I knocked back the rest of the red wine while I stirred the Bolognese sauce so my head was swimming and I was humming The Lambada by the time Duncan came in from milking. Larry tapped on the door and came in a few minutes later.
I concentrated on dishing up dinner and said nothing. I left them to talk about the weather and some fencing that needed doing and other farming stuff. I probably looked lost in my own thoughts but I was aware of every word they were saying and every gesture they were making.
Then Sam turned up as I was dangling the spaghetti over the bowls.
He slid into his place at the kitchen table. I was glad to see him. His sleeves were pulled right down to cover the bite marks on his arms but I was relieved he’d come downstairs because sometimes he stayed in his room for twenty-four hours after a meltdown like the one he’d had before.
‘Hi Sam, do you want some spaghetti?’ He didn’t answer.
Larry said: ‘You okay, son?’ But there was no answer there, either.
Duncan said: ‘He’s not speaking tonight.’
Sam opened his notebook and ran his fist over it until it was flat. He was holding a pencil and he stared round the table, from person to person, studying them up and down like he was about to do an artist’s sketch . Duncan and Larry didn’t notice and tucked into their spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten all week.
‘How’s things in the polytunnel?’ said Duncan, and I froze.
I poked my spaghetti around my bowl and Larry carried on eating for five seconds until he said: ‘Yeah, good. I’ll plant out some seedlings over the next few days.’
My skull prickled. I was casting about for something to say, anything, just to change the subject.
‘Great scran, Alice,’ said Larry.
I gave him a watery smile. Then I noticed that Sam had written ‘SCRAN’ in his notebook.
‘What you doing?’ I asked.
‘Field Notes.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Field Notes.’ I wrapped spaghetti round my fork. ‘Is that the first time you’ve heard the word scran?’
He nodded.
‘Can you guess what it is?’
Sam blinked.
‘Perhaps Larry is referring to the spaghetti in the brown lumpy sauce,’ he said. ‘Or maybe he is referring to your separate and noticeable chests in your blue T-shirt.’
The spaghetti unravelled from my fork. We all looked at Sam, and Duncan gave a snort of laughter.
‘Scran is food, Sam,’ said Larry. ‘Your mum has made some great food.’
‘My mother is wearing a T-shirt that I have not seen for four years. That is an observation,’ he said. ‘It is stretched tight over her chests and makes them poke out and look like separate things – not like her baggy jumpers that make them look like one Big Hill. That is another observation.’
‘That’s too personal, Sam,’ I said. Duncan laughed, still cramming spaghetti into his mouth. I don’t think Larry was laughing but I daren’t look.
‘She also has a skirt on,’ went on Sam, relentlessly. ‘I have not seen my mother in a skirt for, I estimate, five years. The skirt does not reach her knees by one and a half inches. That is – ’
‘Yes, don’t tell me: an observation. That’s enough,’ I said. I could feel my face burning.
‘I have not seen her legs for five years either.’
‘Does anyone want any more?’ I stood up, yanking my skirt down an inch or two. I grabbed the pan and dumped more spaghetti in Duncan and Larry’s bowls without waiting for an answer. Larry gave me a little smile. He felt sorry for me, I could tell, which made me even more embarrassed.
‘Thanks, Alice,’ he said. ‘It’s a good recipe you’ve got there.’
‘Observation is one of my skills,’ said Sam. ‘But I aim to improve those skills. With honed observational skills it may be possible to foresee more and to cut down on the unpredictability of life.’
‘Right,’ I said. I didn’t want to encourage him. I didn’t trust what he’d come out with next. ‘Bread?’ I pushed the plate towards Larry.
‘No, I’m perfect, Alice,’ Larry said. ‘That was great. I’ll give you a hand clearing up.’
We cleared the table as Sam went back upstairs and Duncan chose some bottles from his beer cupboard.
‘You okay?’ asked Larry in an undertone. He was standing very close to me at the sink.
I nodded, and mouthed ‘fine’.
‘You’ve got to try some of this “Proper Job”,’ said Duncan, coming back in and waving a bottle at Larry. ‘Taste the finish on this.’
Larry said: ‘Aye, okay, Pal,’ and carried on drying the pots.
We took a long time over it. I was washing up in slow motion so I could stay feeling the warmth of Larry right down my left-hand side.
Duncan had his back to us and I glanced round once or twice to see him tipping his head back and necking from his beer bottle in front of the fire. The telly was on and there was a Formula One roar and whine.
When we’d finished Larry went over and Duncan opened a bottle and handed it to him. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: ‘Aye.’ Duncan grinned and plonked his feet up on the range.
I went across and squeezed between them both to reach my magazine on the mantelpiece. I shrieked when I felt a slap sting across my bottom, so hard it made me wobble inside this stupid skirt.
Duncan laughed and said: ‘Well don’t go sticking it in my face then.’
I smoothed my skirt down.
‘Stop it, Duncan.’
But Duncan didn’t stop. He grabbed me by the hips and pulled me backwards onto his knees. He wrapped his arms around my waist and rubbed his face in the back of my neck and tried to kiss the side of my face, making stupid noises like he was trying to eat me.
I was so furious it nearly choked me. What the hell was wrong with him?
‘I told you to stop it!’ I yelled and I wrenched at his arms to get him off.
Knocking his hands away, I struggled up and marched off, putting the kitchen table between me and him. Duncan laughed.
‘I’m only having a joke,’ he said and looked at Larry but Larry was staring into the fire with a closed look on his face. Duncan swigged some beer.
‘Forecast’s good for later in the week,’ he said. ‘Happen we’ll get everything planted out sooner than we thought?’
‘We’ll keep an eye on it,’ said Larry.
‘Aye,’ said Duncan, and they lapsed into silence, staring at the telly.
I’d had enough. Without saying a word I went upstairs.