‘Good, Annie. That’s good,’ Marcy whispers caringly. ‘Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?’
‘Tea,’ Nana mutters. ‘A cup of tea, please.’
‘No problem,’ Marcy beams brightly. ‘I’ll pop downstairs and flick the kettle on.’
Nervous panic hitches in the back of my throat. What if Nana stops breathing again while Marcy’s gone? I don’t know what to do. I hate that I’m terrified to be left alone with my grandmother. I want to spend all the time in the world with her, but when I’m next to her, I’m constantly petrified that something will happen and I won’t know how to help.
I drag my hands around my face and try to hide my fear from Marcy and Nana. ‘I can make the tea,’ I suggest breezily.
‘Not at all,’ Marcy insists. ‘You stay here and enjoy a little alone time, just the two of you. I could use the chance to stretch my legs anyway.’
Marcy must notice the fear in my eyes because her shoulders round and she pauses as she brushes past me to give my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘She’ll be fine, Holly. Don’t worry. I won’t be long.’ Marcy turns her head back towards the bed. ‘I won’t be long, Annie,’ she repeats loudly.
My grandmother waits until the sound of Marcy’s footsteps on the stairs disappear before she opens both eyes and pats the bed beside her. ‘Sit for a moment, Holly, won’t you?’
I swallow a lump of nervous air and force myself to smile so hard the muscles next to my ears twitch. ‘Sure,’ I say, reaching for the manuscript I left on the ground at the end of the bed.
‘Leave that for now.’ Nana sighs. ‘We can read more later.’
My eyes fall over the mound of white paper peppered with Nana’s handwriting. The corners of the old pages are becoming dog-eared from being picked up and put back down so often, and my soft scarf that wraps clumsily around to hold it all together is forcing the mound to rise at the sides and bow in the middle like a canoe. With still over a hundred pages left to read, I can’t shake the feeling that we won’t have enough time. My heart is heavy with worry, and it’s hard not to cry. I find myself staring at the ceiling sporadically, hoping that if I keep my eyes wide open, I can roll the tears back. Every blink is a hazard, but I can’t let Nana see how upset I am; I don’t want to scare her.
‘Holly, please?’ Nana calls, her hand trying to trace a circle against the duvet where she hopes I’ll sit.
I breathe out slowly and steadily, and my bottom lip seems to tuck itself behind my top teeth without me telling it to.
‘Is he here?’ Nana asks as I lower myself to sit on the bed beside her, taking care to tuck myself next to her hip without hurting her.
‘Is who here, Nana?’ I ask, keeping my voice low and calm.
My grandmother closes her eyes and long, deep breaths puff out of her as if it’s taking every ounce of energy she possesses just to breathe. I wonder if she’s talking about Sketch. I wonder if the medication is making her drowsy and delusional. I almost hope it is. I hope she’s thinking about him, and it’s making her happy.
Nana’s hand twitches, and I feel her thin, fragile fingers fan my hip. ‘Nathan, Holly,’ Nana puffs. ‘Did Nathan come?’
I turn my head away so Nana can’t see the tears that I just can’t hold back anymore. I suck air in through my nose and force it back out slowly through my mouth so my body doesn’t shake as I silently cry.
‘He did, Nana,’ I say, wiping my eyes before I twist my head over my shoulder so she can see me smile. ‘Nate came to see you.’
‘Good.’ Nana swallows, her eyes closing. ‘And he came to see you, too.’
Fifteen
The road has grown narrower and narrower for the past half mile, and I slowly begin to wonder if we will just drive off the end of the earth if we keep going. The engine purrs and splutters as Sketch pulls up on the grass when the road suddenly disappears. The car hops and wobbles as it struggles to get a grip on the wet grass and uneven ground. Sketch tucks the car in neatly under a huge horse chestnut tree with branches that hang low like tired arms. Their twiggy tips like knobby fingers attempt to tickle the ground as they sway in the wind.
‘We’re here,’ he says, opening the driver’s door and hopping out.
I wait for him to come around to my side of the car, but when he doesn’t appear after a minute or so, I open the door myself and jump out, luckily avoiding a sneaky mucky puddle.
