baby.’
‘If you even think about buying a new tractor I’ll thump ye.’
‘We’ve got to build it up for Max.’
‘There’s nothing spare, Joe.’
‘That’s why I’m going to turn it round, bring in the lambs. Leave it good for ’im.’
He has stood up, pushing both hands into the small of his back as he straightens. She looks at him. He is impossible, that man. But he is smiling at her as she heaves herself out of the armchair for her turn at the computer. He comes over and puts an arm around her neck so she’s near deadlocked. He is chuckling and saying ‘A little babby!’
They hug each other and he says into her hair, ‘We have to help him, Annie. Max is not strong like Bartholomew.’
She looks at his face up close to hers. It is leathery from a life worked outdoors, his hair grey now. He’s improved with age, like most men do. He was always like this about the boys, used to knock her out of the way to get to them after a day out working. And them at the top of the stairs waiting for him in their pyjamas.
He kisses her. ‘We always said we’d give them everything we could.’
‘Yes, well I’ve changed me mind.’
‘You act all bluff but I know you,’ he says. ‘You’re soft over those boys, just like me.’
‘Not as much as you, Joe.’
She looks at his back as he walks out of the room.
It is her great achievement, this marriage. When they were first wed the slightest disagreement would last a week or more. Grievances harboured until she was sore with it. Children soon knocked that out of you. You never solved a fight, she’d come to realise, you just got good at looking the other way and getting on with the next thing. Letting love have the upper hand. If she could give her boys one piece of advice it would be to let it slide – that sense of outrage that it’s not better. She begins to type the word ‘Bartholomew’ into the recipient field and the computer fills out the rest. Her youngest, especially, seems to be still holding out for the perfect thing – the one where there’ll be no disappointment to swallow down. Well, he’ll have a long wait.
*
Bartholomew is lifting the kettle and shaking it to judge its water level when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his jeans. Ruby’s passion for texting is beginning to feel like a persecution.
What time r u picking me up? 5pm? R.
He texts back:
I’ll try. Might be a bit late. Lots to do.
He switches his phone off and puts it back in his pocket, eases out the kettle’s rubber lead. As he carries it to the sink, the landline starts to ring. Will she never stop?
‘Garden Centre,’ he says.
‘Hello garden centre!’ shouts his father. He can hear a thrashing sound and bleating, and immediately can smell those outbuildings – the dry straw mixed with some kind of chemical, like creosote, emanating from their timbers.
‘In the pen are you?’ says Bartholomew. He holds the phone between his cheek and his shoulder while he fills the kettle.
‘We are,’ says Joe.
He turns off the tap and a faucet squeaks somewhere in the warehouse roof. He hears his father shouting ‘No Max, he’s done that one – look at her back,’ and knows that Max must be silently obeying him as usual.
‘How’s tupping?’
‘Marvellous,’ shouts Joe. ‘We’ve had some fine rams this year. We’ve wonderful news, Bartholomew. Max and Primrose are having a bairn.’
‘Ah that’s grand,’ he says. Struggling for life is a genuine excitement on behalf of his brother.
‘Isn’t it?’ Bartholomew can hear pure joy in his father’s voice and feels the stab that he wasn’t the source of it. ‘First Hartle grandchild,’ Joe is saying. ‘You and Ruby had best get a move on!’
‘Can I speak to Max?’
‘I’ll put him on. Hang on.’ He hears Joe saying, ‘He doesn’t seem to like that one, we should let her out. Here, your brother wants a word.’
‘Hello?’ says Max.
‘So, I hear congratulations are in order. When’s
‘If you even think about buying a new tractor I’ll thump ye.’
‘We’ve got to build it up for Max.’
‘There’s nothing spare, Joe.’
‘That’s why I’m going to turn it round, bring in the lambs. Leave it good for ’im.’
He has stood up, pushing both hands into the small of his back as he straightens. She looks at him. He is impossible, that man. But he is smiling at her as she heaves herself out of the armchair for her turn at the computer. He comes over and puts an arm around her neck so she’s near deadlocked. He is chuckling and saying ‘A little babby!’
They hug each other and he says into her hair, ‘We have to help him, Annie. Max is not strong like Bartholomew.’
She looks at his face up close to hers. It is leathery from a life worked outdoors, his hair grey now. He’s improved with age, like most men do. He was always like this about the boys, used to knock her out of the way to get to them after a day out working. And them at the top of the stairs waiting for him in their pyjamas.
He kisses her. ‘We always said we’d give them everything we could.’
‘Yes, well I’ve changed me mind.’
‘You act all bluff but I know you,’ he says. ‘You’re soft over those boys, just like me.’
‘Not as much as you, Joe.’
She looks at his back as he walks out of the room.
It is her great achievement, this marriage. When they were first wed the slightest disagreement would last a week or more. Grievances harboured until she was sore with it. Children soon knocked that out of you. You never solved a fight, she’d come to realise, you just got good at looking the other way and getting on with the next thing. Letting love have the upper hand. If she could give her boys one piece of advice it would be to let it slide – that sense of outrage that it’s not better. She begins to type the word ‘Bartholomew’ into the recipient field and the computer fills out the rest. Her youngest, especially, seems to be still holding out for the perfect thing – the one where there’ll be no disappointment to swallow down. Well, he’ll have a long wait.
*
Bartholomew is lifting the kettle and shaking it to judge its water level when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his jeans. Ruby’s passion for texting is beginning to feel like a persecution.
What time r u picking me up? 5pm? R.
He texts back:
I’ll try. Might be a bit late. Lots to do.
He switches his phone off and puts it back in his pocket, eases out the kettle’s rubber lead. As he carries it to the sink, the landline starts to ring. Will she never stop?
‘Garden Centre,’ he says.
‘Hello garden centre!’ shouts his father. He can hear a thrashing sound and bleating, and immediately can smell those outbuildings – the dry straw mixed with some kind of chemical, like creosote, emanating from their timbers.
‘In the pen are you?’ says Bartholomew. He holds the phone between his cheek and his shoulder while he fills the kettle.
‘We are,’ says Joe.
He turns off the tap and a faucet squeaks somewhere in the warehouse roof. He hears his father shouting ‘No Max, he’s done that one – look at her back,’ and knows that Max must be silently obeying him as usual.
‘How’s tupping?’
‘Marvellous,’ shouts Joe. ‘We’ve had some fine rams this year. We’ve wonderful news, Bartholomew. Max and Primrose are having a bairn.’
‘Ah that’s grand,’ he says. Struggling for life is a genuine excitement on behalf of his brother.
‘Isn’t it?’ Bartholomew can hear pure joy in his father’s voice and feels the stab that he wasn’t the source of it. ‘First Hartle grandchild,’ Joe is saying. ‘You and Ruby had best get a move on!’
‘Can I speak to Max?’
‘I’ll put him on. Hang on.’ He hears Joe saying, ‘He doesn’t seem to like that one, we should let her out. Here, your brother wants a word.’
‘Hello?’ says Max.
‘So, I hear congratulations are in order. When’s
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