When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss

by Brooke Harris

  ‘I don’t mind.’ I shrug.

  I’m lying. I do mind. I mind a lot. My feet hurt, and the blisters are unbearable sometimes. It’s not so bad today because it was sunny when I set out, but in the bitter winter … My God, I feel like my toes might actually freeze and fall off.

  ‘Do you walk it often?’ Sketch probes gently.

  I roll my shoulders. ‘Once a week. Sometimes twice. Walking gives me time to think.’

  ‘That’s a lot of thinking.’

  ‘I’ve a lot to think about,’ I say truthfully.

  I don’t tell him that it gives me time to cry without fear of being heard. And I definitely don’t tell him that every time I walk into town, I daydream about never walking back.

  There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence as he glances at my shoes. I blush. My right one has a noticeable hole in it. It’s really only surface damage, and it doesn’t let the water in, but I can tell Sketch is shocked. Thankfully, he spares me the embarrassment of asking me if I have another pair. It’s obvious he knows the answer.

  ‘You weren’t going to walk all the way home carrying that, were you?’ He points at the parcel in my arms that’s growing unbearably heavy now. ‘Here, let me take it before you hurt yourself.’

  I hand it over reluctantly. I try to pretend I don’t care about the contents of the brown paper parcel as much as I do, but my eyes won’t seem to pull away from the bag. If the eggs break … I don’t want to think about it.

  ‘C’mon. Let’s get you home.’ He slips his arm around my shoulders and ushers me towards the passenger side door of his car.

  I stiffen as the warmth of his arm caresses the nape of my neck. I drag my eyes around the street, trying to take in as much as I can without moving my head. Nobody’s around. Nobody to see me get into a car with a boy. Nobody to inadvertently tell tales to my father. Thank God.

  Seven

  Sketch’s car has a built-in radio. I can’t believe it. Actual music fills the whole car as we drive. I don’t recognise the song, but it doesn’t matter; my feet tap in time to the beat anyway.

  ‘You like to dance?’ Sketch says as we make our way out of town.

  ‘I love to dance,’ I correct.

  ‘Really? I’ve never seen you in Mount Clements.’

  I fix a stray strand of hair behind my ear and hug the bag of groceries resting on my knees close to my chest. I shift slightly to stare out the window, hoping if I pause long enough, he’ll change the subject.

  Mount Clements is the biggest ballroom in all of Galway, and it’s in our town. It’s the place to be every Friday night. There’s a stage and a live band. It’s wonderful, or so everyone says. I’ve never been. I’m not allowed. My father says girls like me don’t belong in a place like that, which is ironic, considering Mount Clements is where my father met my mother almost twenty-two years ago.

  Sketch waits for me to turn back and takes his eyes off the road briefly to catch mine. ‘Maybe you’ll come with me sometime?’

  ‘We’re nearly at my house,’ I choke. ‘Just a couple of more miles.’

  ‘Say you’ll come, Annie. Say you’ll dance with me. Please?’

  ‘I’d like to really.’

  ‘I can pick you up,’ Sketch offers. ‘If that’s the problem?’

  ‘Problem?’ I echo.

  ‘Yeah. I just thought maybe your folks don’t have a car,’ Sketch says. ‘That’s why you walk so much, isn’t it? And it’s why I haven’t seen you at the ballroom before. Young girls can’t be walking alone at night. And it’s too dangerous to cycle that winding road in the dark. Even if you have a light on your bicycle. I understand.’

  I sigh. In the absence of an explanation from me, Sketch has made up his own theory. Thank God. It’s made things much easier.

  My bottom lip falls on one side as I grudgingly agree. ‘Yeah. You’ve got me. We don’t have a car. Pity because, as I said, I love to dance. But, you know, I can’t walk home in the dark and whatnot.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ Sketch grins. ‘I’ll come pick you up. Shall we say next Friday?’

  ‘Next Friday?’ I squeak.

  ‘Well, yes. Unless you have plans.’ Sketch’s smile becomes uncertain. ‘We can leave it until the following week if you’re busy, but just so you know, the wait might kill me.’

