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

by Brooke Harris

  ‘I … I …’ I stutter, hoping I won’t cry. ‘I dunno. Just a few minutes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought she’d be more comfortable lying down.’

  Ben’s eyes wander to the mound of paper I’ve left resting on the end of the bed, and he shakes his head.

  ‘I know you’re happy you found this book, Holly,’ he says. ‘But you need to pay more attention to the important stuff. The day nurse won’t be here for another couple of hours, so it’s up to us to make sure Nana is safe and not in any pain.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ I defend myself.

  ‘Well, don’t you think that’s what you should have discussed with Marcy? Nana’s care. Not some stupid book that none of us even knew existed.’

  ‘It’s not stupid,’ I snap. ‘Reading is making her happy.’

  Ben rolls his eyes and walks around the far side of the bed to fetch a metal black cylinder.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Nana’s oxygen.’ Ben sighs, clearly disappointed that I had to ask. ‘She needs this.’

  Ben fiddles with the dials, and content everything is in order, he untangles the thin, clear tubing that’s wrapped around the cylinder and feeding into the top. The other end of the tubing is a loop, and Ben slides it over Nana’s head, fixes it behind her ears, and settles it comfortably under her nose.

  ‘There,’ he says triumphantly. ‘She’ll be okay now.’

  ‘Okay, good.’ I exhale so sharply I make myself dizzy.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ben softens, his shoulders rounding and the twisted lines across his forehead relaxing. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I just got a fright.’

  ‘S’okay.’ I shrug. ‘I should learn this stuff; you’re right.’ I tilt my head towards the oxygen cylinder. ‘Maybe you could show me?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe later. But I think you should go downstairs and get a cup of tea or something now,’ Ben suggests. ‘You’ve been in here for ages, and you look exhausted.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Ben promises. ‘Seriously, Holly. You don’t look well. Anyway, I think Mom could use your company. She’s struggling.’

  Ben flops into the bedside chair and leans his elbows on the edge of the bed. He slips his fingers around Nana’s, and her hand looks like a wilting flower against his strong, young skin.

  ‘Holly, seriously,’ Ben reiterates. ‘I’m worried about you. Take a break.’

  ‘Holly, love,’ Nana’s voice rattles while her eyes are still closed. ‘Be a good girl and get some tea. I’ll still be here when you get back.’

  ‘That’s me told.’ I wink. ‘Okay, Nana. I’ll be back in ten minutes. We can read more then.’

  My grandmother drags a rusty breath up from somewhere deep inside her. ‘I can’t … wait.’

  Nine

  My heart pounds, and my breath catches in the back of my throat like sticky treacle as I hear a rustle and a clatter ahead. My father’s awake. I recognise the sound of dehydrated legs colliding with the floor as he sways and staggers, attempting to get his balance. My shivering body quivers like a leaf in the wind as I lean my back against the front door and examine my dress. The heavy rain has turned it from a delicate sky blue into a winter indigo. If my father finds me freezing and dripping water on the floor like a drowned rat, he’ll be furious at my stupidity of getting caught out in the rain. And if he discovers I’ve failed to bring home the groceries too, I know he will beat me senseless. His temper mixed with the sting of last night’s whiskey terrifies me.

  ‘Annie,’ he growls, his voice as dark and haunting as the thunder outside. ‘Where are you, girl?’

  I wonder if I can make it back outside without the door creaking and giving my whereabouts away. I could gather some firewood from the side of the house and pretend I got caught out in the rain doing chores. He’ll still be angry, but I can distract him by lighting a roaring fire and pray the heat soothes his aching head.

  ‘Annie, fetch me some vinegar and brown paper,’ he bellows.

  His words are slurred, and his vowels overly round. I suspect he still has some of last night’s alcohol lurking in his veins. Or perhaps he’s fallen on the way home and busted his lip. It wouldn’t be the first time. Just two weeks ago, he split his left eyebrow open, and when my mother tried to wash the muck and stones out of the gaping wound, he squealed like a pig and put my mother spinning across the room with an almighty backhand across her face. It took two days for the imprint of his fingers to fade from scalding red to rosy pink on her cheek.