I pull my cardigan tighter around me and fold my arms across my chest, but the stubborn wind still finds its way inside the wool to pinch me. Before I have a chance to close the car door, the wind catches it and slams it shut with a loud bang that shakes the whole car.
‘You all right?’ Sketch says, peeking out from behind the back of the car. The slamming of the door obviously grabbed his attention.
‘Sorry.’ I grimace. ‘I didn’t realise the wind was so strong.’
Sketch doesn’t reply. I can see he has the boot open, and I assume he’s rummaging around for something. I wonder if I should offer to help him look for whatever it is.
A dull, rusted farmer’s gate hangs crooked on its hinges next to us. The wind drags it open and closed as if it’s a flag waving in the breeze. The creak of the old hinges crackle like the beating of a tin drum, and it’s the only sound for miles. I take a moment and look around at the beauty and stillness that seems to stretch on for an eternity. The simplicity of the scenic countryside is soothing. Lush green hedges mark out individual fields. Fields of corn, barley, and tall grass. Squares of yellows, browns, and various shades of green stretch out like a giant patchwork quilt over the land. It’s beautiful and timeless. It’s as if nothing can touch this place. I imagine if I stood in this very spot in one hundred years from now, it would be exactly as it is this very moment. As if time stood still. Maybe time does stand still here.
The slamming of the car boot calls me back to the here and now, and I drag my eyes away from nature and find Sketch walking towards me. My gaze settles on the straps of a khaki backpack that’s slung over his right shoulder. The thick strap nestles into the leather of his jacket and seems to drag on his back, and I can tell whatever is inside is heavy. I notice some messy oil paint stains around the buckles, and I hazard a guess that his brushes and paint are nestled safely inside. But I don’t dare ask. My father taught me that no woman should ever question a man’s privacy.
‘Even the most ordinary of men have their secrets, Annie,’ my mother would unwittingly concur.
Sketch Talbot is no ordinary man, not to me, but my lips remained sealed nonetheless. It’ll take more than a rekindled friendship to break the habit of submission that’s been drilled into me most of my life.
‘Here,’ Sketch says, offering me a pair of grey Wellington boots and a black winter coat that I didn’t notice he carried under the opposite arm. ‘They were my mother’s, but I think you’re about the same size. I thought you might like them.’
I gather the coat and boots into my arms, unsure what to say.
‘It’s very mucky in there.’ Sketch points into the nearest field. ‘I don’t want you to ruin your good shoes.’
Sketch doesn’t look at my feet. He doesn’t acknowledge that I’m wearing the same shoes as yesterday. The ones with a hole in the side. The only ones I have. The ones that I can’t get mucky because if I do, my father will flip out. And Sketch knows it.
I blush. I want to say thank you, but a teary lump forms in the back of my throat, so I decide against chancing words.
Sketch smiles and offers me his free shoulder. I grab on to steady myself as I stand on one leg to slip off my shoe and drag on the first stubborn Wellington. I wriggle and twist my foot as I struggle to push my toes all the way in.
‘Haven’t you ever worn Wellies before?’ Sketch laughs at my efforts.
I shake my head and wobble as I switch feet. ‘No. Never,’ I confess. ‘I’ve never been on a farm either. I’ve never even seen a pig. Well, not unless it’s bacon frying in a pan.’
Sketch throws
his head back and belly laughs. ‘Well, we’ll have to rectify that this afternoon. I’ll take you to see all the livestock later. But there’s somewhere more important I want to go first.’
‘Okay,’ I beam as bubbles of excitement pop in my tummy. I plant both my feet back on the ground and sigh with relief to be steady again. ‘Where is this important place?’
‘It’s a surprise.’ Sketch grins giddily as he looks towards the sky. ‘You’ll want to put that coat on first,’ he says. ‘It looks like rain.’
Sketch takes my shoes and tosses them onto the back seat of his car as I slip my arms into the black woollen coat. I pause and savour the rush of comfort as the thick wool banishes the wind from touching me. I’ve never felt so snug while still outdoors. The coat certainly makes an Irish autumn breeze more tolerable. Sketch turns around and mirrors the huge toothy grin that sits comfortably across my face.
