Page 29 of When You're Gone

‘Oh, well, that could be good…’ my mother begins, but she’s silenced midsentence by my father’s angry scowl.

‘And what makes you think we need the money?’ my father snaps, lunging forward and simultaneously pushing my mother back until she almost tumbles over.

I instinctively slip my arm around her waist to steady her. Thankfully, my father’s heated mood is concentrated on Sketch, and he doesn’t notice me assist my mother briefly.

‘You have a fine home,’ Sketch pacifies. ‘A beautiful home. You clearly do an excellent job of running a household. My offer is purely selfish. I would not be doing you or Annie a favour by employing her. You’d be doing me a service. One I’d very much appreciate.’

‘You have a way with words, Mr Talbot.’ My father straightens. ‘I’ll give you that.’

‘So we’re agreed, then?’ Sketch’s face is poker straight, but an unmissable sparkle of excitement twinkles in his eyes. ‘I’ll provide Annie with lifts to and from town twice a week. Let’s say Tuesday and Saturdays for now. All other weekdays Annie can come to the farm and earn her lift with some cleaning and cooking. Sunday, of course, is a family day, and I wouldn’t dare intrude on that.’

Bubbles of excitement pop inside my belly. I can barely catch my breath with anticipation.

My father straightens and a seriousness invades his forehead. ‘That’s a hefty price to pay for a couple of lifts.’

‘Perhaps some cash could help,’ Sketch suggests. ‘Four shillings should do it?’

‘Five.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Fagan,’ Sketch says. ‘Okay, sir. Five shillings and not a penny more.’

Sketch extends his hand, and my father shakes it so roughly that when they release I can see red imprints of his meaty fingers on Sketch’s hand.

‘I’ll come by at ten on Monday morning to pick Annie up for her first day,’ Sketch says.

‘Eleven o’clock,’ my father barks. ‘She’ll have to clean out the fire and make breakfast first. I can’t have my household fall to pieces to suit you.’

Sketch exhales slowly and deeply, and his dislike of my father is written in the weary lines around his eyes that weren’t there earlier. ‘Eleven it is. Goodbye, Mr Fagan,’ Sketch says politely, making brief eye contact with my mother.

I wish he hadn’t done that. Ma will get a beating for his affections later.

‘Annie,’ he says, and I pray he won’t smile as he talks to me, ‘I will see you on Monday morning. Don’t be late,’ he finishes sternly as if he has guessed my father would not appreciate a sign of fondness for me.

‘Mr Fagan.’ Sketch nods as he descends the porch steps backwards. ‘Until Monday.’

My father slams the door with an angry thud, and his eyes burn into mine like amber coals.

‘Why don’t you have a lie-down, Johnny,’ my mother suggests. ‘Annie and I will crack on with the cooking. You need a wee rest after all that clever negotiating. Mr Talbot talks the talk, so let’s put his food to the test and see how great his farm really is.’

I don’t wait for my mother to finish before I scurry ahead and gather up the tray of broken crockery from earlier before my father remembers it and it oils his temper once more.

My father wilts behind me and makes his way to flop his overweight body down in the fireside chair.

‘Tea, Mary!’ he shouts as my mother and I make our way into the kitchen.

‘Of course, my love,’ Ma says through gritted teeth that my father can’t see. ‘Of course.’

My mother ogles the fresh goods from the paper bag and works in silence as she begins preparing a fine meal. She doesn’t open her mouth to speak until loud snores carry from the sitting room into the kitchen, creaking like old floorboards.

‘Annie, sweetheart. Promise me you’ll be careful,’ she says, clasping her slender fingers softly around my wrist and giving my hand a gentle shake.

I eye her with uncertainty and nod.

‘I see the way that boy looks at you. It’s not your broom and mop he’s interested in.’

‘Do you think?’ I beam. ‘Do you really think he likes me?’

‘Yes,’ she says with a nod, and with a sadness in her eyes. ‘But I once believed your father liked me, too.’

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