CRAIG
CRAIG
“So hey,” I puff out over my shoulder, gently slowing my pace as I turn off the road and through the gates onto the farm’s driveway. Sweat trickles down my temples, my face burning, and I’m feeling more winded than I rightfully should be. “Any word from Al yet?”
I’ve worked myself up to this question the entire run, yet even through my fatigue, an impatient note colours my tone. As she pulls to a stop beside me, Ashleigh’s grimace is not the response I was hoping for.
It’s been a whole week since I walked out on Alex at the Red Bull Inn. My calls are being rejected, my texts are ignored, and he has Lorraine turning me away from their door. I’ve tried to catch him at the school gates twice, only to be spotted early enough to be dodged.
The sleepless night following my painful admission to Sebastian gave me more than enough time to realise just how rash and ludicrous my accusation of my brother was. But it seems Alex is wholly disinterested in hearing my apology. Whatever else might be going on between us, no matter how rocky we might be, I should’ve never doubted for a single second that he had my back.
And asking Ashleigh to try speaking with him on my behalf had been a desperate and discomforting request to make. “Afraid not,” she reports, launching straight into her stretches. “He u-turned on me the minute I mentioned your name, and I really don’t think you want to hear what Steph had to say.”
“Cheers for sugarcoating it for me.”
“Welcome!” Her smirk counters my frown.
Shaking out my limbs, I start on my own stretches. “What have I done to make Steph so mad, anyway?”
“Believe me, you’re best not knowing.”
But when Ashleigh makes a point of setting her back to me, drawing her knee up toward her chest, I determine I definitely should. Steph’s ire won’t be helping my case with Alex any. “Spill.”
“She’s just kind of got it in her head that you’re a destructive influence, that’s all.”
“That’s all? Okay, bit rich coming from her.”
“Mostly, I think, it’s due to the scene you caused at her birthday party.” Releasing her right leg, she lifts her left, and I automatically follow suit. “Apparently, a neighbour made a complaint to her mum.”
“Because the blasting music wasn’t a bigger disturbance.”
“You were brawling in the middle of the street, Craig. You smashed a glass bottle on the road.”
I don’t remember enough of that night to dispute it. “And,” I prompt, “partly what else?”
There’s a slight hitch to her movements that I don’t miss before she carries on. “She also thinks that, like, maybe … Tinwell targeted Lynds partly because of, uh… you.”
“What?!” Her words hit like a punch to the gut, bolting me up straight.
And she winces, rushing to add, “I don’t think that. Lyndsay neither. I swear, no one else does. It’s actually what Alex and Steph were arguing about at the gig. It’s not like you encourage Tinwell’s actions or anything. But, whatever, she can’t hold her warped grudges for long, so don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Oh, sure, Ash.” My throat refuses to let me swallow that bitter pill. “But…”
But I’m saved from any further reaction at Dobby's sudden intrusion. He barrels out from the side of the house and circles us like a flock in need of rounding. A piercing whistle has the mutt swiftly disappearing the same way he appeared, and a moment later, Sebastian leads his return.
With the flick of a rueful grin, Ashleigh bounds away from me to intercept the duo halfway across the drive. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” Sebastian replies, his gaze sliding from her to settle on me. “About damn time.” He looks no less of a sweaty mess than we must, with dampened hair plastered to his head, wearing a loose khaki sweater that appears threadbare enough to predate him.
“Careful, Bas.” I’m slow in making a move to join them, wilfully boxing Ashleigh’s divulgence away for later brooding. “Anyone might assume you’ve missed me.”
“More fool them. I’m merely sore for the help, and I don’t like waiting.”
“We took a slightly longer route today.”
“Didn’t ask. Don’t care.”
I kept him waiting two days after our visit beyond the hedge before I returned to take him up on his veiled appeal for a volunteer farmhand. The avoidance had been almost entirely about spending the weekend at home with Christopher, where Mum could see me doing nothing I shouldn’t, and was only a smidgen influenced by my nagging unease at the prospect of facing him again.
However, when I arrived home from college on Monday to find Gary waiting for me in the kitchen, the extra hour I was forced to study in his company had me gunning it back here without a second thought. Judy greeted me at the door as warmly as ever. Ashleigh, likewise.
And Sebastian…
Sebastian’s impassive reception felt nearly as though nothing significant had changed. He set me to task and spoke not a single word about our last conversation.
It’s something of an odd routine I’ve fallen into since then.
