The Things I Know

by Amanda Prowse

  The sight of her message icon flashing when she woke the next morning meant she was smiling within seconds of opening her eyes.

  SORRY. LOST MY PHONE. FOUND IT! THINKING ABOUT YOU. SHALL WE CHAT LATER?

  She let her thumbs dance over the letters, firing off a reply as quickly as she could, with sweet relief and excitement in her veins.

  YES! YES! YES! LET’S CHAT LATER. I’M THINKING ABOUT YOU TOO, ALL THE TIME. WENT TO THE FLAT ROCK. NOT THE SAME WITHOUT YOU . . . X

  She felt bold adding the kiss, but hoped it conveyed what was in her mind, that she wanted nothing more than to kiss him and for him to kiss her in his own beautiful way.

  He replied with:

  X

  Thomasina practically leapt from the bed, performing an elaborate dance in her pyjamas, her head nodding, feet tapping and arms flapping to music only she could hear in her head. This was what he did to her! And she liked it. She jumped into the shower with a spring in her step and a smile on her face.

  ‘Humming now!’ Addressing his wife, her dad jerked his thumb in her direction as Thomasina fried the bacon, enough slices for the lovely couple from Glasgow currently sitting in the dining room, as well as their own family.

  ‘Yep, and singing earlier. Dancing too. I heard her thumping around, thought she was going to drop down into the parlour through that rotted joist in the floor!’ Her mum joined in the ribbing.

  ‘Bloody racket is what it is! Think I preferred it when she was away in London.’ Emery did his best to draw the happiness from the room, but this morning he failed. It was a strange thing. They were inching closer every day to losing the farm and yet there was what could only best be described as a lift in the atmosphere of the place. She disliked the Buttermores, but the thought of them owning Waycott Farm was preferable to her cousin snaffling it from under Jonathan’s nose. Her mum and dad too were more relaxed than she’d seen in an age. It was as if they felt nothing but relief now that the thing they had feared and railed against for so long was actually underway. Without the fear of it, without the worry of uncertainty, there was room for the beginnings of peace and the chance to make a plan. Thomasina too felt a sense of calm. It was as if shackles were being unlocked and a whole new world of possibilities was opening its arms in welcome.

  ‘I’m off to market today,’ her mum said, slurping her tea.

  ‘Reckon I might come with you, love. I could do with nipping into Bristol on the way back. Hopefully, the trailer will be empty, if the calves go as planned.’

  ‘What d’you need in Bristol?’ Emery looked up.

  ‘I need to go and see the lawyer; the office is in the town centre. Just to talk a few things through. The farm valuation has come back and things seem to be moving on apace.’ He coughed.

  ‘When did they value the farm?’ Emery asked indignantly, and it bothered her, the way Emery assumed he could talk to her dad like that, as if he had any right to question him in that way. Who did he think he was? He wasn’t Jonathan!

  ‘Couple of days ago, while Thomasina was away in London. A man came round with a clipboard and I walked him over the farm and he took a look over the house and asked a few questions and whatnot. I had to fill out some forms.’

  Thomasina liked the look of surprise on Emery’s face, a reminder to him that the three of them were a unit long before he pitched up.

  ‘What will you do if the Buttermores take over, Emery?’ She kept the questioning casual. ‘Reckon you’ll like working for Tarran? Sleeping in the shed? Doubt they’ll let you have a room in the house. Maybe we should leave the dog sofa in Big Barn for you?’

  He stared at her, choosing not to answer.

  She plated up the bacon and eggs, black pudding, fried bread and beans and whisked them into the dining room.

  ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Arbuckle. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘We did, dear, thank you. Like logs. Mind you, David and I can sleep on a clothes line. This is such a lovely place. We’ve been out early this morning, chatting to a very handsome pig over the road!’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be Mr Chops, guard pig extraordinaire!’ It made her smile, thinking of how Grayson had said this first.

