To Mend a Broken Wing, page 13
A beat of disappointment bounced around the room, the kid in front of me crestfallen. Unaware his sex life was being discussed a few feet away, Toby’s cheerful tones travelled from the kitchen, and I remembered how he’d shyly flirted with me earlier in my bedroom today. Crushing his siblings hope entirely felt cruel, and if I was being honest with myself, misplaced. The kid openly scrutinised me, making no effort to conceal her disappointment.
Smiling down at her, I added, “But I’d like to be.”
Naturally, after that, I spent the duration of dinner—fish pie and peas, followed by homemade chocolate trifle—expecting one of the kids to report the news back to Toby. Or, even worse, announce my designs on their older brother across the dinner table to their parents. But that was before not-dead Derek woke up with a start, then commanded every child’s entire attention by dropping peas down his front and interspersing the adult conversation with loud harrumphs each time his dentures fell out. To be fair, I was pretty fascinated myself.
Toby, his dad, and Vic-the-Vicar had clearly seen it all before. From the lack of fanfare, inviting randoms to dinner at the vicarage was a regular occurrence, which made the whole thing much more relaxing. We settled on talking about the upcoming cricket match, the tractor rally (by all accounts an event only a fool would miss), the scandalous broken engagement of a farmhand called Neil, and the state of Alf’s mother’s lumbago. Dinner, therefore, passed uneventfully, and the younger kids were dispatched to wash up. Toby and I were soon walking back up the drive towards Rossingley without me embarrassing him or myself. I was almost disappointed it was over.
“Your parents are nice,” I observed as we kicked a lump of gravel between us. “Your brothers and sisters don’t take any prisoners though.”
Toby clapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god, I knew I shouldn’t have left them alone with you. What did they say? Did Clara tell you that we sit around the table and make our guests read three chapters of the bible between dinner and pudding? She pulled that trick on a couple who used to rent the cottage next to the school, and the guy actually nipped home to get his reading glasses. Honestly, she makes Eliza look like an angel in comparison.”
“No,” I answered, laughing. “But she did ask me if I was your boyfriend.”
During the pause that followed, Toby concentrated intently on kicking the stone. “Okay, so that’s not embarrassing at all. Sorry about that.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t mind. She also said that maybe when you had a boyfriend, you might like to travel. ‘Go on an adventure’ were her actual words.”
Toby stopped walking. “Bloody hell. Would you excuse me, Noah, while I just run back home and beat up my little sister?”
“Do you?” I asked. “Do you want to leave here? Because I thought you loved it.”
He resumed kicking the stone again, his brow furrowed. “I do love it. I love Rossingley. And the people living here. I also love my job, and Lucien and Jay, and I really love their children. All in all, I love my life here.”
Even though I sensed a ‘but’ coming, that was an impressive list of loves. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’d never loved anybody or anything very much, apart from flash cars I’d never be rich enough to own. Then again, no one had ever been terribly fond of me either, whereas Toby was surrounded by people who loved him. He sighed heavily.
“But yes, maybe one day, I’d like to see a bit of the world. If only to discover how much I’d miss this place.”
“Is it your phocomelia that stops you?”
He halted, clearly astonished. “You remembered the word!”
“Yeah, I looked it up.”
“It sounds funny hearing you say it. I never hear anyone say it.”
He resumed walking. “I’m happy if you call it a stump though. I do.”
Asking him why he felt only having one hand held him back from seeing the world was tempting. But as someone with two hands, who the hell was I to judge? He’d lived with his condition all his life; if anyone knew what he was and wasn’t comfortable with, it was Toby, not a well-meaning do-gooder. So I refrained from commenting further, nor did I tell him how amazingly he managed everything despite only having one hand, from wrestling Orlando into a fresh nappy to unflinchingly facing sixty-mile-per-hour cricket balls. He viewed himself and wanted others to see him as neither tragic nor inspirational—just a regular man living a regular life.
As we kicked the lump of gravel back and forth, more than anything, I wanted him to know he was the reason I was still at Rossingley, then ask him if I could follow him into his room tonight instead of mine. I wanted to know if the rest of his body was covered in pretty freckles too. If he felt the same way about me as I did about him, even if I was a grumpy northern bugger. But, being a grumpy northern bugger, I’d probably fuck it up. So instead, we carried on our makeshift game of football until we reached the house.