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. My mind races like a runaway freight train. I want to go. I’m desperate to. But I’ve no idea how I’d pull it off without my father finding out. He’d never allow it and going without his say-so would carry harsh consequences if he ever got a whiff of it.

  ‘Um, let me sit on the idea,’ I say, my legs beginning to shake, and the brown paper parcel noticeably bobs up and down against my knees.

  Even side faced, I can see the disappointment in Sketch’s expression.

  ‘Annie Fagan. You do like to play hard to get, don’t you?’

  I want to explain. I’m oddly desperate to let him know I’m not rejecting him or making him dance around hoops for the sake of it. I’d be his guest at the ballroom in a heartbeat. If only it were that simple. I change the subject.

  ‘Sketch,’ I mutter.

  ‘Mmmhmm,’ he replies, half humming along to the radio.

  ‘So your friends call you Sketch for short, then?’

  ‘Yup. For a few years now. I’ve never really fancied myself as an Arthur. Arthur is an aul fella’s name really, isn’t it? I think my mother felt obliged to call me after my father’s father. Being the firstborn boy and all that.’

  ‘An aul fella’s name?’ I giggle. ‘I think there’s plenty of young Arthurs too, you know. Anyway, I think it suits you. It’s … ugh … smart.’

  Sketch raises an eyebrow and shakes his head as if I’ve just insulted him. ‘Nah. I’m not the smart type.’

  Sketch’s dapper appearance is almost flawless, so he can’t be talking about his looks. I guess he means intellectually, and his self-doubt smacks of familiarity. Athenry is a town renowned for believing people belong in boxes. Like apples and pears. Sketch’s box is Sketch, the farmer’s son. Just as mine is Annie, the alcoholic’s daughter.

  ‘I’m definitely more Sketch than Arthur,’ Sketch reiterates. ‘Anyway, it has a double meaning, so I extra like it.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I flutter. ‘A double meaning, eh? What’s that?’

  ‘I draw,’ he admits without hesitation. ‘A little. Nothing very good. But my friends tell me I should try to sell some.’

  ‘You draw? That’s fantastic.’

  My first thought, of course, is do his parents know? I can’t imagine his father is too happy to see him with a pencil in his hand where a shovel should belong. I shake my head and mentally scold myself. I’ve spent too long in this town; I’m starting to think like everyone else. I wish I could be so brave as to choose my own path.

  He’s an artist, I think. I can’t quite believe it. Wow. Arthur Talbot is the very definition of an oxymoron. He should stink of manure and tease me and discuss me behind my back the way the other kids my age do. Arthur Talbot may have walked out of my life when we were children and his father pulled him out of school, but I can’t deny how good it feels that after all these years, we’re once again sitting side by side. Sketch didn’t need a classroom to teach him to be a gentleman. He’s learned that all on his own. My first impression of Sketch had been so wrong. Thankfully, he wasn’t so quick to judge a book by its cover, or I wouldn’t be sitting next to him right now.

  ‘I’d love to see some of your drawings. Could I see some sometime, maybe?’ I ask softly.

  Sketch’s eyes narrow, and I know he’s trying to gauge what my reaction might be.

  ‘Please?’ I nudge.

  ‘Okay,’ he says after a long silence. ‘There.’ He points to just above my knees. ‘Open it.’

  There’s a brown leather folder on the shelf below the dash. It’s tattered and bound with some off-white twine. Its haggard appearance seems out of place against Sketch, against his car, and ag
ainst his shiny good looks. It looks more like something I might own.

  ‘It’s okay. You can open it,’ he says. ‘Some of the ones on top are chalk. Be careful not to get dust on your dress.’

  For the first time since I sat in the car, I’m brave enough to loosen my grip on the brown paper parcel hording my groceries. My concentration shifts to the tattered folder. My fingers shake as I untie the stubborn twine. Finally, the leather peels back like the petals on a blooming lily to reveal beautiful artwork in all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘These are fabulous.’ I gasp. ‘Absolutely beautiful. I can see why your friends want you to sell them. You could make a comfortable living. You’re a very talented artist.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sketch’s cheeks are glowing. I’m embarrassing him. I should close the folder, but I just can’t help peeking at a couple of more drawings first.

