Page 57 of Have I Told You Lately
‘I know.’ Pip took the other end of the blanket and helped her fold it before placing it in the storage box. ‘But I’m going to stay a bit longer.’
Rosemary furrowed her forehead, opening her mouth to reply. She then paused as she caught his stance, arms folded, shoulders set, a myriad thoughts flitting across her face before she simply sighed.
‘Well, you’re a grown man. I suppose you can decide what time you go to bed.’
‘I am, and I can.’ He leant forwards and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ve missed a lot of island sunsets over the past two years. I’m going to savour this one.’
Rosemary glanced over to where I was gathering up plastic glasses and putting them in a bag. ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast?’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘Porridge will be ready at six.’
19
It was another hour before the egg-yolk sun finally sank beneath the distant waves. Pip hadn’t asked if I wanted to stay with him, but he’d left two chairs out, and handed me a glass of cider, so I took it as an invitation.
We’d sat mostly in silence, and I’d treated it as another learning opportunity in being still, doing ‘nothing’. I tried not to view savouring the sunset with a man whose presence made every nerve hum as a task to tick off my never-ending mental to-do list. I almost managed it, too.
‘Four days until you go,’ Pip said, when he finally stood up and stretched. ‘Any plans for how you’ll make the most of them?’
I restrained from suggesting I spent them trailing around after him, or grilling his dad about my mother, instead mumbling something about baking, helping Lily with the barn and whatever she had in mind for wedding décor.
‘You should visit Hugh’s stables. Jasmine does horse rides for the tourists. They pass the best place for dolphin spotting, and by the Siskin Stone.’
‘I’ve never ridden before.’
‘They’ve got horses well used to novices. And she’s bound to do it for free, given the scandalously cheap price Hugh offered you for Thursday.’
‘I’ll think about it, thank you.’
I instructed myself not to mind that he hadn’t suggested coming with me. Pip was a farmer. He had a life to be getting on with, including whatever needed doing with forty-thousand free-range chickens and their eggs.
We slowly walked back up the path, which was easier this time because I felt more adapted to the island terrain and so less cautious. Still, Pip took my hand in the shadowy stretches, and helped me over the stile where I’d parked the bike.
‘Do you want to leave it at the farm again?’ he asked, nodding at the bike, his nose giving a puzzled twitch.
‘No. I’ll ride it back.’ I hadn’t told him about the horrible smell, because I didn’t want him to feel bad about it happening on Hawkins land, so while I definitely wouldn’t risk leaving the bike exposed again, I also didn’t want him to walk me back alongside it. The moon had appeared between the clouds, and was full enough to mean I’d see at least something of the track back to the B&B. Besides, every hour I spent with Pip, my feelings only grew deeper. Many more sunsets on the beach and moonlit walks were going to make leaving Siskin with a broken heart unavoidable, whether we kept things friendly or not.
‘Are you sure? I can walk with you to the far gate.’ He did a rubbish job of hiding his disappointment, but I nodded firmly.
‘Thanks for a wonderful day. I’ll see you around.’
I clambered onto the bike and did my best to minimise the wobbles as I lumbered down the path, knowing he’d be watching.
‘Take care in Clover Field,’ Pip called after me. ‘The gate can be stubborn, but the cows will still be out so double-check it’s shut.’
By the time I’d reached Clover Field, a cloud obscured the moonlight, so I wheeled the bike instead. I squashed my nerves at navigating a field of half-tonne beasts alone in the dark, and hurried to the other side with no incidents, giving the gate a rattle to ensure it was closed before using the glow from the barn now up ahead to navigate the rest of the way.
The ground floor was empty, so I tiptoed upstairs, opening the yellow room door as quietly as possible before dumping my bag on the chair, opting for the soft bedside lamp and clicking on the kettle while I jumped in the shower.
I added a splash of milk to my decaf tea and took an absent-minded sip as I walked over to the bed.
My brain interpreted the smell a second before the taste hit my tongue.
I’d have smelled it the second I poured it if the room weren’t full of steamy lavender from my shower. The milk was beyond sour. My initial thought, apart from utter disgust, was confusion that it could taste so awful and not be set like Greek yoghurt. I peered at the mug, spotting a couple of flecks of yellowy-brown yuckiness. When I took the milk jug back out of the mini-fridge and inspected it, it appeared fine until I gave it a stir, the subsequent odour sending bile rising up my throat as I lifted out the spoon, now covered in thick, nasty goo.
After braving a tentative sniff from a safe distance and analysing the goo under the lamp, the only possibility I could come up with was that it was a big dollop of bird poo. I tried to recall the droppings in the chicken coop, but couldn’t remember clearly enough to identify whether this was the same. Besides, all bird poop could look identical, for all I knew.