Chapter Thirteen
Toby
HAVING FINALLY DRAWN a line through winter, spring celebrated the changing of the guard by blanketing the Rossingley estate in a fanfare of snowdrops and bluebells. A glorious sight, heralding only one occasion: the annual Rossingley village tractor rally.
At the close of the Second World War, the thirteenth earl, Lucien’s great-grandfather, marked the blessed occasion of so many of his menfolk returning safe and sound by gifting them all an extra day’s holiday, to enjoy however they saw fit. Being a provincial lot, they reminded themselves what a green and pleasant land they’d been fighting for by touring the local countryside in tractors and getting totally wasted in the process. Such fun, they did it the year after, too, and the tradition stuck.
While fundamentally unchanged, aside from the horsepower of the farm vehicles and the price of beer, the event had grown, and now around twenty-five tractors lined up through the village, with a variety of trailers accommodating as many villagers as wanted to join in.
Picking the best trailer for the daytrip had become tactical. My Uncle Will’s trailer, for instance, tended to be fought over by older folk seeking comfort, not speed; he reliably filled it with straw bales, blankets, and hot toddies. He slowed for ruts in the road. In stark contrast, the young farmers rigged their trailers with sound systems, piled them high with bottles of cider, and saw being at the head of the rally as a badge of honour. Understandably, they tended to be magnets for the Rossingley youth, every bump in the track throwing up a raucous cheer. I’d joined them in the past in the pathetic hope Rob and I would find some alone time or, even better, that he’d acknowledge me out in the open. This year, however, I gave him a wide berth, plumping instead for a medium-paced ride on a trailer pulled by none other than my dad, high and proud behind the wheel of his vintage David Brown.
Noah joined me, along with Freddie and Reuben, doing the benevolent uncles thing with Eliza and Arthur, wrapped up so snugly in coats and scarves they resembled two fat chrysalises. Lucien avoided the tractor rally like the plague, quickly volunteering to stay behind with Orlando. Trust me, if he hadn’t already had a baby at home as a ready excuse, he’d have gone out and adopted one. Jay’s excuse was an extra shift at the hospital. My mum and the dinner ladies squeezed on board too. We even wedged in Donna-the-barmaid, on crutches with her healing ankle wrapped in a Velcro boot, thrilling the twins. Somehow, we made space for her to prop it up on a hay bale.
“Did your skellington come through your skin when you broke it?” enquired Arthur. “Was there lots and lots of blood?” He’d ripped the Velcro strapping open and closed enough times in the five minutes we’d been on board to set even my teeth on edge.
Donna patiently shook her head. “No, love, it wasn’t that bad.”
“But I bet you cried,” said Eliza, palpably disappointed by her response. “I’d have definitely cried. And screamed.”
“And been sick all over yourself,” Arthur added emphatically. More Velcro ripping.
Maybe we should have chosen a different trailer, although Donna, a kindly lady with her own grandkids, seemed happy to indulge them both.
“Do the broken bits hurt?”
“A little,” she conceded. “Not as much as when I first fell over though.”
“When our Papa hurts himself, Daddy rubs some of his special cream on it,” announced Eliza proudly. “He keeps it in their bedroom. Shall I ask him if he can give you some of his special cream too?”
Oh my God, yet another scenario childcare college hadn’t prepared me for. All credit to Freddie, he held himself together much better than the rest of us. Noah’s shoulders heaved like he was having a grand mal seizure.
“Arnica,” he chimed in smoothly. “Great stuff. Works wonders.”
Reuben’s eyes danced wickedly. “Comes in a fat pink tube. We have some in our bedroom too. We rub it on thick. Very good after a day of gardening.”
“Papa says that…”
“Who’d like some fruit gums?” I asked with a flash of inspiration. My manny training had been good for something after all—fruit gums and tissues, essential to have at hand at all times. I rooted around in my pocket. “Fruit gums. For the first child that can count five oak trees.”