  ‘Annie, girl,’ he roars. ‘I won’t call again. Come here, now.’

  I reach behind my back, and I find the door handle with ease. I twist it slowly, taking great care not to make a sound. I almost have it, when I jump and let go, startled by the sound of my mother dropping something in the kitchen. A pot or pan, most likely. The metal pot clangs against the kitchen tiles with a recognisable thud, and the sound seems to echo around the house for longer than it should, as if it climbs the walls, seeking out my father to come investigate.

  When the noise of the fallen pan finally stops ringing, I hear my father’s awkward legs cross the floor, slowly making their way to the kitchen. The sound of his cumbersome winter boots is unmistakeable. My mother will have no doubt have scurried to clean up whatever mess has been made in the kitchen. But she won’t have time before my father catches her. If she’s on her knees scrubbing, she’s in a vulnerable position and the blow of his temper will come crashing down in the shape of his fist into the back of her head. Or worse, he’ll use his knee or foot.

  ‘Pa,’ I call, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as I let go of the door handle and rush into the belly of the house. ‘Brown paper, you said. I’ll fetch it now.’

  My father spins on the spot. He eyes me up and down as if I’m something he’s scraped off his mucky boots. And I wait with baited breath for him to realise I’m soaked through to the skin. My mother scampers out of the kitchen almost slipping on the tiles. She’s carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a couple of slices of steaming, buttered toast.

  ‘Here now, Johnny,’ she soothes, her eyes flicking toward me for a split second, checking on me. ‘You sit yourself down now, and I’ll look after you. I’ve tea ready for you. And toast. Buttered up all nice, just the way you like it.’

  My father slowly makes his way towards the fireside armchair. There’s no need for him to move so slowly or take such exaggerated baby steps. I crane my neck, and I can just about make out the purplish-red hint of temper that gathers across his forehead and makes its way down his nose. But before I have time to call out or offer a distraction, my mother is right behind him. She carries the tray high and tight against her chest, taking care not to let any tea stray over the edge of the teacup and spill onto the saucer. My father reaches the chair and spins around, as slowly as ever, and for a moment, I believe maybe he really will just sit and enjoy my mother’s offering. But just as I dare to exhale, my father sweeps his powerful arm across the air and his open palm collides with the underside of the tray. The force knocks the tray clean out of my mother’s hands and sends it flying into the air. The tray, teacup, plate, and toast rain down independently and land on the floor at his feet in a messy pile.

  ‘You clumsy bitch,’ my father shouts. Grabbing fistfuls of my mother’s hair, he tosses her to the floor like discarded rubbish.

  Her knees collide with the cold floor, and the pain registers on the tired lines around her pretty eyes. I know better than to scream. Or go to my mother’s aid. Trying to help would only make everything worse. I’ve learnt that the hard way over the years. If my father thinks my mother and I are uniting against him, it boils his anger even more. My heart hurts as I stand back and watch the tears stream down my mother’s cheeks as she gathers up the shards of broken crockery and tidies them onto the tray which has surprisingly remained intact.

  ‘Toast?’ my father says through gritted teeth as he towers over my mother. ‘What
kind of meal is that for a hardworking man?’

  I’ve never known my father as a hardworking man. The only income in the house is his disability pension. And The Blackwell Tavern sees three-quarters of that go straight into their till every week. There’s so little left it really is difficult to keep a household from going under. Thank goodness for credit in the local shop or we may starve. It wasn’t so bad last year when my mother sold her beautiful cross-stitch in town to the farmers’ wives. But on Christmas Day last year, my father scalded her right hand with boiling water as punishment for burning the potatoes, and now she can’t hold the needle properly anymore. She’s trying to teach me the skill, but it has to be done in secret when my father is in the pub. We make sure to have everything tidied away and hidden in the shed before he gets home.

  ‘Annie.’ My father marches towards me. ‘Get in that kitchen and get cooking a decent meal. The day is half gone, and I haven’t been fed. Not many men in this town would tolerate this nonsense. I’m too quiet. Too quiet for my own good.’

