When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss
Page 25
My father stands up with a speed that defies his age, and he’s standing next to my mother quicker than I can pull myself up off the floor.
‘I won’t tell you again, Rose. Get out.’
My mother cranes her neck to look around my father’s broad shoulders. Her eyes settle on mine. I nod as I stand straight and try to act as if my lower back isn’t on fire.
‘Go, Ma. Just go. Please,’ I say.
The corners of her cherry lips curl as she tries to hide her worry with a pretty smile.
Ma’s hand trembles as she turns around and reaches for the door handle, but when she breathes out and pulls herself tall, it’s almost believable that she’s calm.
‘Sketch,’ she says, breezily as she swings the door open as if nothing has just happened and steps outside without looking back. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
The door closes quickly behind her, and my heart sinks with the heaviest sadness I’ve ever known. Some mumbling follows outside the door, and I think I can hear pacing. I have no doubt Sketch is quizzing Ma about my absence.
My father stands statue-like in the middle of the floor. His neck appears independent from his body as he twists awkwardly to offer his ear as close to the door as he can without moving off the spot.
‘They’re gone,’ he finally says when Sketch’s engine starts and they drive away.
I choke back tears. Part of me expected Sketch to come barging through the door to rescue me. Of course, deep down, I know it’s for the best that he didn’t. A giant fight would have surely erupted and someone would have ended up hurt. Maybe badly. But even though I know Sketch has done the sensible thing, my body is pinned to the spot by the weight of sadness. I was so excited about the dance; snatching the dream away from me at the last moment is by far my father’s cruellest move.
‘Clean this up.’ Pa snorts, pointing at the glass bottle on the ground. He drags his finger across the air and clicks at Bridget’s broken shoes. ‘And get those the hell out of my sight.’
He walks away slowly and flops into the fireside chair, putting his feet up, comfortable and content.
Thirty – Five
I complete the list of mundane tasks that my father rattled off the top of his head. My fingers hurt from carrying in a box of logs too big for the fire and too heavy for my back. My knees are black and dirty from kneeling on the ground trying to light the fire with the stupid, giant, damp logs. The small of my back was already sore from falling on it, but when my father’s heel collided with it when the fire wouldn’t take light, the agony was almost unbearable. But I didn’t cry. No physical pain he could inflict would hurt more than Sketch and my mother leaving for the dance without me.
Exhausted, I flop onto my bed. I’m too tired to change out of my dress into my tattered nightdress, and I decide to sleep in my clothes tonight. I gaze up at the ceiling as moonlight streams in through the flimsy curtains. The darkness of a summer’s night has turned life outside and inside my room into a matching chalky grey. Trees sway in the gentle breeze, sending shadows dancing around my room, and I try to pretend the dark silhouettes are people. I hum gently and sway in beat with the moving branches, imagining I’m wrapped up in Sketch’s arms and dancing the night away.
I’m in the blissful state somewhere between conscious and not when a light scratching on my window pulls me awake. I drag myself off the bed and my feet barely come in contact with the cold timber as I bounce across the floor. I quickly draw back the curtains and press my nose against the glass and squint, trying to make something out of the shapes and shadows that sway outside. There’s nothing there. I swallow the bitter pill of disappointment and resign myself to the understanding that Sketch isn’t coming back for me. Of course, he isn’t. Real life is nothing like books, I tell myself even though I want so desperately to believe in the fantasy.
The next scratch against the glass captures my attention instantly, and I spin on the spot. A silent, startled scream hitches in the back of my throat, and although I’m delighted to find Sketch standing on the opposite side of the window, my heart still palpitates with shock and surprise. Sketch takes a step back and reaches his hand out to me. He wants me to come outside, I think, overwhelmed by sudden nervous excitement. I hold up my index finger and signal for him to wait. I hurry to my bedroom door and push the only piece of furniture in the room against it. I wedge the back of the chair under the door handle to create a makeshift lock. I scamper back to my bed and slip my feet into my old shoes.