  ‘I loved him!’ The petite, dark-haired Mrs Arbuckle beamed, and continued, in her beautiful Glaswegian accent as she cut into her bacon, ‘Such a smart, noble creature!’

  ‘Can we book ahead for next year?’ Mr Arbuckle enquired hopefully. ‘We’d like to bring the grandkids – we have quite a clutch!’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’ The reality of the farm sale flared in her stomach. ‘The farm might be for sale and I don’t know if bed and breakfast will be on offer, but I can keep your details and either pass them on or let you know?’

  ‘That would be grand, thank you. How can you stand to leave this beautiful place?’ he asked.

  Thomasina looked around at the ornaments and bric-a-brac gathered over the years by the women in her family. While leaving would be hard, maybe the bungalow for her parents wouldn’t be so bad, not when Thomasina would be living a different life, one she’d chosen and not one she’d been born into. For the first time ever, it felt within reach.

  ‘Life moves on, I guess,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘I guess it does,’ Mrs Arbuckle acknowledged, loading up her fork.

  Swishing back into the kitchen, Thomasina put plates of bacon and eggs on the table for her parents and Emery before resuming her humming as she began doing the dishes.

  The lovely Arbuckles had left a little while ago and the room had been stripped and cleaned. Her day was flying by fast. The animals were fed and mucked out and the vegetable beds weeded and mulched. She decided to forgo lunch and instead make a start on supper – one less job for later. With a steady hand and a song in her heart, she piped the top of the shepherd’s pie with creamy mashed potato and set the Pyrex dish on top of the range, ready to be browned.

  ‘What’s for lunch?’

  She turned sharply, not having heard Emery come in.

  ‘Whatever you find in the fridge, I guess.’ She was damned if she was going to cook just for him. She stacked the saucepan and utensils into the deep sink and ran the hot tap.

  ‘I work hard for this family, and the way you treat me—’

  ‘The way I treat you?’ She spun around, cutting him off with passion in her words. ‘Jesus Christ, Emery! You might have Mum and Pops fooled, but I’m on to you.’ Her words and reaction were offered without the filter of self-protection that normally shaded her exchanges with him. On this occasion she spoke her mind with her guard down and her confidence high.

  ‘Is that right?’ He laughed.

  ‘Yes! You think the way you treat me is funny, but it’s not. I’m not here for your sport.’

  ‘No, but you’re game – or so Tarran was telling everyone in the pub the other night. He said you were well up for it.’

  ‘There you go again!’ She paused to draw breath. ‘Only you make me this feel this way and it’s not fair. I hear you coming into a room and I get a sick feeling in my stomach. How is that right?’

  ‘You need to be less sensitive.’ He reached for the milk jug from the fridge and poured himself a glass, quaffing it quickly.

  ‘No, you need to lay off! I don’t even ask that you’re nice to me – we are way past that. I just want you to leave me alone.’

  ‘Get over yourself, Hitch. I don’t give a shit about you or what you want!’

  She shook her head at the case in point and found her voice. ‘Do you know, Emery, you’ve been so horrible to me my whole life! Every memory I have of you is one where you’re calling me names, teasing me,’ she said, swiping furiously at her falling tears. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of him and yet here she was, her weeping almost overwhelming now in response to those memories. ‘Nanny and Grandpa were only in the snug and you called me Tard, Fuckwit and . . . and Rabbitmouth.’ It was hard for her to say it out loud. She saw the smile slip from his face. ‘And them names
have stayed with me. I think about them in every new situation – when I have to face someone, when I go into a shop or walk down a street. You don’t think it was hard enough being me without you giving me horrible names to think about? The farm was my refuge, but whenever you were around I lost that, and here you are! And you cosy up to Mum and Pops because you think you can get control of the farm.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like your golden-balls brother is going to be around, is it? He’s not coming back and so what’s your Pops going to do? Leave it to you?’

