“Katie, Are you ready? We have to go!” came Mum’s voice from downstairs. She was right of course. I’d completely lost track of time replying to messages and fiddling about with my diary. Off to church we went. It all felt much better than last week – I was more relaxed and even managed to enjoy the chat over tea and biscuits afterwards.
On the way back, I didn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. I just gave the car horn a good blast, and out came Dad like a well-trained… well, something-or-other. We were due up at Uncle Ken’s for Sunday lunch, and when Uncle Ken says lunch is at one, you’d better be there at one. To soon and you'll fill in time by pulling lambs from unmentionable places. To late, and you'll have no Yorkshire pudding on your plate.
After the roast and pudding, everyone lingered around the table, finishing off their wine and chatting. That’s when I overheard something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear: apparently Kimberly had been on a date with Nigel – or “that lad” who worked with us at harvest, as they called him. I nearly dropped my glass. Surely not Nigel? Surely not now? I couldn’t quite pin down when this supposed date happened. I’m hoping it was before his little trips to shopping centres and photo jaunts with Charlotte. Otherwise, someone’s heading for trouble, and I’d rather not picture it.
We were home by five. Dad got changed and went out to check the cattle in the yard, while Mum and I cobbled together a light salad for dinner – which was all any of us needed after the feast at Uncle Ken’s.
There wasn’t really enough light left for a proper cycle ride, so I just wandered along the riverbank. The sky was already bruising into dusk by the time I got back.
Later, I settled on the sofa with Dad to watch one of his crime dramas. He had his glass of whiskey in hand – his last glass, actually. Between Mum’s puddings and his evening “detective work,” that bottle didn’t stand a chance
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