I squint as I make my way slowly towards the window. I’m gentle on my feet, taking mostly baby steps, despite my haste. I’m a dab hand at making sure my feet make no sound as I cross the floor. My hand shakes dramatically as I reach for the window handle. I’m glad it’s dark, so Sketch can’t see my flushed cheeks. I can’t believe this is really happening.
The window is stubborn and doesn’t want to open. The hinges creak as I push, and I curse its lack of cooperation. I let go and shake my head.
‘It’s too noisy,’ I whisper.
Sketch looks back in confusion. He can’t hear me through the glass.
I point toward the rusty hinges. Sketch nods confidently and grabs the handle on his side. He tugs. The window flies open with a brief screechy groan. The noise hangs in the air for a second, and then it’s gone, carried away on the breeze. Sketch and I stand still and silent, and I guess he’s holding his breath too. Seconds tick by in painfully slow motion. My father doesn’t stir from his position, passed out blind drunk in his fireside chair. The noise didn’t wake him.
Sketch reaches his arm through the gap created by the open window and opens his hand. I take it. His hardworking hand is warm and safe, and I exhale sharply as I pull myself up and crouch on the window ledge. Sketch lets go of my hand and settles both of his hands on my waist.
‘Are you ready?’ He smiles.
I nod.
‘One ... two ... three,’ Sketch says, lifting me out of the gap to spin me around in his arms.
My feet dangle for a moment before finding their way to the ground. Sketch’s arms move around my back and tuck my chest against his.
‘There now,’ he says, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
I flash a gummy smile and try to hide my dizziness. ‘You came back.’
‘I didn’t want to leave,’ Sketch confesses. ‘But I know how much you wanted your mother to go to the dance. I know how much you wanted to go too. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you took Ma. I want her to have a great time.’
‘Your ma said you were feeling unwell. I was worried about you.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘I should have stayed,’ Sketch says. ‘I should have checked you were okay.’
‘You did the right thing. And you know it,’ I comfort. ‘Pa would have been hopping mad if you didn’t leave when you did.’
Sketch’s eyes narrow, and despite the limited moonlight, I can see a hundred questions dance in his eyes. We both know I wasn’t ill. But what good will talking about it do now.
‘Where is he now?’ Sketch says, his tone suddenly deeper as his head twists towards the front door.
‘Pa?’ I ask. ‘He’s asleep.’
‘Is he drunk?’ Sketch puffs out.
‘Yes. Maybe even more than usual. He passed out an hour or two ago.’
‘Good.’ Sketch smiles. ‘Then he won’t come looking for us.’
‘Looking for us?’ I echo. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To dance.’
‘But the dance must be nearly over by now,’ I shake my head, confused.
‘There’s an hour or so left,’ Sketch explains. ‘But we’re not going to the hall.’
‘Then where?’
Sketch press a single finger against his lip. ‘Shh, c’mon. We don’t have much time before the dance ends, and I have to collect your ma. I want to make the most of every second until then. My car is just outside the gate if we hurry we can ...’
Disappointment softens Sketch’s arms, and his grip on my waist loosens. But he doesn’t yield to my rejection. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his head high. He looks around the garden as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Moonlight shines through the gaps in the mature oak trees. Silvery tones kiss the silhouettes of trees and garden fences. I’ve never been afraid of the dark. I’ve always loved how night brought with it hours of solace and the chance to hide. But I’ve never really looked at night as anything other than a cloak; a black curtain that falls and sweeps the pain of the day away. But tonight it’s as if God himself has reached down from heaven to sparkle glitter all over my patch of earth.
‘Okay,’ Sketch says, breaking the sweet silence that has fallen over us. ‘Then we’ll dance right here.’
I muffle a giggle. I know he’s serious.
‘There’s no music,’ I protest.
‘True.’ He nods and kisses the top of my head. ‘But all we really need is each other.’