  ‘No, Emery. No, he isn’t. As he said, he’s going to sell it to the Buttermores and they will finally have this house, and you know what? I’d rather they had it than you. At least it will just be business, fair and square, but you’ – she straightened her shoulders as her tears subsided – ‘you don’t deserve it. You’ve been a total shit to me and I never deserved it. I was just a little girl! A little girl with way enough on her plate!’ They came again, those darn tears.

  As if in tune with her distress, Buddy came in from the dining room and barked loudly, then began to growl: a low, deep, rumbling sound that suggested he was primed and ready to defend the girl he loved.

  Emery looked at the dog, slammed the glass on to the table and turned on his heel.

  Thomasina felt her strength leave her. It had taken a lot to confront her bully of a cousin. Buddy barked again.

  ‘It’s okay, boy, it’s okay. Come on, let’s go and get some fresh air.’

  Without stopping to look back at the farm, she set off down the lane with Buddy following behind her. When she reached the riverbank she slowed and bent forward with her hands on her thighs, fighting for breath and trying to stem her flow of tears and still the frightened heart that boomed in her chest. Buddy barked, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

  ‘It’s okay, Bud, it’s okay, boy.’ She dropped to her haunches and held his head in her hands, kissing his nose. She made her way to the flat rock and sat down. Her legs had stopped shaking and her breathing found a normal rhythm. Through the fog of her distress came clarity and with it a new and glorious sensation. She had stood up to Emery, confronted him after carrying around the hurt he had caused her for all these years. What she felt was strength. And it felt good.

  Thomasina pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and dialled.

  ‘Thomasina!’

  ‘Grayson.’ She smiled with happiness at the sound of his voice. ‘I . . . I wasn’t sure you’d pick up. I thought you might not have your phone on at work.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘Yes, there you are.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Are you crying? What’s the matter?’ His concerned tone was comforting.

  Thomasina closed her eyes. ‘I have been crying, but I’m not any more. I just wanted to hear your voice. Can you talk now, or can you at least listen?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in my cubicle, but it’s quiet – lunchtime. Liz is getting me a sandwich and most people are out. I can listen. What is it, Thomasina?’

  ‘Nothing important. I just wanted to tell you that my life is infinitely better because you’re in it. Every little bit of it feels brighter and happier because of you. And I like the way this feels. I feel . . . excited! For the future, for everything!’

  ‘I like the way it feels too,’ he whispered, and she could tell by the shape of his words that he was smiling. ‘And actually, I think that’s very important.’

  ‘I’m here now by the river at the flat rock. I had a bit of a row with Emery and I’m not going back up to the farm until Mum and Dad are home.’

  ‘Are you okay? What did you row about?’

  ‘I’ve never really had the courage before, but I told him how he makes me feel – how he has always made me feel. He was so horrible to me when I was little and is still so mean to me now. It’s like he finds it funny, but it’s not funny.’

  She looked out at the water.

  ‘How is he mean to you now?’

  ‘He calls me names, he puts me down, he imitates my voice, my limp.’

  Grayson listened in silence while she gathered herself. It felt uncomfortable to be highlighting these imperfections; she had hoped at some level that, by not mentioning them to him, he might not notice. Ridiculous, of course.

  She drew breath. ‘When I was about six, he came to stay at Waycott for the summer and I was in the meadow just running around with the dog we had then – Daisy, she was called. It was a perfect day, and it sticks in my mind because up until then’ – she paused – ‘I’d always thought I was pretty, because that’s what Mum and Pops told me. They told me all the time, “You’re pretty and you’re wonderful – our special girl,” and I believed them.

  ‘I saw Emery and some of the local boys smoking and mucking about in the top field and I waved. I thought he’d wave back, but he’ – she coughed – ‘he stood up and raised his elbow with his hand curled against his chin and he turned in one of his feet and pulled this terrible face, like . . . like Quasimodo’ – somehow she got the words out – ‘and the boys he was with were laughing, and I’ll never forget how I felt, how it made me feel.’ She gripped the phone in her hands, treasuring the connection with him across the miles. ‘He made this awful, wailing noise and shouted out, “My name is Hitch. I’m a tard and a fuckwit and I have a rabbitmouth,” then he shuffled around on the grass, and the boys he was with were laughing so hard they were bent over with their hands on their stomachs, and I felt’ – she paused – ‘I felt like less than a person.

