‘Okay.’ The doctor patted the bed. ‘Well, the occupational therapy team will be around in a day or so to go through your convalescence plan and what you might need and how best to approach it.’
‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, son?’
The doctor walked along to the next patient. Thomasina watched as Grayson slipped down into the chair by the side of her bed as if his limbs were leaden, looking at her with a look of such sorrow it pained her. Thomasina was certain that, if she altered her view, she might actually see the bonds that tethered him. And as much as she resented it, she thought about the pile of shit that would be waiting to be shovelled from the yard and she understood.
‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ his mum said with a sigh, chattering and oblivious. ‘Bloody noises and beeps from machines and people coming and going at all hours, and then a nurse woke me up to ask if I needed something to help me sleep – have you ever heard anything like it! I told him outright, I was a-bloody-sleep!’
‘I guess they’re only doing their job,’ Thomasina suggested. Grayson and his mother ignored her.
All three sat quietly for a second or two until his mum spoke, her words coasting on great, gulping tears.
‘I was worried I was going to die and not see you again. It was my worst nightmare come true – you running orf to God knows where.’
‘Just outside Bristol,’ he explained.
‘Yeah, there. And me not seeing you.’ Mrs Potts bit her lip and her tears fell. ‘I reckon it was you going orf what caused the whole thing. Got myself in a proper state.’
Thomasina saw the way Grayson stared at his mother, as if feeling the punch of guilt in his gut. His mum had had a heart attack and been forced to lie on the floor of the flat until help came, and Thomasina got the feeling that Grayson would think it was all his fault because rather than be on call, he’d been out shopping for wellingtons and searching for how to be happy.
Mrs Potts wasn’t done. ‘But I forgive you, Grayson, because I love you and I know you won’t leave me, will you, son? You’re a good boy. I know I can rely on you. Just you and me, together against the world, just like it’s always been. I told that doctor you’d look after me. I knew it. We don’t need no one else, do we?’
Whether accurate or not, Thomasina took this as a message sent directly to her. She looked around the walls of this London hospital, glanced at the sick woman in the bed whom she had only met twice before, and not for the first time wondered what in hell she was doing there, when there were fields that needed attention and animals to be fed and watered.
‘I could do with a cup of tea.’ Mrs Potts wriggled a little up the bed, wincing as she did so. Thomasina watched the widespread wobble of fat on the woman’s arms as she supported herself until she was comfortable.
‘Would you like me to go and get you one?’ Grayson offered.
‘Oh, go on then!’ his mother said with a smile, looking him up and down. ‘And we need to get you a haircut, mister.’
Grayson used his finger to loop his long fringe over his forehead and behind his ear before grabbing Thomasina’s hand as the two went off in search of a cup of tea for his mum.
‘She seems a bit better,’ he said as they inched along the corridor, aching to spend time together and reluctant to return to the ward.
‘She does. And I was thinking that maybe . . . maybe I should go home, Grayson. I didn’t want you to be on your own or travel alone and I had no idea what awaited you, but . . .’ She chose her words carefully. ‘I feel like a bit of a spare part, and there’s so much work to do at home, and I think the last thing your mum needs is me staring at her! I seem to make her agitated, and that can’t be good for her heart.’ She waited, hoping he might reassure her.
Grayson stood still and took a deep breath. ‘I’m so glad you came with me. And I’ll keep you posted on how she’s doing.’
It wasn’t the plea for her to stay by his side that she had, at some level, hoped for. In fact, it was at best accepting and at worst spoken with no small measure of relief. He pulled her towards him and held her against his chest. Running her hand over the front of his shirt, she inhaled the scent of him and imprinted the feel of his arms across her back. Arms she knew could only carry so much and, right now, it felt for all the world as if she might be the weight he cast aside.
‘I love you, Grayson.’ Her mouth twitched with all she wanted to say, but she knew this was not the time or place.
‘I love you too.’
With her sleeves rolled up and her breath sending plumes of smoke up into the cold autumn sky, Thomasina toiled hard all week, humping hay, driving the tractor and guiding the cows from one field to another along unwieldy tracks where briars bothered them and small pebbles made them hesitant. She liked the extra responsibility, but the ache in her limbs at the end of the day and the throb in her foot more than wiped out any joy.
Peeling off her fleece top and beanie, she took a seat at the table in the kitchen opposite her dad while her mum brewed tea.
‘How’s Grayson’s ma faring?’ her dad enquired, as he smoothed the pages of the Gazette.
‘She’s coming home, actually.’
‘They didn’t keep her in long!’ her mum added, as she placed a welcome steaming mug in front of her.
‘Four days.’ She sipped the hot tea, which slipped down her throat like nectar. ‘Thanks for my tea.’
‘And how’s Grayson doing?’ Her mum asked this with a downward slope to her mouth, as if to add, the poor boy . . .
Thomasina recalled their conversation earlier in the day. It had left her feeling low.