Sketch takes my hand in his. His fingers slip between mine effortlessly as if they’re finding their way home. He raises our hands together to one side. He’s poised and ready to lead. His other arm stiffens at the elbow, and his hand navigates my lower back. I wince as his fingers fan over my spine, and Sketch quickly lets go. His fingers slip away from mine, and he takes a step back. His eyes are narrow and darken, like the sea after a storm, as he looks me up and down.
‘What has he done to you?’ Sketch growls, and even though I know his flash of temper isn’t directed at me, I’m still scared.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. I want to dance. Can’t we just dance, please? I don’t want to discuss this.’
I’m disappointed in myself as I catch the delicate, composed tones that shuffle past my lips. I sound exactly like my mother when she’s trying to pacify my father. I don’t want to be that woman. A woman who tiptoes around her lover, fearing that he might spin out of control if she says the wrong thing. I remind myself that Sketch isn’t my father, and I want to be honest with him, but it’s incredibly difficult to shake the habit of a lifetime. The habit of keeping the sordid secrets of my horrendous family life locked up behind closed doors.
‘He hurt you again, didn’t he?’ Sketch’s voice is deep and suddenly very grown-up.
‘He was drunk,’ I say as if that’s any defence.
‘What did he do to you?’ Sketch’s beautiful face contorts with frustration. ‘Tell me, Annie. Please?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing he hasn’t done before,’ I admit.
‘I’ll kill him. I’ll goddamn kill him.’ Sketch forces the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows, ready.
‘Stop it. Please?’ I plead.
‘Let’s see how he likes to be punched and hit.’ Sketch marches towards the house, tall and stiff with rage.
‘Sketch. Please stop,’ I shout, forgetting that my loud voice might wake my father.
‘It’s the last time he hurts you, Annie. The last goddamn time.’ Sketch marches on, nearing the door.
‘Please,’ I shout louder. ‘You’re scaring me.’
Sketch freezes. He drops his head and stands like a statue on the spot.
I begin to cry. And by the time Sketch is back, standing in front of me, I’m a quivering mess. Sketch’s rage seems to spill off him, and it’s replaced by compassion and concern.
‘I love you, Annie,’ he says. ‘The thoughts of that bastard laying a finger on you kills me.’
‘I know.’ I sniffle. ‘But he’s my pa. I live under his roof.’
‘That doesn’t give him any right to hurt you,’ Sketch says. ‘Christ, look at you. You’re beautiful and intelligent and funny. Any man would be privileged to have a daughter like you. I know I would be. Maybe we’ll have a little girl someday.’ Sketch pauses and holds me a little tighter. ‘I hope we do. And I’ll fill my lungs with the smell of her hair, and my heart with the sound of her voice. I’ll worship the ground she walks on. Because she will be a little part of you. A gift.’
‘Sounds nice,’ I chirp, my frantic heartbeat gradually returning to something that resembles normal as my mind wanders to thoughts of Sketch and me walking through the orchard holding the hand of a little girl. Our little girl. Our family. It would be the most perfect fairy tale of all.
‘You don’t belong to your pa, Annie,’ Sketch says, pulling me out of my blissful daydream.
I smile at the man I love and sigh. Sketch’s romantic notion of freedom and self-worth is admirable, but it’s just not the way life works. Ma belongs to Pa. I belong to Ma and Da. It’s just the way it is.
‘People aren’t property, Annie,’ Sketch explains calmly. ‘You can’t own another person no matter how inflated your ego is.’
‘I think most husbands and fathers would disagree.’ I snort, thinking of almost every family I know in the village. The man is the head of the household, and the wife and children do as they are told. Sure, most men don’t beat their wives the way my pa does, but men and women most certainly are not equal in Atherny.