  ‘The thing is that, as I got older, I heard those words above all others, as if Mum’s words weren’t as strong. It massively affected my confidence. I have always felt less than a person, Grayson, until you came along.’ She took a breath. It had taken a lot of courage to speak so openly. She waited to hear his response, aching for some kind of note that he’d understood or was on her side. Her comments were met with silence that made her feel uneasy until she could stand it no longer. Swallowing her confusion, she asked, ‘Are you . . . are you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, with a steely undertone to his voice, ‘I’m still here.’

  Thomasina wondered if her earlier assumption had been right and wished she hadn’t highlighted her imperfections. She wanted nothing more than to see his face, knowing this would give the true measure of how he had received her words. And not for the first time she thought how much easier it would be if she was someone who caught his bus or he was someone who worked on a farm in the area, and she could get to see him every day . . .

  I know I feel better for saying the words out loud, as if I don’t own them any more, as if they’ve been sent out into the universe.

  I know the farm will go and I know we’ll all survive, because, after all, it’s only bricks and animal shit.

  I know that I stood up to Emery and, if I stood up to him, I can stand up to just about anything.

  I know I will forge a different life.

  I know I’m strong enough!

  TWELVE

  Thomasina closed the chicken run and stood watching her girls, who were about to settle down for the night. They seemed a little morose and she more than understood. The weather on this gloomy evening suited her own mood perfectly, with a dark bruise of a cloud spitting fat droplets of rain like watery bullets that danced on the flagstones and cobbles. It had irked her that her confession to Grayson, summoned from a place where words did not come easily, had been met with silence. It was the opposite of what she thought a boyfriend would do and the disappointment rankled – another sharp reminder that this love business was all well and good but, ultimately, the only person she could really rely on was herself. And Buddy, but he didn’t really count.

  Her phone rang in her pocket as she pulled up the collar of her Barbour and shivered at the encroaching chill. It was Grayson.

  ‘Hello, you.’ She spoke with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

  ‘Hey, Thomasina.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve ca
lled. I’ve felt a bit . . .’ She struggled with how to phrase the complex knot of thoughts that bothered her.

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But thank you for listening earlier. I feel better that I told you all that stuff, I really do, and it’s okay that you don’t feel the need to comment. I get it – it’s not a pleasant topic, and I’m fine, or at least I will be.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Ask away!’ She hated the mock-enthusiasm she used; it felt shallow, insincere. And she hated even more the fact that it was Grayson whom she was trying to convince that everything was ‘absolutely fine’.

  ‘Does Emery still call you names?’ He spoke slowly and with a gravitas that removed the smile from her face. ‘Because when he said those things he was no more than a kid himself, really, and that’s no excuse, but it might help explain it – ignorance, fear, trying to impress his friends . . . I don’t know, Thomasina, I really don’t, but what I’m trying to understand is if he has been any kinder to you over the years since?’

  ‘Not really,’ she replied bluntly. ‘It’s as if he set a pattern of behaviour that he doesn’t know how to break free from.’ She remembered when he’d come down the stairs in the morning with the words, ‘Morning, ugly dog. Morning, Buddy!’ ‘I think he might find it funny, but I don’t.’

  ‘Because it’s not funny and it’s not okay. I hate bullies,’ he spat.

  ‘Me too,’ she whispered, thankful for his show of emotion at last, which felt a lot like support. ‘It’s cold here, grey and miserable.’

  ‘Yes. At least you’ve got your Barbour on, but a hat wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘How do you know I’ve got my . . .’ Before she had a chance to finish her sentence, she looked up towards the yard. Her heart booming with a fierce mixture of happiness and excitement, she saw Grayson leaning casually against a wall with his satchel over his chest, chatting on the phone.