chicken and ran her finger over the soft, feathery head of the pale bird.
‘Hello, Daphne.’ He made eye contact with the hen and lifted his hand in greeting.
She laughed at the formality of his introduction and instantly regretted it, as his face flushed red.
‘She likes me to make a bit of a fuss over her.’ Hitch leaned forward and whispered to him, even though they were the only two people around. ‘I’m not supposed to have favourites, of course – this is a working farm – but isn’t she just the prettiest chickie you’ve ever seen?’
‘I suppose so. Your accent is nice. Soft. It makes me think of treacle.’
Hitch smiled at the compliment and it was her turn to feel a flush on her face. There was an odd and unique gentleness to their interaction, as if they had known each other for a very long time and were comfortable in each other’s company, pleased to see each other, catching up.
Buddy barked loudly, clearly keen to come and greet their guest. The man flinched.
‘That’s just Buddy, my dog.’ She saw him exhale and swallow, as if afraid. ‘You’re a bit early.’ Placing Daphne carefully back in the run, she wiped her hands on her thighs, as if this might be enough to remove any residue of chicken. The man grimaced a little, appearing somewhat unnerved, possibly at the thought of spores from feathers and bird dander floating in his direction. It made her smile.
Townie . . .
‘What time is early?’ He looked at her, as if unaware that there was a wrong or right time to arrive.
‘Well . . .’ She paused and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Usually we say any time after three to give us a chance to get the room turned around from the previous guest, but no matter.’
The man twisted his upper body and looked back towards the path that ran around the side of the house. ‘I could go for a walk, if you like, and come back later.’
‘No! No, that’s fine. I’ll just fetch Buddy and get you settled.’ She marched down the paddock and again saw him stiffen. ‘Do you not like dogs?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘No.’
Hitch stopped walking and turned to face him.
‘You don’t like dogs?’ She tried and failed to hide her note of disbelief, unable to imagine anything nicer than greeting her beloved each morning and burying her face in his coat. The thought of being without her beautiful boy was almost more than she could stand.
‘The thing is’ – he swallowed – ‘I never know how you can tell if they’re the friendly or snarling variety, and so they frighten me. I can only speak from experience and say that I’ve never met a dog that I do like.’
She stared at him, trying to figure him out.
‘And have you met many dogs?’ Her tone was a little softer now, as she remembered this man was, after all, their guest.
‘About seven.’
Hitch laughed loudly. This time he didn’t turn red but laughed too, seemingly gladdened that he could elicit this reaction but not having any clue as to why she might be laughing.
‘Seven?’
‘About seven,’ he corrected, and having placed his bag on the ground, he used his fingers to count while looking up towards the heavens.
‘Mr Riley’s mongrel, Mrs O’Hanlon’s boxer, Michael the postman’s Staffie, Auntie Joan’s poodle, the Rottweiler on the ground floor, the Westie in the newsagent’s and Reggie’s old girlfriend’s chihuahua . . . Yes. Seven. But I say “about seven” in case I’ve forgotten any.’
‘Okay then.’
She continued her walk towards the house, watching him step gingerly over the clods of earth in his smooth-soled, lace-up shoes that she was in no doubt were more accustomed to pounding pavements than walking over soil and grass.
‘I love dogs,’ she confessed, ‘and I can’t imagine feeling any other way – Buddy’s my best friend. Why don’t you like them?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘They shit everywhere,’ he said. ‘On the stairs of the flats where I live. The pavements where I walk. I even found a shit in the lift once – my Auntie Eva said it might have been a human shit, because she saw it too, but I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with big dogs: their shits look a bit like human ones. She thought it might have been one of the junkies who lived on the top floor. But I thought it was a dog’s.’
‘So . . .’ She smiled at him, trying to sift the facts from the torrent of information that came at her so quickly: he lived in a block of flats where junkies lived on the top floor; he had an Auntie Eva as well as Auntie Joan with the poodle . . . ‘Just to get this straight, it’s not the dogs you don’t like, so much as their shit.’
Mr Grayson-Potts paused to consider this. ‘Yes, that might be right. Not the actual dogs, but their shit.’
Hitch opened the back door and out bounded the tail-
wagging Buddy, who scampered around the visitor with a daft look on his face that looked a lot to her like smiling.
‘This is Buddy. My dog. He’s definitely the friendly variety.’
Mr Grayson-Potts nodded, but kept his arms close to his body and his eye on Buddy, with a look of mistrust.
‘Can I tell you a little secret?’ She turned to face him.
‘Sure.’ He leaned in and her heart raced a little. She liked the scent of him. It was peppery and reminded her of the amber-coloured soap they used to have in the bathrooms at school. ‘There isn’t a person alive who likes dog shit, not one – even dog lovers, like me. So, who knows, you might be a dog lover after all and just not know it.’
The man watched Buddy running his excited laps around the yard and, if anything, seemed a little perplexed, as if this were something he hadn’t considered. ‘Maybe.’
‘Right, let’s go and get you settled.’ Hitch made a clicking sound with her tongue and Buddy ran over, trotting to heel. They all three then proceeded round to the front of the house and the man followed her up the path, the scrape of his soles making a scratchy noise on the stone pathway. She was conscious in a new way of her one foot that stood on tiptoe and the way that leg dragged a little. She felt unusually bothered and wondered if he was staring at it, wishing, for reasons she could not quite fathom, that she could present perfection to him as she pushed on the heavy oak front door to reveal the dark, panelled hallway.
‘You leave the front door unlocked?’ he asked, aghast, apparently more interested in their security arrangements than in her dodgy foot.
‘Yep, we don’t really have any bother out here. There’s always someone around and, besides, Mr Chops over there is a fearsome guard dog.’ She nodded towards the lithesome pig that ferreted in the undergrowth.
‘Guard pig,’ he corrected, and again they both snickered, sharing a joke like friends. Hitch pulled the red leather-bound guest book from the writing desk and licked her finger before flicking through the pages. She saw the man wince a little.
‘You might have chickeny stuff on your fingers,’ he pointed out.
The Things I Know Page 5