In total, ten of us shared a trailer better suited to six, making it a cosy fit. Not that I had any complaints, not with Noah’s long warm thigh tightly wedged against mine. Naturally, Reuben, in fine mischievous form, noticed our cosy juxtaposition almost immediately.
“Need a blanket over your lap, Tobes? To hide the…um…chill?”
“I have a snifter of sloe gin if the wind gets up,” offered Freddie, holding aloft a silver hip flask to the assembled trailer. “I expect Toby will be warm enough, but anyone else?”
Fortunately, Noah seemed oblivious, too busy taking photos with his phone of the long stream of tractors and trailers snaking through the fields behind us as we headed towards the bluebell woods. The scene could have been a snapshot from any year in the last fifty if you didn’t examine the tractor models too closely. No matter how many times I’d witnessed it, the whole village on the move was an impressive sight. Today was the only day of the year Lucien opened up Orlando’s and my regular stomping ground to the rest of the village, and they were in for a treat. As the lead farmer hopped out and unlocked the gates, and we slowly trundled through a dense carpet of bluebells, Noah’s phone snapped even more.
I threw him a sly grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re doing a very good impression of someone enjoying themselves.”
He scowled. “Just killing time; that’s all. Until I can get off this bumpy uncomfortable contraption and away from the annoying country bumpkin currently using me as his personal electric blanket.”
“If it’s that tiresome, you could easily swap seats with Reuben or my mum.”
“Nah, I’m good.” As his eyes strayed to my mouth, I felt my cheeks flushing. “Someone needs to put up with you drivelling on about flowers and trees and the virtues of wholesome rural life.”
“Who are you taking all these photos for?” I asked as he craned his neck to capture the view ahead. I’d taken a couple of pics myself, even though I walked through the woodlands every day en route to visit the cows.
“Um…myself.” His face pinked. “To be honest, Toby, it’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Aaah!” I chucked his cheek and laughed as he pushed me away. “You’ve become a country boy! I knew we’d do it! Congratulations!”
“Fuck off.” Noah pretended hard, but trundling through the picture-postcard bluebell wood, even he couldn’t maintain his moody thing for long. “Look over there, Toby! At the colours!” As he pointed into the woods alongside us, I didn’t have the heart to tell him Orlando and I tramped along this particular route daily.
“Yeah, this section of the woods is pretty cool,” I agreed, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Pretty cool? Is that all? The bluebells through those trees are unbelievable; there are literally millions! And the way the light catches them, it’s…I dunno…like the sky has flipped and become the ground instead.”
Which was pretty damn fucking romantic, especially coming out of Noah’s sulky mouth. I might have needed that blanket after all. Embarrassed at his atypical outburst of energy, Noah clicked off his phone.
“You should send a picture to Guillaume and Marcel,” I suggested, casually, as if I didn’t care whether he did or didn’t. “I’ll take one of you with the bluebells as a backdrop, if you like.”
Not giving him an opportunity to decline, I leaned away from him and took a quick snap. I’d captured him perfectly—attempting to look cross and failing miserably. It was a look I saw a lot lately. With a few taps of my thumb, I forwarded it to him, then tried not to appear too delighted as he forwarded it to Guillaume.
“I don’t know why I’m bothering,” he chuntered as he added a quick message. “He’s probably seen these woods hundreds of times. Photos never look as good as the real thing.”
I let him continue grumbling and settled back, breathing in the delicious scent of wild garlic and basking in the warm glow accompanying a good day out with friends and family. We’d all had a hefty tot of sloe gin, and my mum passed around crisps and sandwiches. Boisterous trailers with the lads were all well and good, but for comfort, decent grub, and better-quality booze, I’d fathomed long ago that sticking with the vicar was best. From the way he attacked her ham and pickle sandwiches, I think Noah agreed.
“She’s not like I expected a vicar to be,” he remarked as Donna told a smutty joke that had my mum cackling like a fishwife. “She’s all right, isn’t she?”
Praise indeed. “Mmm,” I agreed. “Sometimes I think Lucien’s house is actually more peaceful.”
