Borrowed Time

“Do you live here now?” She gave me that quizzical look that I was becoming quickly familiar with and I braced myself for whatever she might come out with next. “Because Mam said she can’t afford to feed the whole bloody village”.

Mr Hopkin let out another loud sigh as the table once again fell silent. I glanced over to Mrs Hopkin who had gone bright red with embarrassment and brought her hands to her face in exasperation. I gave her a smile that I hoped would convey that I was not offended but it dawned on me that I had no way to repay their kindness. Or to pay for anything, for that matter. I’d talked of train tickets and travel but had no way to pay for any of it.

“You mind your tongue, young girl,” Mrs Hopkin said, reaching over and giving her daughter a playful slap to the arm that made her giggle.

“No, I don’t live here,” I said, “but I’ll be sure to pay my way just as soon as I can.”

Mr Hopkin let out a cough and as I glanced over I caught him rolling his eyes in doubt at his wife.

“And maybe while I’m here I can help out around the house?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Mrs Hopkin replied with a wave of her hand.

“Honestly, I’d like to. Maybe you could teach me how to make bread?”

“Make bread?” Mrs Hopkin, looking mortified, choked back a piece of bacon and both Nellie and Betty covered their mouths to shield another giggle at my expense. I looked around the table at all the faces for a sign of what I may have said wrong this time. “I don’t need no men under my feet in the kitchen all day. If you insist on helping then there’s plenty what wants doing outside.”

“That’s sorted then, you can come with me,” Mr Hopkin said, taking a final swig of his tea. He wiped his face with his napkin and threw it onto the plate of barely touched food. I looked down at my own plate with not so much as a crumb left on it and I was still feeling as hungry as I was before I’d sat down.

“Thanks again, Mrs Hopkin,” I said as I followed her husband out into the back yard. The sun had begun to rise bathing the yard in an orange glow, and fog rose up over the wet fields beyond. I appreciated its prettiness but I would still have rathered been asleep than witness it.

“You know how to use a hammer?” Mr Hopkin asked. “There’s a fence that wants mending.”

My experience with tools beyond a year 9 woodwork class was limited to putting up a set of flat-pack shelves in my flat but how hard could it be? I nodded and he beckoned me towards the barn.

“Grab that,” he said, pointing to a bucket of rusty nails on the ground. They looked like they’d been used before and then left out in the rain but I did as I was asked. It was heavier than it looked and I had to use two hands to pick it up which he seemed to find amusing. We walked past the privy and hopped over the stone stile into the field behind the house.

“Ever mended a fence?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ll soon learn,” he said. “A hard lesson makes a hard man, that’s what my father always used to say.”

I came to a stop and his words rang in my ears.

“Something wrong?” Mr Hopkin turned to look at me and for the first time since we’d met his face appeared to show concern.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking myself off and continuing on. “My father used to say the same thing, is all. He passed away a few weeks ago. Took me by surprise a bit.”

“He sounds like a sensible man. I’m sorry for your loss, Tom.”

It hadn’t taken long to cross the field but the walk uphill had left me out of breath and the warm air from my lungs created a mist with every exhale. My hands were already freezing and turning red and I blew some warm air into them, longing for a pair of gloves.

“Hold this,” Mr Hopkin said, handing me a mallet as we reached a broken bit of fence. A wooden barricade surrounded the whole field with posts every few metres that carried two planks of wood between them and at various points in the fence the planks had come loose making it easy for the sheep to escape.

“Now, come over by here with that hammer,” he said, fishing a nail from the bucket and then lifting one of the planks up and holding it into place. “Give it a good whack.”

“Are you sure?” I said, concerned I was about to be the cause of him breaking several fingers.

“We haven’t got all day,” he barked back.

I stepped up to the post and with no valid reason I could use to get out of it I brought the mallet up over my shoulder and set forth a blow to the nail which I hoped would connect. My eyes closed the second I felt it hit and I drew back my body into a clenched position waiting for the yelp of pain.

“Now, do it again.”

I opened my eyes and saw Mr Hopkin ready with a second nail to fully secure the fence in place. This time I felt slightly more confident and watched as the nail slid into the wood with ease.

“Not hard, is it?”