  I nod and force a dry smile as I step slowly away from the door. I try to keep as much distance as I possibly can between him and me as I pass by and make my way into the kitchen.

  ‘Annie.’ He snorts as I hurry past. ‘Annie, get back here.’

  I force a huge lump of air down, much too big for my throat, and close my eyes for a second before I’m brave enough to turn around.

  ‘Are you wet?’ he barks, pointing at my dress that’s become taut and rough against my skin as it dries.

  I look down and wince as I notice the dry and wet areas at war with one another to reveal dual tones in the damp cotton.

  ‘It’s raining,’ I explain meekly as if the unmerciful clatter of thunder every minute or so isn’t clue enough. ‘I … I …’

  ‘That’s your best dress and this is how you treat it?’ Clouds of anger gather in the corners of my father’s eyes, dragging his normally big, round blue eyes into narrow slits.

  ‘This is my only dress.’ I swallow, knowing I’ll pay the price for back answering as soon as the words pass my lips.

  ‘What did you say?’ His whole face clouds over.

  ‘I … I …’ I slurp my words as if I’m drinking hot soup.

  My father takes a single large step forward and pulls himself to his full height. Despite constantly complaining about the pain in his back, he’s perfectly capable of standing tall and straight when he wants to. He’s a head and shoulders taller than I am. And twice as wide. My knees quiver, and I separate them ever so slightly so they don’t knock together and make noise. My father raises his right hand, high above his head, and I close my eyes and count backwards from ten in my head as I wait for the blow.

  My eyes fly open again to the sound of knocking on the front door. Firm, evenly spaced knocks rattle in sets of threes. My father lowers his hand, and his venomous eyes warn me that I got lucky.

  The knocking is relentless.

  ‘Should I answer?’ I mumble, unsure.

  ‘Who is it?’ my father groans, taking his pocket watch out of his trouser pants to check the time. ‘Who would call at this hour of a Saturday?’

  I shake my head. ‘I dunno,’ I admit, fear creeping into my stomach.

  We never have visitors. Our house is a long way off the beaten track and hard to find unless you’re looking for it. If someone has come this far out of their way, they have business with us. Maybe it’s someone from the shop in town looking to be paid. My mother’s credit bill is creeping out of control. There’s no money in the house. We usually have an emergency fund in a tin in the shed, but I raided that this morning to buy the groceries. The groceries. My heart almost stops as I remember the brown paper parcel that I left in Sketch’s car. What if someone saw me get into his car earlier. Maybe one of my father’s drinking buddies has come to tell tales of my wicked behaviour. Oh God. Oh God.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ a male voice shouts between knocks.

  I recognise the husky tone straight away. Oh, my God, it’s Sketch. He promised me he wouldn’t come. I thought he understood. This is bad. So bad.

  My father twists his lips to one side, dragging his jaw with them. He raises his eyebrows and gives the impression of being startled. But I know this twisted look. Nothing ever takes my father by surprise. Nothing. He makes this face every time he’s looking forward to some light entertainment. Like when he asks my mother a question and she replies, daring to voice an opinion. The wrong opinion, of course. Or when I make dinner and he chews a mouthful of meat until I know it must be disintegrated all the while his eyes burn into me, teasing me, giving me no hint of whether the meal is tasty enough to appease his temper.

  ‘Get the door, Annie,’ he says, lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper.

  I toss my head over my shoulder and catch my mother’s eye. She’s still on the floor tidying up the last remaining pieces of broken china.

  ‘Do as your father says, good girl.’ She smiles, but there’s a wobble in her voice and a fear in her eyes that I don’t miss.

  ‘Hello,’ Sketch shouts once more. ‘Is anybody home?’

  ‘Mary, stay there,’ my father orders, tossing his eyes onto my mother’s crouched figure. ‘Don’t get up.’

  His tone is soft but venom sticks to his words nonetheless.

  ‘You …’ he whispers, turning his attention back to me. ‘You tell whoever this is that you’re home alone.’

  I nod.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ he whispers, some saliva spraying out between his clenched teeth.

  He presses his shovel-like hand down, firmly onto my shoulder and squeezes the soft part between my neck and my shoulder blade until I want to call out for him to stop. ‘You’re home alone. Don’t forget.’

