Page 33

It’s evening now. I take Edna in and park her at the end of the barn where the roof is whole. Emerge to a sight I’ve seen before. The labourer I sent away is back and leaning on my gatepost again.

“You’re early,” I tell him as I approach. “I told you to come back in a month.”

He nods, not disagreeing. “Need the work.”

“What makes you think I have any when I told you I didn’t a fortnight ago?”

“Worth a try.”

“Is it?”

“You tell me, son.”

He is old enough to be my dad. Lanky and weathered, brown eyes and curly grey hair. Skin that’s spent a lifetime exposed to the elements. Defeat in that bronze-brown stare even I can’t ignore.

“I’ve got some weeding you can do. Some salvage work. Nothing heavy. You want cash?”

The man shrugs. “Whatever you like.”

“I don’t mind. You need official wages, I can do that too.”

“Not had them since I was a boy.”

“Okay, well think about it and let me know. I wouldn’t be paying until the end of the month anyway, so you have time.”

The man averts his gaze as he replies.

I tap his shoulder. Then my lips when he faces me again. “I need to see your mouth when you talk. And you need to find a way to get my attention if I’m too far from you to do that, okay?”

“All right, lad.”

“All right,” I echo—I think, anyway. “Come back tomorrow.”

We part ways. I head to the house and duck into the mudroom, swapping my mucky boots for the old Nikes I live in when I’m not knee-deep in soil. One day, I’ll be able to pad barefoot on the old floorboards of this house, but that day isn’t today.

Nor is it the day I want to find anyone but Oscar standing in the empty bedroom upstairs.

Damn.

I’d forgotten Saint was here. He’s at the wall where the window should be and half the rogue bricks have been re-laid at the bottom, leaving the top still wide open.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Saint wipes cement from his hands and fixes me with a gaze that would make me uncomfortable if I hadn’t grown used to him. “You know who that was?”

“Who?”

“The gate.”

It isn’t a whole sentence. Rarely is with Saint. But he says enough that I know what he means. “Didn’t get his name. Just that he needed some work.”

“You give it to him?”

“Yes.”

Saint has a bucket at his feet. He drops the cement rag in it and stares through the expansive hole that remains in my bedroom wall. Doesn’t say anything for long enough that it’s obvious he wants to.

I help him out. “Who is he?”