He studied my mum and her friends for a minute and smiled at Eliza hanging off Freddie’s arm before switching his attention to the lads pissing about on the tractor behind. Finally, he turned his gaze back to the scenery. “But you’d still like to see more of the world?”
As always, as if by an unseen force, my eyes flicked down to my arm resting uselessly in my lap, my stump out of sight up my sleeve. Calling it useless was a disservice—I was actually pretty adept. Of course, I’d never play the trumpet, use a mobile phone in landscape mode or lead a round of applause, but it’s not like I’d ever experienced a two-handed existence with which to compare. Merely a world designed for, and by, two-handed people. Plenty of folk much less able-bodied than me fearlessly got up to all sorts of mischief; sometimes I wondered if I used my arm as an excuse to never step out my comfort zone. Why fix what wasn’t broken?
“Yeah, perhaps.”
On a stretch of track that allowed two vehicles side by side, we found ourselves overtaken by old Mick-the-mechanic, on his beloved classic Triumph motorbike. With a glass of something fizzy balanced in her hand, his enormous wife was squashed into a vintage sidecar next to him. She bestowed on us a regal wave.
Chuckling, I shook my head. “But sometimes, I think this village is a microcosm of the whole world, and I don’t need to travel anywhere.”
As we chugged out of the woods, the bluebells thinned, to be replaced by bare fields ready for spring planting. A roar went up from the lad’s tractor behind, followed by a chorus of “We know what you’re doing” as three of them hopped out and legged it to do their business behind the nearest tree. All that beer had to go somewhere. An energetic straw fight broke out amongst a group of restless teens on the tractor behind them, my brother in the thick of it. He received a stern holler from my mum, much to the joy of his tipsy mates. Yep, tractor rallying at its finest. Somewhere in the melee, I heard Rob’s voice, a sound which, in previous years, would have me craning my neck, trying to catch his eye, and changing trailers at halftime. Today, cosied up next to Noah, it didn’t have its usual effect.
After ninety minutes of jiggling over potholed dirt tracks, we were all ready for a breather, no matter how beautiful the scenery. Freddie most definitely looked like he needed a break; preventing an excitable Arthur from toppling over the side had been a full-time job, even more now I’d given him a sugar hit. Reuben had resorted to looping one end of his scarf around Eliza and tying the other around his own waist; seemed she had designs on hugging the oak trees, not just spotting them.
“We usually stop for an hour up here,” I informed Noah. “Lizzie should be there already, getting the bar up and running.”
I pointed to a clearing with a panoramic view down the valley. Sure enough, Lizzie and her husband could be seen setting up trestle tables and unloading crates of drinks. Colourful bunting looped through the trees, greeting our approach.
“I never thought I’d say this,” began Noah slowly. “But it’s quite cool, isn’t it, your village?”
I smiled at him. He still held traces of the sullen young man that had first arrived in Rossingley, especially when anyone broached the subject of Guillaume. And he still threatened to leave, most likely after the cricket match. His fear of cows remained healthy too. But today, with his cheeks flushed from a crisp breeze and sloe gin, I could almost imagine he’d lived in Rossingley all his life. Didn’t want to push it though.
“I couldn’t possibly comment.”
Chapter Fourteen
Noah
THIS TIME LAST year, I’d been kipping on Gary’s lumpy secondhand sofa and signing on at the dole office. A long way from standing in the middle of a field, serving salt-and-vinegar crisps, and beer in plastic cups to a bunch of pissed hillbillies, half of whom probably assumed Taylor Swift’s Red was the newest product in the John Deere catalogue. And I’d discovered an alarming number of them shared the same surname—any more inbred, they’d be sandwich filling. Nonetheless, I was happier than I could remember in a long time.
Guillaume and Marcel had replied to my bluebell text and photo almost immediately and separately. Marcel had cooed over the picture, ignoring the flowers to tell me how handsome I looked, in the way Gary’s nan used to praise him even when he was covered in acne and his hair hung in a lank, greasy teenage mess. It made me feel peculiar, but not in a bad way. Guillaume replied a minute later, wisely not commenting on me, but saying how much he’d love to join the rally next year and see the bluebells for himself. I’d deliberated over answering and eventually sent him the thumbs-up emoji.