For the past three days, I’ve parked Roxy up at the leisure centre in town and met up with Ashleigh on her way home from Athletics Club, running with her from there. That’d been Ashleigh’s suggestion, and it was perhaps the greatest she’d ever made. I haven’t ventured to properly push myself in far too long; the college gym just doesn’t cut it. On reaching the farm, Sebastian then makes use of me for a couple of hours, thus far primarily as a packhorse, and I’m rewarded afterwards with a hot shower, drink and meal before he drives me back to Roxy in his truck.
I can’t exactly claim it as the most enjoyable week I’ve ever spent, but I also can’t recall any other time that I’ve had this much plaguing my mind, and I’ve slept quite so well.
“Ready?” Sebastian asks, turning away the instant I halt in front of him.
Ashleigh rolls her eyes at me behind his back as I roll my tight shoulders. “Lead on, boss.”
Passing around the house and across the farmyard, he treks me over a wide-open field sloping up behind the storage huts to the ramshackle stone barn we began work in yesterday. I follow him inside, flicking on the light, and am promptly directed to put on the sturdy work boots and gloves he’s loaned me. It appears nothing more has been done here in my absence.
“More of the same?” I ask, toeing off my running shoes. The boots are too big, scraping my heels, but I’ve come prepared today with extra socks.
“Won’t finish itself,” he replies and wastes little further time in picking up right where he left off.
Selecting a thick wooden plank from the many varying lengths that line one stone wall, he carries it to a trestle table set up in the middle of the floor, where a large lamp hanging low from the rafters spotlights an assortment of tools.
Dobby roams around us for a short while, sniffing here and there, but then seems to decide he’d prefer to take advantage of the remaining sunlight and heads back out into the field.
I pause midway through lacing up a boot to watch the mutt vanish amidst the tall grass. “You’re not worried he’ll run off?”
“He won’t.” Sebastian doesn’t turn so much as a glance toward the open doorway. “Not when he knows I’m here.” Snagging up an object from the table, he chucks it at me without warning. “A gift.” It cracks off my bent knee and clatters to the dusty floor. “Now, make yourself useful.”
“Ow!” I blindly reach for the projectile. “Doing what?”
“It’s a measuring tape, Craig. You measure with it.” My scowl brings a kick to his lips as he lifts the plank he’s holding and jabs a finger toward the rest along the wall. “I need four. The same width as this one, at least two metres long.”
Boots fastened, tape in hand, I jolt up straight. “Got it, boss. On it, boss.”
“Chop chop.”
We’re fixing up the stalls and reflooring the loft in preparation for his herd’s summer move. I’m sorely inexperienced in this undertaking, but Sebastian manages to use me well enough. While he tackles all the sawing, sanding, and hammering duties, my primary responsibilities are fetching stuff and holding things in place.
He’s in my peripheral, readying the circular saw as I peruse the stacks and pull out a few likely candidates for him. His tongue pokes out in concentration, and for someone who’s been up since the break of day, he sure isn’t looking half-dead on his feet. “So, what’s next on the agenda once we’re finished here, then?”
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “I’ve plenty more treats in store for you.”
“Anything, perhaps, that involves warmth and comfort and some relaxation?”
The fierce buzz of the saw covers his laugh, but I catch it on his face. “Overrated,” he raises his voice to say.
Little effort is taken to find the rhythm we’ve established over the past week. I’ve learned more about cattle farming than I thought I’d ever care to know. Sebastian seems to enjoy bestowing his knowledge on me, and it’s come as quite a surprise how genuinely interested I am in what he shares. The work he puts into this place is far more involved and multifaceted than I considered possible, his devotion staggering. It’s a topic that makes for easy conversation, passing the hours swifter.
Still, it’s strenuous graft, especially for someone more accustomed to poring over books and writing papers. After my umpteenth timber haul up the ladder to the loft, my biceps are raising a distinct complaint.
Sebastian’s waiting at the loft’s edge above, ready to relieve me of my burden the instant I move within reach, but at the shrill interruption of a ringing phone, his startled tug on the slats almost knocks me flying.
“Shit,” he blurts, not an apology, rescuing the wood before I lose my grip on it. “Think we’ve overrun.”
Sliding him a scathing glance, I heave myself up to safety as he yanks off a glove to retrieve the phone from his sweatpants pocket. “I’m fine, Bas, ta. No harm done.”