‘How’s things?’ She hated the banality of her words when what she wanted to do was talk earnestly, fearing they had gone a little off track, unable to feel the same vibe from him as she had when they were nestled side by side on the old sofa in the snug. Thinking of that moment on the path when she had felt sure that a proposal had been imminent, knowing that she would have shouted without hesitation, ‘Yes!’ Now, though, she wasn’t so certain. She didn’t want to come second to Ida Potts and was not about to give up on her own ideas and her desire to travel just to play second fiddle to his demanding mother, watching from the sidelines in their shitty flat.
‘Okay, I guess. Auntie Joan and Auntie Eva came in while I was at the hospital and ran the vacuum cleaner over, dusted and changed my mum’s bed linen. They’ve put milk in the fridge and we have plenty of tea bags. So we’re all set. We even have a vase of yellow carnations on the table.’
‘That’s good.’ She didn’t know what to say next.
She could hear the hum of expectation in the pauses, felt the pulse of longing in the silent spaces between the spoken words and sensed his reluctance to open up more. They kept the tone general and uninteresting, frustratingly swapping titbits about their day, and when he said goodbye it left her with an aching, unsatisfied void in her gut. The rest of their communication that day had taken place via text message. Grayson explained he was often travelling underground without a signal, or was in the hospital, where phone use was barred, but she feared the truth was something more straightforward: he was trying to back away a little.
Thomasina felt physically sick and so overcome with doubt that it left her feeling a little light-headed. It felt easier not to think about it, to encase her emotions in a thin veneer of forced indifference and go about her day ignoring the gnawing feeling in her gut that felt a lot like hunger but was nothing to do with food.
‘Piece of cake, darlin’?’ Her mum held out one of her Grandma Mimi’s tins, and her tears finally came at the sight of the once gilded cake tin with its faded imprint of blue and pink roses – a tin she still had no hope of filling with sweet confections baked for the man she loved. She dropped her head on her arms at the table as her mum palmed circles on her back.
‘It’s okay, my little ’un. Everything is going to be okay . . .’
Grayson’s texts slowed and Thomasina galvanised herself against the increas
ing disappointment, until, only a week later, his communiqués had declined to one a day. She felt a combination of anger and distress, in direct proportion to the decrease in contact.
Her mood was further hampered by the fact that she was yet to receive an enquiry from her ‘Chicken Expert’ postcard, which had been on the board at the farm wholesale store for a couple of weeks now. She remembered the excited anticipation with which she had pinned the card up, afterwards keeping her phone within reach and waiting for the calls to come flooding in from chicken novices across the county, all seeking out her know-how, but this was not quite how it had panned out, and, in truth, she felt stupid for thinking it might have been otherwise. Frustration kicked at her shins and made her restless, which only added to her general malaise. If this little business didn’t take off, she wasn’t going to be able to afford a ticket for the Bristol bus, let alone to anywhere further afield. She had decided to redouble her efforts and maybe place a proper ad in a proper magazine, like Practical Poultry, but that would cost money, which she didn’t have, and couldn’t earn unless her venture took off . . . and with these thoughts she was back to square one.
‘You need to call him,’ Shelley told her plainly when they bumped into each other in the lane by the pub. ‘You need to call him and tell him how you’re feeling because, right now, it’s like you’re . . .’
‘In limbo.’ Thomasina finished the sentence.
‘Yep, you’re right there. And you look like total shit.’
‘Thanks, Shelley. I feel like total shit.’
‘You look like you did that night when you turned up with your dead chicken and put her in my bath!’
It was testament to her friend’s good humour that Thomasina managed to raise a smile. Shelley took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Call him and get this sorted one way or another.’
‘Maybe I will.’ She found it hard to explain her reluctance, how she felt torn. She knew at some level that she did not want to have the conversation that might change them, end them – didn’t want to have to admit that to have this half-hearted, semi-interested boyfriend might actually be better than not having him at all, because she loved him. But at the same time the fire in her belly grew, and with the sale of the farm creeping ever closer, change, whether she liked it or not, was afoot.
‘Maybe you should. You’re worth more, Thom.’
She smiled at the affectionate nickname. Friends.
‘You’re worth more,’ Shelley reiterated, ‘and if he can’t see it, then he’s a dick.’
‘He’s not a dick, not really, just a bit weak.’
‘Aren’t they all? Which then begs the question, do you actually want to be with someone like that?’ Shelley trod the butt of her cigarette under the heel of her boot. ‘Oh, and by the way, I took your advice.’
‘What advice?’
‘About my painting. You were right – I am brilliant at art. I’m drawing wonderful things, and just doing it makes me feel happy!’
Thomasina saw the way Shelley’s face came alive, and she envied the bubbles of joy that fizzed from her, knowing this was how she felt when she pictured a future with herself in the driving seat. Shelley was right: she was worth more!
Standing in the paddock, she cradled Little Darling to her chest, cooing as she stroked the hen’s soft, feathery head with her finger. ‘What d’you think, little birdie? Should I call him?’ Little Darling wriggled and tried to flap her wings. Thomasina placed her gently back in the run and took it as a sign. She walked to Big Barn and sat on the sofa, where Buddy lay sprawled. Easing his head to make a gap, she sat down and liked how her pup placed his muzzle on her thigh.
