Page 53 of Take Me Home


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Harriet’s mouth fell open. It was only when he opened his eyes again and gave her that tiny, not quite there smile that she hurriedly switched her gaze to the flowers.

‘I never said how sorry I was about your mother.’ Aidan interrupted the chirrup of grasshoppers just as she’d relaxed enough to start focussing properly.

She dropped her pencil.

‘I would have called around. At least paid my respects at the funeral. But I didn’t want to cause any trouble with your dad.’

He picked up the pencil and leaned closer to hand it to her. When his fingers brushed hers, her heart felt as though it would burst out of her chest.

‘That’s okay. I didn’t really notice who was there, to be honest.’

‘It must have been hard. Since.’

Harriet gripped her pencil so tightly, her knuckles shone white. ‘It has, yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She took her time shading in every last petal and adding a tiny beetle but, despite her desire to prolong this unexpected moment, it was impossible to keep drawing once she knew the picture was finished.

‘Here,’ she said, ripping out her favourite picture of a hare and holding it out when Aidan turned to face her.

‘I can keep it?’

She did her best to give a nonchalant shrug. ‘I can always draw another one.’

As she started clambering to her feet, limbs stiff from sitting in the same position so long, he jumped up, taking her hand to help her.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ he asked.

Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

Another almost smile, a quick flick of his wrist towards the dog, and he had gone.

* * *

The following day, Harriet got up ridiculously early. She threw a load of washing in the machine, then swept the downstairs floors and chopped a pile of vegetables before hanging the wet clothes on the line. She was stuffing a hastily packed lunch into her art bag just as her father stumbled down the stairs, still blinking away the whisky from the night before.

‘You’re late for school,’ he growled.

‘My final exam was last week. I’m on holiday now until September,’ she said, hooking the bag over the back of a chair and applying quaking fingers to her sandal straps.

‘And you thought you’d spend it pleasing yourself, while I’m working to keep a roof over our heads.’

Her jaw clenched, but she forced her voice to remain light. ‘I’ll be back to fetch in the washing and make a cottage pie for supper.’

‘You’re what, sixteen? More than old enough for a summer job.’

‘Yes, but with everything I have to do here, the garden, cooking, keeping the house clean… I don’t really have time.’

One hand darted out, shockingly fast for someone with a horrendous hangover, and swiped the canvas bag from the chair.

‘If you stopped messing about with this nonsense, you’d find the time.’

He flipped the bag upside down and started shaking it, her precious art supplies clattering across the tiles, sandwiches and two apples tumbling out with them.

‘Oh, so you don’t have time to contribute to your mother’s money-pit, but you’re happy to steal from it.’ He kicked one of the apples so hard, it smashed into pieces against the skirting board. ‘Get out of here. And don’t come back without a job.’

Everything in Harriet screamed out in protest, as her father ground a heel into the tin of pastels that she’d bought after weeks picking wild blackberries and selling the jam at the village Christmas fair.