He turns his back on me, tapping the cracked screen and putting it to his ear. “Didn’t realise the time, Ash. My bad. We’ll be right there, okay?”
“Sore for dinner, and she doesn’t like the wait, huh?” I ask once he’s hung up the call, whip-sharp in cracking his own remark against him.
But he’s already launching past me, skimming down the ladder. “Judy’s cooked a roast.”
And I swing my feet back onto the rungs to hit the ground hard a short beat after him. “Isn’t she working tonight?”
“Eleven ‘til seven,” he nods, making an immediate start for the sink just inside the door while I collect my trainers and change out. “We’ll clean up best we can here and shower later. Ash warned ten minutes is all we have before they eat without us.”
A glance outside finds the sky shaded deeper than dusk, but I don’t spare the few seconds it would take to pull out my own phone and check the time. Within a hand’s count of minutes, we’re scrubbed up and heading out.
“Dobby,” Sebastian calls as he locks the barn door behind us. The beast is nowhere to be seen, and a momentary panic knots my gut. But securing the padlock and flicking on his torch, he doesn’t give away the slightest trace of concern as he turns to lead the way across the field. “Here, boy!”
Scouting all around myself, I’ve moved no more than six hesitant steps before a dark blur zips past me, dances around Sebastian’s legs, and races on ahead of us. “Little sod,” I huff out a breath, lengthening my stride to keep up with the torchlight.
When we reach the farmyard, the back door is wide open, and Judy is standing just inside it, watching for us. “Finally! Here they come,” her melodious voice carries as she steps back from the doorway to let Dobby through. “Get those dishes uncovered, Ashleigh, please. I’ll stick the kettle on.”
My mouth waters as the enticing scent of chicken and gravy flavours the evening breeze. Sebastian breaks into a jog, but I hold to a more sedate approach.
This will be the second meal in a row I’ve sat down to eat with the three of them. Yesterday, Judy spent her day off making pies, which we shared with sides of chips and peas and apple crumble for dessert. It was a delicious change from the leftovers Sebastian heats up for us, and although I mostly refrained from contributing much, the table banter had been fun. Still, I’m feeling only a little less uneasy with the thought of a repeat.
Family dinners aren’t really a thing in my house; our kitchen is more for show than function. I don’t think we’ve eaten together since before Christopher was born, and even then, those meals were always something of a formal affair, usually involving the Tinwells.
I’ve just about convinced myself that’s the main reasoning behind my nerves. And yet, when Judy takes my arm to urge me in from the door as she shuts it, I can’t help but flinch at her touch. “I wasn’t sure what you do and don’t like,” she says, graciously pretending not to notice, “so I’ve left everything in their pots for you to help yourself.”
“Okay,” I nod — because I’m the worst . I can feel the pinch of my bullshit like an outgrown coat I should be long past wearing. “It smells amazing,” my follow-up is paired with a smile, “thank you.”
The large table is crammed with food, surely more than the four of us could devour in one sitting. Sebastian has already taken his seat by Ashleigh, both digging straight in, while across the room, Dobby’s licking his bowl spotlessly clean. According to the clock on the wall, it’s just gone eight. My stomach growls its impatience, sufficiently drowning out my pang of disquiet.
Claiming the chair opposite Ashleigh, Judy begins to load her plate. “How’s it going out there, boys?”
I take that as my cue, settle beside her, and start heaping meat and vegetables onto my own. She’s now looking at Sebastian, so I leave him to reply.
He chews and swallows before answering, “slowly.” His eyes flick across the table to me. “But we’re making good progress.”
“Good, yeah.” My eloquent input has his lip quirking.
“The stall framework’s done, and tomorrow, I think we’ll get the loft—”
“Good,” Ashleigh interjects around a mouthful of potato, punctuating with an imperious fork jab at the air. “Yep. Super! Farm talk over. Moving on.”
Sebastian blinks at her. “Rude much?”
“I completely agree.” She stabs into her chicken. “Ain’t nobody asked for details, Bas.”
“Ain’t nobody asked you anything.”
“Exactly, and I never would’ve been if I let you get carried away chatting utter manure .”
I hear Judy sigh and then mutter, “Here we go again.”
Meeting her resigned glance with an acknowledging grin, I pick up my cutlery. And from there, much as it happened yesterday, the dinner conversation swiftly devolves into a squabbled duel between Lord Butt-Rod and Lil Miss Bratty-Britches.