  ‘Oh, wow, this one is stunning,’ I say; my cheeks sting as I try to draw attention away from our questionable friendship. My eyes widen as I take in the beauty of a watercolour portrait of a woman by the sea. ‘Who is this lady? Do you know her?’

  ‘She’s my mother,’ Sketch explains.

  ‘She’s very beautiful.’

  Sketch coughs dryly, and his grip on the steering wheel suddenly tightens. I notice his jaw stiffen and lock. I swallow hard, and a familiar panic pinches my heart. I must have said something to anger him, but I don’t know what. I scurry to close the leather folder.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I splutter. ‘I’ve been careful. I’ve put them back in order.’

  My damn fingers make things worse; the leather slips and slides in my hands, and I almost drop the folder more than once. I can’t seem to get a grip on the twine, and beads of perspiration gather on my palms, making it almost impossible to keep hold of anything.

  Sketch turns the steering wheel abruptly, and the car veers to the left. The front wheel mounts the grass verge, and my teeth chatter. He allows the car to roll on slowly until we’re off the road completely, and we finally come to a lazy stop.

  I can barely draw my breath. Each inhale is burning my lungs, and my heart is beating so fiercely if it wasn’t for the running engine I think Sketch might hear it.

  Sketch sits still for a moment and stares out the windscreen. His hands are still in position on the steering wheel. I wish he’d say something. Anything. The longer he goes without words, the more his fury builds. I know how this goes. My father is growing old, and the years of alcohol abuse have worn inches off his frame. I can just about take his temper these days. But Sketch is tall and broad. Young and strong. I don’t stand a chance against his rage. I never should have gotten into his car. I should have known better.

  My hand reaches for the door handle, but I don’t grab it. I wouldn’t make it far before he catches me, and running away would only make him more angry. Maybe I can talk him down. Calm him with an apology.

  ‘Sketch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been snooping. I didn’t mean to upset you. I swear.’

  Sketch lets go of the wheel and turns to face me. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. My father usually has tears too, but only after he’s hit me or my mother. Never before. I don’t understand.

  ‘You weren’t snooping, Annie. I gave you permission to look. I wanted you to.’

  I swallow some warm, dry air. It catches in the back of my throat, and I struggle not to cough and splutter. ‘I shouldn’t have asked who the lady in the picture is. It’s none of my business. I’m so very sorry. Please don’t be angry.’

  Sketch wipes under his eyes with his fingertips, and when he takes his hands down, the hint of tears is gone, and he seems more composed.

  ‘Annie. I’m not angry. Why would you think that?’

  I scan his face for a clue of what to say, a clue of what he wants to hear. If I say the right thing, maybe he’ll start driving again and take his temper out on the road instead of my skull.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I press my back into the leather of the seat behind me. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Please stop saying that.’ Sketch sighs. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  I nod, afraid to say anything. If he doesn’t want to hear an apology, then what does he want?

  ‘Christ, Annie. You’re shaking.’

  ‘I’m okay. Just a little cold,’ I lie.

  Sketch leans forward and takes off his black leather jacket. He turns towards me, and I hold my breath and don’t dare to move. This is it. Instinctively, I close my eyes. It’ll be less scary if I don’t see his fist coming.

  Seconds tick by in slow motion before I feel his hands on my shoulders, draping his jacket over me.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘Is that better?’

  I open my eyes to find him watching me. His huge, round, turquoise eyes sweep over me like a gentle mist, washing away my panic slightly.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ I nod, shaking a little less. ‘I’m warm now.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good. You had me worried there for a second. I thought you were becoming ill or something. Are you ready to go?’

  I nod eagerly, the bones in my neck cracking as they object to my jerky head movement.

  ‘Or we can stop here for a while, if you want to look at some more of the paintings. I don’t mind waiting. Actually, it’s kind of nice to have someone to show them to.’