‘It’s a perfect fit,’ he says, his smile growing even brighter.
‘It’s so warm.’ I sway, wrapping my arms around myself and nestling my neck into the cosy collar.
‘Good. I’m glad you like it. You should keep it.’
‘Oh, no. I couldn’t,’ I say, suddenly embarrassed.
‘Of course, you can. I want you to.’
‘But it was your mother’s,’ I protest.
‘Yes. And now, it’s yours.’ Sad clouds seem to gather in the lines of Sketch’s forehead, and his usually sparkling eyes are suddenly murky and troubled.
I want to ask him how his mother died. I wonder if she was ill for some time or if she passed away suddenly. But I don’t. I can tell how much he misses her, and I guess talking about her must be terribly hard. I can’t imagine what I would do without my mother. She’s all I have in this world.
‘Thank you,’ I say, running my hands down the front of the coat to straighten it out. ‘I really do love it.’
Sketch doesn’t say anything more about the coat, but he stands in front of me for a moment as his eyes run over me, and I stand statue-like and allow him to. I wonder if I remind him of his mother. We stand face to face just feet apart and neither of us dares to move. The darkness in Sketch’s eyes soften, and I see a sadness that he doesn’t try to hide.
Sketch Talbot is tall and broad. His rich ebony hair and chiselled jaw are the kind of good looks destined for the movie screens. It would be easy to take one look at him and assume he’s a man with the world at his feet. Women throw themselves at him. And I understand because I do. Hell, I’m human. I have blood running in my veins, and I would be lying if I said that my heart didn’t flutter every time he looked at me. I’d be lying if I said the sound of his deep voice didn’t seem like velvet kisses against my ears. He is physically beautiful, and every eligible woman in Athenry would happily give him her heart without a second thought. And I don’t think I can blame them.
I feel myself slip into an eleven-year-old little girl again. I remember what it’s like to sit beside him in school. I remember what it’s like to never have to tell him my secrets. He already knew. I remember what it’s like to be Sketch’s best friend. And I remember thinking no matter how bad things were at home, I always had Sketch, and he would always keep me safe.
But then he left.
One day, he didn’t come to school. He didn’t come the next day. Or the day after that. He just left.
I missed how he always smelt like a mixture of freshly cut grass and pine cones. I missed how he’d peek over my shoulder to copy my maths. I missed the tasty apples he brought me every day. I missed how no matter how bad it was at home, just being beside him made it a little bit better. But most of all, I just missed him. Slowly, though, missing him grew to anger. Then anger grew to bitterness. Over the years, I convinced myself I hated Sketch Talbot. Sure, I’d see him around town. At first, he’d say hello, but I didn’t say hello back. Sometimes, he’d wave, but I’d turn my back. Finally, one day, he turned his back too.
An elderly lady at the market once told my mother that when Mrs Talbot died, she left behind a broken-hearted husband and young boy. My mother said it was a terrible loss, but she knew Mr Talbot would do his best for his son. And he did. He taught Sketch the land. You couldn’t learn about milking cows or how to birth a lamb from a book. Sketch didn’t really leave me. He was a child, and he was as much a product of his environment as I was of mine. I can see that now. Standing here in front of the boy I knew so well who has grown into a man I desperately want to know, I feel warm. I’m warm despite the thick overhead clouds. I’m warm despite the swirling wind. And I’m warm because for the first time in nine years, I can remember what it feels like to have a friend.
‘C’mon,’ Sketch says, taking my hand in his as he snaps us out of the daze we’ve both fallen into. ‘We should get going. It’s a bit of a walk.’
Sketch leads the way, and I follow. We plod through soggy grass and hop fences and ditches. Sketch was right. It really is a long walk, and when I look back after a while, I can’t see the road or Sketch’s car anymore.
‘Nearly there,’ he says after a long, comfortable silence.
‘That’s good,’ I say.
I don’t mind the walk. I’m used to walking miles at a time, but never when I’m as warm and content as I am now. I could walk for hours more if Sketch wanted to. I’m usually in such a hurry when I walk into town to just get there and back in as little time as possible. I never really take the time to look around. I never take the time to notice the birds flying overhead, or how the leaves on the trees are turning ruby and gold as they get ready to fall. Today, I’m noticing it all. It’s as if I’m admiring a beautiful painting, and the watercolours have sprung to life all around me. It’s magic, and I’m savouring every moment.
