‘Do you have any idea what that will be?’
‘Getting as far away from my family as possible.’
‘You’re moving to Australia then?’ I ask with a smile.
‘Wouldn’t that be great?’ He stares up at the clear blue sky. ‘Hell, yeah, I’d do that in a millisecond.’
‘You’d better marry an Aussie girl.’
He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Know any?’
‘No, but I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Maybe I’ll meet one at university.’
‘Do you know where you want to go?’
‘I’d love to go to the RCA.’
‘The RCA?’
‘The Royal College of Art – it’s in London.’
‘Awesome.’
‘Yeah, but I have to find a way to get myself there as “Daddy” won’t pay. What about you?’
‘I don’t have a clue.’
He nods at my drawing. ‘Maybe not Art.’
I whack him over his head with my pad. I do it softly, but he bats it away and squawks as though I’ve hit him with a cement block.
‘Give it here,’ he says with a smile, holding his hand out.
I pass him the pad.
‘Let’s swap over. The light is better from where I’m sitting.’
‘Kind of you to make excuses for me,’ I say as we stand up and switch positions.
‘Or you could give up and do George later,’ he says. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘How rude!’
‘You know that about me already.’
* * *
That afternoon, I stand in the corridor and knock on Jamie and George’s bedroom door.
‘George? Are you in there?’
He got back from visiting his father in prison an hour ago. Dad said he was very quiet on the way home – he doesn’t think he’ll want company.
‘George?’
Still no answer.
I open the door. The room is empty.
Mum comes along the corridor, carrying Nia.
‘Do you know where George is?’ I ask.
‘He went outside.’
‘Did you see in which direction?’
‘Towards the stream? The lower paddock? I’m not sure. Ouch,’ she says as Nia grabs a fistful of her hair.
‘Okay.’ I close his door and go downstairs to pull on my wellies.
George is not by the stream or the chicken pen, nor is he with the boys in the lower paddock. I find him in our small wood, leaning against the big old oak that was here long before any of us.
He looks over at me as my boots crackle through the path of fallen twigs.
‘Hi,’ I say gently, coming to a stop in front of him.
He’s balancing a notepad on his lap and is holding a pen in his left hand. The page is half full of his handwriting. Another letter to Sophie, I presume.
‘I thought you were doing your Art homework.’
‘No.’
‘You know it’s due tomorrow?’
He shrugs and gazes up at me, his expression bleak.
‘Are you okay?’
He shrugs again, more half-heartedly.
I almost ask if he wants to be left in peace, but something makes me sit down next to him instead.
Neither of us says anything as we listen to the rustling of the leaves overhead.
I shift slightly and my shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away.
After a while he closes up his notepad.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘S’all right,’ he mumbles. ‘I didn’t feel like writing anyway.’
I nod at the pad. ‘Any more news on when you’re seeing her?’
‘Your dad thinks the week after next.’
‘Finally!’
‘Yeah. I thought I’d pass the letters on then. Even if she doesn’t read them until she’s older, at least she’ll have something to remember me by.’
‘That sounds good.’ I pause before saying, ‘I’m guessing today didn’t go so well.’
‘When does it ever go well?’
I sigh. ‘I’ve never been to a prison before.’
‘You’re lucky then.’
‘What’s it like?’ I ask.
‘Big. Cold. Full of terrifying people. Not a place I ever want to end up.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘There’s not much to say.’
‘Was he mean to you?’
He hesitates. ‘No. He was indifferent, which is probably worse. He was late, so we only had five minutes. He couldn’t even be arsed to look at me. I hate him,’ he says through gritted teeth.
‘You don’t have to go there again,’ I tell him heatedly. ‘He might be made up of some of the same cells as you, but that doesn’t make him worth your time. Who gives a shite about biology?’
I feel some of the tension leave his body with a long exhale. I rest my chin on his shoulder and he tilts his face towards me. I grind my jaw on his shoulder.
‘That tickles,’ he says with a laugh, wriggling out from under my chin.
I grin and lift my head to meet his eyes.
He gives me a small smile then leans forward again and sniffs my hair.
‘Your hair smells of strawberries.’
My stomach feels strangely fluttery all of a sudden.
‘Want to do my portrait?’ I try to keep my voice sounding light as I edge away. It felt as though we were sitting too close.
‘What?’ He looks bewildered.
‘For Art. I did a totally crap job of Theo’s earlier. You can do me, if you like. Get it out the way.’
He rests his head back against the tree trunk. ‘I think I’m going to stay here a while longer.’
‘Do you want me to bring your art stuff down here?’
He hesitates, his expression becoming a tiny bit hopeful.
‘Lazy git,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’
I set off towards the farm, amused.
George and Theo are so different, I think to myself later, once George is in the swing of sketching me.
Theo has a confidence about him, a devil-may-care attitude that a lot of girls would find attractive. George is confident, but he’s quiet with it. Steady. He’s not cocky.
He’s been working away for a while and, as time has gone on, his expression has grown more intense. He’s deep in concentration, and right now his eyes are tracking the lines of my lips. I don’t think he’s aware that I’m watching him. His chin is tucked down, his eyelashes lowered. He lifts his gaze and meets my eyes. A moment passes. Then another.
This is not a staring contest. It’s something else.
Heat spreads within my chest, and then he tugs his eyes away.
‘That’ll have to do.’ He casts the pad aside.
I pick it up, feeling jittery. It’s not a bad depiction, but it’s not terribly good either. My hair is a tangled mess – accurate, but hardly flattering – and my cheeks and eyes look flat and unappealing, but he’s got the shape of my face down and my lips are better than I’d expect them to be, sort of heart-shaped.
‘Cool.’ I glance up to find him watching me. ‘How are you feeling now?’