  Sketch’s lips are curved up at the sides, and his eyes are warm and sparkling. I think he really does want me to see more of his work. I think he even wants me to ask more questions. I wasn’t expecting this. I must seem like a crazy lady becoming so jumpy all of a sudden. Damn habit.

  ‘So your mother …’ I whisper, treading softly in case I’m getting the signals all wrong, and he doesn’t actually want to discuss this.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Sketch blurts before I finish. ‘She died six years ago. I miss her terribly.’

  ‘Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. I never would have …’

  ‘What?’ Sketch shrugs. ‘Asked who she was? I know. No one wants to discuss her in case it upsets me. But not talking about her upsets me the most. This is good. It’s nice. Thank you for asking. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to think about her.’

  Sketch’s pain is scribbled in every contorted line of his frowning face. It must hurt like hell; I can’t even begin to imagine life without my mother. We are all each other has.

  ‘And your dad?’ I say. ‘How is he coping?’

  Sketch nods. ‘It’s hard to tell. We’re not that close. He thinks I’m wasting my time with paint and paper. He says I’ll never have a penny to my name if I keep this nonsense up. He wants me to go into the family business. He and his brothers all work on the farm as did my grandfather. My father says farming is in Talbot blood. But it’s not in me.’

  ‘You don’t like animals?’ I ask, trying to mask my disappointment.

  ‘Actually, I do. A lot. I’ve no problem cleaning up a bit of pig shit or mucking out the cattle shed. It’s the slaughterhouse that I have trouble with. I don’t have the stomach for it. I guess I’m the runt of the family.’

  I look at Sketch’s broad shoulders that span the entire width of the driver’s seat. The short sleeves of his white t-shirt are just the right length to reveal his strong arms and toned biceps. If Sketch is the runt of any litter, I can’t even begin to imagine what his uncles must look like.

  ‘How about you? What does your father do?’ Sketch asks.

  ‘Um …’ My cheeks sting, and I shift in my seat.

  I consider making something up, but I feel I owe Arthur more respect. I’ll just skim the truth instead.

  ‘My father was an engineer. He used to work for the railroad, but a freak accident left him with a bad back, and he’s been out of work for a while.’

  I leave out the part of the story that explains that everything changed after that day. The day a colleague accidentally dropped a railway sleeper between my father’s shoulder
s and cracked some bones in his back. He turned to whiskey for the pain. That was when I was five years old. His back has long healed, but his drinking habit remains. He hasn’t worked in fifteen years.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sketch says, his voice sounding softer and deeper suddenly. ‘I’m sure things are hard for him ... For you.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘They can be.’

  Sketch looks at his watch. ‘It’s ten past one,’ he says. ‘I’d best get you home.’

  I suspect Sketch has read between the lines and understands my haste, but I don’t ask. It’s not something I want to discuss. Especially not with a stranger. If word ever got back to my father that I’d shot my mouth off … Christ, I can’t even think about that.

  Sketch starts the engine, and within seconds, we’re back on the road and driving faster than before. I close the leather folder and tie a bow in the twine before I place it back where I found it. I’d love to ask to buy one of the painting or drawings, but I don’t have the money to pay up front, and I don’t want to embarrass either of us by asking to pay in instalments. We sit in silence for the rest of the journey.

  In less than five minutes, we reach the top of my road.

  ‘Stop here, please,’ I say.

  Sketch drives on.

  ‘Stop. Please,’ I repeat, louder.

  We roll forward more. We’re just a few feet away from the front gate of my parents’ house now.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sketch. Stop the car. Please stop the car,’ I shout.

  The brakes squeal, and we come to an abrupt halt. I jerk forward and barely manage to clutch the brown paper parcel safely against my chest before it tumbles off my knee.

  Sketch grabs my hand before I have time to reach for the door handle. ‘Annie, what’s wrong? What are you so afraid of? Is it your father?’

  My bottom lip quivers, and I slap my free hand across my mouth, physically forcing myself to shut up. My father could walk by at any moment. Any moment.

  ‘I’m strange. Just strange,’ I cry. ‘Bridget was right. You should stay away from me.’