‘We’re here,’ Sketch says as a field of giant apple trees stretches out in front of us.
The trees stretch so tall that even when I tilt my head right back until I think I might topple backwards, I still can’t see the leaves at the top. The huge branches span like strong arms laden with apples so bright and red, my mouth waters just thinking about how juicy they would taste.
Sketch hops over the closed gate and races up to the nearest tree. He reaches for a massive greenish-red apple hanging on one of the lower branches, and with a gentle twist, the apple pops free and falls into his hand. He places it on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment until he’s certain he has my attention. As soon as I smile knowingly at him, he gives his shoulder a gentle shrug and the apple tumbles down his arm, and he catches it in his outstretched hand.
‘For you,’ he says with a cheeky grin.
I laugh. ‘You’ve gotten better at that.’
A warm memory of all the apples Sketch dropped when we were kids trying to perfect that move dances across my mind.
‘I’ve had years of practice,’ Sketch says, ‘but it hasn’t been as much fun without you at the end to give the apple to.’
I take the apple and polish the peel against my coat. I take a huge bite and swallow it almost whole. But before I have time to enjoy another bite, I feel Sketch’s warm lips press against mine. I close my eyes, and the apple tumbles out of my hand and rolls around the grass, coming to a stop against my feet.
‘Yum,’ he whispers; the word gently rushes from his open mouth into mine, and I know he’s not talking about the apple.
Sixteen
Sketch slides the backpack off his shoulder and sets it on the ground under the tallest apple tree in the whole orchard. The bark is twisted and knobby, and even if Sketch and I joined hands, I don’t think we’d manage to wrap our arms all the way around the trunk. Initials are chiselled into the thick bark, surrounded by a wobbly love heart. It’s pretty and romantic and makes me toothy grin. But the corners of my lips slowly twitch and fall as I wonder if Sketch has brought other girls here. Bridget, perhaps. My heart sinks even though I know I have no right to be jealous. Bridget is Sketch’s friend. She was there when I wasn’t. And everyone deserves friends. Even me. Sketch and
I have been apart for a long time, so I can’t expect that he lived in solitude all that time. I wouldn’t have wanted him to. Not like me. Loneliness and isolation change a person. I’m not the same scrawny eleven-year-old with a pixie haircut that Sketch knew, and for a second, I worry that he thinks I am. I worry that maybe he still likes eleven-year-old Annie. I worry that he’s been waiting for her all these years, but she’s long gone, and I don’t know how to explain that. The weight in my chest grows heavier still, and despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to shake it. I’m not jealous of Bridget, I realise; I’m jealous of her time. All the time she got to spend with Sketch when I didn’t. I ache for the missing years, and I grieve for the child I once was.
‘They’re my parents’ initials,’ Sketch says softly, noticing where I’m staring. ‘They carved their initials into the tree on their wedding day. That’s why the last letter is the same for both. Talbot. See.’ Sketch traces his finger over the hallow letters, pausing for a little longer on the second set of initials, and I guess they’re his mother’s.
‘A. T. loves B. T.,’ I read aloud.
‘Blair. My mother’s name was Blair.’
‘That’s a really pretty name.’ I swallow.
‘Just like her.’ Sketch smiles. ‘My father used to say how he never understood how a man like him got lucky enough to marry a girl like her. Sometimes he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was so beautiful.’
I catch my father’s eyes on my mother sometimes too, I think. Usually when she’s made a mistake or said something he doesn’t like the sound of and he’s about to make her pay. I cough awkwardly, trying to inhale without choking on air. I shake my head in a vain attempt to shake the image of my father’s bloodshot eyes from my mind.
‘Annie, are you okay?’ Sketch says, his hand suddenly on my shoulder.
I jump instinctively, and Sketch backs away, but I don’t miss the flash of sadness that sweeps across his eyes. Sketch is opening up to me about his dead mother, and I’m selfishly consumed by my father who is very much alive. I feel overwhelmingly ashamed.
When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Page 12
