‘Of course.’
‘Then Gideon could do with a friend who shares his hobbies. And from what you’ve told me, you could do with one, too.’
I wanted to ask Hattie if she was up to working on the project today, as she picked at her brunch and visibly winced when she stood up to clear the plates. I would have asked when her fingers gripped the banister as she pulled herself up the stairs, or when she paused, as usual, outside the attic door to brace herself.
But I was growing increasingly anxious that she might have a deadline to this project, for the worst possible reasons, so I would do my best to help her push on through. And today, it turned out, was nothing to shy away from. Hattie opened a few boxes before pausing by one that contained a carved wooden deer, a stash of handwritten letters, tied up with a posy of dried flowers, and a painting of a young man. And so began one of the best chapters in Riverbend’s story.
19
RIVERBEND
Harriet had known Aidan Hunter all her life. They’d sat beside each other at lunchtime in the tiny village school, and after Verity had heard that he always came empty-handed, she’d started packing extra sandwiches in Harriet’s bag, so they could share. Once Harriet moved to the private school, he became a face hovering on the fringes of the Riverbend bonfire night, or picnics. However, when Harriet found a trout wrapped in brown paper on their doorstep, a chunk of fresh rabbit meat or a bowl of wild mushrooms, she knew who it was from.
Her mother knew too. She always reciprocated by sending Harriet to the Hunters’ ramshackle cottage on the edge of Middlebeck with a basket of eggs or a carton of plums and the assurance that the Hunters would be doing a favour taking them off her hands; with Mr Langford away, they couldn’t possibly eat them all.
Harriet knew from the musty stench that hovered behind Aidan or his siblings when they opened the door that their house wasn’t like hers. The windows were peeling and so thick with grime, it was impossible to see through them. The scrubby patch of front garden was mainly weeds, with a pile of rusted scrap metal heaped against the rickety fence. The Hunters never invited her in like other families, let alone offered her a glass of orange squash or a biscuit. As she grew older, she understood that they were poor. Not poor like her and her mother, but poor as in bony wrists poking out of threadbare coat sleeves, and shoes held together with string.
Aidan’s three siblings roamed the village with the pinched look of growing boys who never got enough food. They were frequently in fights, often in trouble, and when his eldest brother was convicted for stealing, everyone said that it would only be a matter of time before the next one joined him in Nottingham Prison.
Aidan, however, was more likely to be found in the company of his rangy dog than with the ‘Hunter rabble’. He had far less to say than the rest of them and was far slower to speak with his fists – although it had been known. But he was still a Hunter. That family were a scourge on the village and even if you did feel a bit sorry for the youngest, who didn’t stand a chance being raised by those criminals, you’d be foolish to do any more than pass him the time of day.
Harriet wasn’t sure about that. Aidan had been quiet when they’d sat next to each other at primary school but he’d never been mean. He’d accepted her spare sandwiches with a cautious nod, and once, when she’d got home from school, she’d found a scratched metal yo-yo in her lunchbox, the string frayed and dirty. Anyone else would have probably laughed at this pitiful token of thanks, but Harriet treasured it.
Long before Verity had died, she’d stopped taking baskets to the village. Once Leonard no longer kept leaving on his mysterious trips, the parcels on the doorstep also ceased. Although Harriet missed the unspoken gesture of solidarity, she was grateful that Aidan realised Leonard would have sooner eaten his own socks than accept charity from a villager. If he’d had known the benefactor was a Hunter, he’d have probably fetched his shotgun.
But now, here Aidan was, leaning on the gate and watching Harriet while she drew, his scruffy dog by his feet. When Aidan saw her looking, he rose one slender hand in a slow greeting and began ambling towards her.
‘Can I see?’ he asked, nodding at her sketchbook once he’d come to a stop a couple of metres away.
Harriet studied him in much the same way she’d contemplated the buttercups. At some point in recent months, Aidan Hunter had grown into his wiry limbs and sharp nose. His hair, once the colour of marmalade, was now a rich russet that hung in curtains past his jawline. She dropped her gaze from his clear, hazel eyes to the grey T-shirt highlighting the frame of someone who spent his life outdoors. His jeans were frayed, rips in each knee and covered in grass stains. His tan boots had one black lace, one brown.
Tentatively, she held out the sketchbook. No one had seen her sketches since her mother died. She believed that she wasn’t a terrible artist, but it suddenly mattered more than anything that his boy she’d barely spoken to in years thought that, too.
He studied each page, forehead creased in concentration as her hands plucked at a loose thread on her cotton dress. After what seemed like forever, he handed the book back, the faintest hint of a smile lightening his sun-kissed features.
‘Thank you.’
Harriet squinted at him in disbelief. ‘That’s it? No further comment?’
In one fluid movement, Aidan sat down, still maintaining his distance as he draped an arm around his dog’s shoulders. He reminded Harriet of the grey heron who often stood sentinel on the riverbank.
‘I don’t know anything about art.’ His words were soft, but his eyes as warm as the sunshine dancing over the meadow. ‘But to me, they’re beautiful.’
‘Really?’ She couldn’t help the beam of delight spreading over her face.
‘I liked the hare best.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you mind if I sit here while you finish the buttercups?’
‘Um…’ Did she mind? Harriet wasn’t sure she could breathe, let alone draw while this boy sat watching. But she thought about asking him to go and found that she minded that a great deal more. She picked up her pencil. ‘It’s not my meadow. You can sit where you choose.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Aidan tipped his head back, closing his eyes against the sun’s glare. ‘This was always Riverbend land. Might be on loan to Jim Kirk, but you’ll get it back one day.’
‘My father can barely scrape together enough money to keep the land we still have.’
‘True. But I wasn’t talking about him.’