‘Okay, Buddy, I’m going to do this.’ He closed his eyes in supreme indifference as she picked up her phone and tapped out the number. She exhaled sharply, like an athlete preparing for the final push.
‘Thomasina.’
It spoke volumes that she was equally delighted and unnerved that he had answered. It was hard from the one word to guess his mood, but she did not feel the flutter of yearning at the sound of him longingly uttering her name, not like she used to. She knew that, when she first met him, Hitch would have crumbled at the thought that he might be a little indifferent, but Thomasina, with her new-found strength, who knew she was worth more – well, she was as much irritated as upset.
‘Hello, Grayson.’ She cursed the rise of a lump in her throat that made it hard to speak. ‘I wanted to talk to you. Is now a good time?’ She tried to keep her voice steady.
‘Yes. I’m lying on my bed looking at the ceiling.’
The image of the two of them smiling and kneeling beneath the roughly plastered ceiling as they looked at the city lights below brought a crushing pain to her chest. It had felt so perfect, as though they could take on the world, and of all the futures she had envisaged for them, this separation and coolness was the furthest from her imaginings.
‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘Good. I’m back to work and she managed today with no problems. She’s napping now.’
‘Good.’ Again that gaping, loud pause. She felt the quake of nerves. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and again she tussled with the thought that maybe it was better to let things drift, to keep an iron in the fire, just in case . . . But then she thought about Pops, who very soon was going to hand over the keys of his beloved farm to the Buttermores, and she sat up straight, knowing that sometimes, no matter how hard, it was right to take a stand, to make a choice and go with it. ‘This is hard for me to say, Grayson, but I will do my best. I think this might be the last time I contact you. I can take a hint.’
‘No, don’t say that,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s not that—’
‘I . . . I don’t understand what’s happened.’ She cut him short, knowing she needed to keep talking or her confidence would evaporate. ‘I keep thinking how things were so lovely, and then after your mum got ill everything changed, and I thought it would all blow over, that the world would spring back into shape, but it hasn’t.’
‘It’s not that easy for me. You know that. She’s demanding, and she—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all of that.’ She was unwilling to listen to what sounded more like excuses than reasons. ‘But there comes a time, Grayson, when you have to make a stand, make a decision. You have to chase life, and you said to me on the lane, when I told you about wanting change – you said, what are you going to do about it? And I guess I’m asking you the same question now – what are you going to do? I feel as if we’re slipping, and I believed you when you said we were solid, but I don’t want to hang around like this, feeling like an afterthought. I’m worth more.’ She borrowed Shelley’s phrase.
‘I feel so torn. I hate feeling like this.’
Having expected, hoped even, that he might rush in with words of reassurance and reconciliation, his fractured speech and awkward whispers suggested he was hesitant, unsure, and it snipped the last of the fragile stays that kept her heart strings connected to the man she loved.
‘Welcome to my world,’ she offered a little bluntly, as anger now fanned the hurt and her defence mechanism kicked in.
‘My mum is an alcoholic and she’s a danger to herself and she hasn’t got anyone else.’
‘She has her sisters!’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘They’re fucking useless!’ he snapped, and she knew this frustration was not necessarily directed at her. ‘They drink and they encourage her to drink and they talk utter nonsense the whole time, just burbling away with their soundtrack of anecdotes and shit memories, washed down with milky tea and wine. I can’t . . . I can’t rely on them. There’s only me.’
‘So’ – she tried to think ahead – ‘so why don’t you get a nurse? Or send her to a facility – rehab?’
‘She won’t go! How can I make her? And we had a nurse who walked out after a week because my mum was just too much.’
‘Well, that’s her fault. She’s keeping you hostage, keeping you away from me, and
I honestly . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I honestly thought you’d put your foot down and not let this happen. You need to think about what you really want and be brave, Gray.’
‘Be brave?’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘You say that so easily, Thomasina, and yet you haven’t been brave! You stay at the farm and give a million reasons about duty, but you’re not so different. You’ve never really tried to break free, and I get why – it’s safe. It’s the same when you talk about further surgery, which would make you feel better, give you confidence, and yet you hide behind excuses about the pain, and I think actually you use your disfigurement to keep people away so you don’t have to feel so guilty about hiding.’
His words hurt, largely for the element of truth they carried. ‘You have no fucking idea, Grayson! None at all! You have no idea what it’s like being me and, apart from anything else, I can’t just up sticks and go! Financially, things are hard; my choices are limited.’
‘Maybe I don’t have any idea, but if we have any kind of future together we need to be able to say everything.’
With anger colouring her immediate reaction, she snorted in derision at the likelihood of that ever happening, not now. ‘Yeah, and you know what, not calling or contacting me, going silent, is not the best way to achieve that!’ she yelled.
They were quiet for a beat or two. This felt like the beginning of the end, and it was painful. Buddy put his head on his paws as if he didn’t like the sound of their row, not one bit.
It was Grayson who spoke first, his tone now softer, and with the loss of his hard edge came another wave of regret and longing for all that this relationship had promised and just how happy that promise had made her.
The Things I Know Page 25