‘Maybe most men would disagree with me,’ Sketch agrees. ‘But then most men around here are dinosaurs living in the past. Their stubbornness and prehistoric attitude mean they are missing out. I watched my father and mother adore each other in the short time they had together. They were equals. Sure, Pa worked the land and Ma kept the house, but those were simply the roles they fell into. Pa was big and strong; he could birth a calf with his bare hands or lift countless bales of hay. And Ma’s roast beef and mashed potato was second to none. My pa would tell me what a wonderful cook my mother was. And Ma would praise Pa’s strength and hard work. Neither of them ever took the other for granted. And it was beautiful. I don’t want a wife who cleans up after me or only ever tells me the things she thinks I want to hear. I want a best friend. A partner. Someone who challenges me when I’m wrong and laughs alongside me when I’m right. I want you, Annie. No.’ Creases etch into Sketch’s forehead. ‘I need you.’
‘You have me.’ I smile.
Sketch stuffs his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out a small, grey box. ‘I mean, I really need you, Annie.’
My hands fly to my face, covering my mouth and nose.
Sketch bends down on one knee and opens the box. A beautiful cluster of diamonds sparkles in the moonlight.
‘It was my mother’s,’ Sketch explains.
I blink in disbelief and tears stream down my face like raindrops, but this time they are tears of joy.
‘I planned to ask you after the dance, but well ...’ Sketch shrugs.
‘Ask me now,’ I blurt, shocking myself. ‘Ask me now.’
I take my hands away from my face and drop them loosely by my sides, and I pull myself up as straight and tall as I go. I don’t want anything to muffle my answer.
‘Annie Fagan, will you do me the proud honour of becoming my wife?’
‘Yes. Oh, my God. Yes. Yes, I will.’
Sketch is on his feet instantly. And in spite of my best efforts to stand tall, he’s still a head and shoulders over me. He takes the ring out of the box, and I notice his fingers are shaking. If he was nervous about my answer, he certainly hid it. He takes my hand in his, and I spread my fingers like a fan. He slides the ring on. It’s a little big, but it looks fabulous nonetheless.
‘I love it,’ I say, euphoric. ‘And I love you.’
Sketch scoops me into his arms and spins me around and around. I throw my head back, enjoying becoming dizzy.
‘Everything is going to be perfect, Annie. Just you wait,’ Sketch says, finally putting me down.
I believe him. Everything already is.
Sketch and I spend the next three-quarters of an hour or so dancing to nothing more than the music in our heads. We stop and kiss. Then
dance some more. It’s by far the most wonderful night of my entire life. But as always, it comes to an end.
‘I have to go,’ Sketch says. ‘Your mother will be waiting.’
‘Oh, my God. Ma,’ I say, running a worried hand over my hair.
What will happen to my mother when Sketch and I are married? Without me there to share the burden, Pa will take all his anger out on Ma. I was so caught up in blissful happiness I forgot to think about how all this would affect my mother. How could I be so selfish? So stupid. There is no fairy-tale ending. Not for a girl like me.
I slide the ring off my finger and offer it back to Sketch. He stares at me blankly, and my heart breaks, knowing how much I’m about to hurt him.
‘I’m sorry.’ I swallow the giant lump in my throat that makes it hard to breathe. ‘I can’t marry you.’
Sketch’s bottom lip falls, and I could swear my heart has stopped beating.
‘I-I don’t understand,’ he stutters.
‘Please, Sketch. Just go. This is already so hard. I can’t bear it any longer,’ I cry. ‘Please just go. You have to.’
Sketch opens the box, takes the ring, and places it back inside. The box shuts with an angry snap and startles me. Sketch is suddenly so lost, like a puppy who has strayed too far from home. I want to reach out to him, to touch him and comfort him, but it would be unfair to give him false hope. I curl my fingers and jam my hands firmly by my sides. Sketch looks me in the eye, shakes his head, and stuffs the box into his pocket.
‘I still love you, Annie Fagan,’ he says, shuffling on the spot. ‘I always have, and I always will. Remember that.’
I watch as Sketch turns slowly and walks away. He doesn’t look back. I want to shout after him. I want to explain, at least. But he’ll only try to find a solution to a problem we can’t solve, and my heart already hurts more than I can cope with. False hope might shatter it completely.
Thirty – Six
‘These two had some serious communication issues,’ Ben says, standing up to pace Nana’s hospital room.