  My father releases his powerful grip and takes a step back, making sure that when I swing the door open, the only person Sketch will see in the archway is me.

  Ten

  My fingers tremble as I reach for the door handle, and I feel my father’s eyes burn into the side of my face with a smug prediction. I turn the handle slowly and hold my breath as I pull the door back. As expected, I find Sketch standing tall and straight in the open gap. My eyes instantly seek out his, and I hope he can read me. I hope he can see deep into my soul and understand.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiles.

  It takes me a second or two to notice the brown paper parcel tucked under his arm. My groceries.

  ‘Miss Fagan?’ he asks, tilting his head to one side.

  ‘Yes,’ I quiver, unsure where this is leading.

  ‘I hoped I had the right house. I asked around in town, you see.’ He winks. ‘Was hard to get a straight answer out of folk. You don’t talk to people much, do you?’

  I clear my throat with a soft cough. ‘You asked where I live from someone in town?’ I say, confused. Sketch knows where I live. He was pulled up outside my gate less than twenty minutes ago, and I doubt he left at all.

  ‘Well, yes.’ He nods firmly. ‘I had to come and see for myself that you were all right. You see, I like to consider myself a gentleman, Miss Fagan.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. What respectable man in Athenry would not?’

  My nose twitches from side to side, and I can smell my father’s hot, stale whiskey breath dance across the air.

  ‘I’m so very sorry I splashed you as I drove by earlier. I ruined your lovely dress with my careless driving,’ Sketch babbles effortlessly.

  ‘Oh,’ I manage, slowly catching on and following his lead.

  ‘I just had to come and check you are okay. And apologise, of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble, a heat building in my cheeks.

  ‘Here.’ He smiles, offering me the brown paper parcel. ‘I picked you up some fresh bits and pieces from my father’s farm. I hope they’re to your liking.’

  I gather the parcel into my arms and peek inside, recognising my bag of goodies that I left in his car. Sketch Talbot is an impres
sive liar, I think.

  ‘I’m sure the mucky water that I splashed all over your vegetables can’t be very appetising. The least I can do is replace the damaged goods.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I beam. ‘Your kindness is much appreciated.’

  Silence hangs in the air between us, and all I can do is smile at the boy who seems determined to be my friend. I really would like a friend.

  ‘Hello,’ my father says, suddenly appearing at my side before I have time to notice he has moved.

  ‘Hello.’ Sketch nods, conceding politely to his senior.

  ‘I’m John Fagan,’ my father says, extending his hand.

  Sketch’s bottom lip drops ever so slightly, and I wonder if he is disgusted by the man he has clearly guessed is a monster. But Sketch stretches out his arm and shakes hands with my father.

  ‘Sketch. Sketch Talbot,’ Sketch says confidently.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure, young Mr Talbot?’ my father says, standing much too close to me.

  I can feel the heat jump from his skin and cling to mine like sticky treacle.

  ‘I owe your daughter an apology, sir,’ Sketch begins.

  ‘Oh, really now?’ My father raises a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, indeed. I nearly got her in some terrible trouble earlier. You see, I have a new car, sir. But the steering is heavy, and I’m no expert driver. I wasn’t expecting to see a young girl out walking that dangerous stretch of road with a storm brewing. I nearly ran her clean over.’

  I swallow roughly.

  ‘Foolish girl.’ My father snorts. ‘I’ll warn her to be more careful in the future.’

  Sketch lowers his head, sighs, and then takes a moment before he looks back up. ‘The mistake was mine, Mr Fagan. Not your daughter’s. Mine. Luckily, I was able to swerve away in time. But if it was dark? Well, that could have been another story.’

  ‘And what would you suggest I do, Mr Talbot? Tie her to the leg of the table to stop her from sneaking out unsupervised?’

  Sketch snorts and laughs as if my father is the funniest man in the world. ‘Oh, if only our problems were that easy to solve, eh, Mr Fagan? Not at all. But I could give your daughter a lift into town. It’d be a lot safer. How does once a week sound? Twice a week if you’re needing fresh meat.’