Chapter 13

13

HAYDEN

I don’t get to see the starting image Rae comes up with after that evening.

Not because I don’t see plenty of him—he’s my new shadow in the woods at Glynn Harber, talking me through his progress, although he isn’t ready to show me what he’s come up with.

Maybe he would if I visited him at the art building after hours, but harvest still waits for no man. Straw-baling seems never-ending this year, just when I’m tempted to sacrifice cash for time. With him . But he was serious about buckling down to get his drawings done good and early instead of at the last minute, and I’m not about to fuck that up for him, like I’m not prepared to fuck up my own chance here by being weird about Mitch being my mentor.

Only Mitch doesn’t turn up to my first week of nature sessions.

A variety of other teachers bring the children, and I’ve learned something new from each one of them.

I wait for today’s group to arrive while Rae shares that he’s not sure what path to follow next on that Polish schoolboy’s journey. He could head in several directions, he tells me. Deciding which path to take is always his dilemma.

“Too many bright and shiny choices.”

He laughs.

I’m not convinced that sound is happy.

“I want to draw something that was really special to Olek. A pivotal moment where he chose his direction. Then I’ll hold up a modern mirror to it. You know, to reflect the parallels?”

“Sure.”

I’m actually not, but I bet that makes sense in artistic language.

To me, it sounds like he’s hesitating the same way I used to in goal until Dad taught me the meaning of commitment. I rephrase that old coaching session. “Maybe it doesn’t matter which scene you draw next as long as you go all in.” I point out little Asa, who is busy rolling logs that Charles suggested I leave stacked up. “No idea why he’s moving them from one side of the clearing to the other.” I strain for the term he told me. “A transporting schema, maybe?” I tilt my head, watching him roll another log with the fierce concentration that Charles said this space could help him build on if I gave Asa plenty of free choices. “Could be a rotation schema.”

“Wow. Someone has been listening really hard to teacher.”

He’s teasing, but I nod. I could also admit that I spend any breaks I get between baling by searching online to learn more, only telling Rae this feels more important. “See how he’s really going for it? How he’s committing and not quitting? Look at his face.”

I bet Asa doesn’t know his tongue peeks out, he’s so determined. So incredibly focussed too for a kid Charles described to me as having ants in his pants in the classroom. Now that he’s outdoors where he gets to choose his own direction, I can see his real potential. “If I was picking a team, he’d make a good midfielder.”

“Why?”

“Because when he’s got a goal in his sights, he’s a finisher, not a quitter.” I face Rae. “Throw yourself at one of your ideas like him, Rae. Pick a direction to dive, and go all in. At least you’ll know you did your absolute best.”

He must like that suggestion. I get to watch Rae commit too, although not to choosing a page from that old diary as inspiration for his next drawing. Instead, he commits to pushing me through a thick curtain of weeping willow branches the minute this school session is over and the children are gone.

Those whip-thin branches close around us, and we might as well be the only people left in the woods.

I know we aren’t though. I can hear someone calling for Rae.

“It’s only Sol,” he says between kisses. “Calls himself a good friend. He’s actually a micromanaging cockblocker.”

If Sol does come looking for him, he won’t see Rae’s arms around my neck or my hands on his arse to pull him as close as I can get him for a few too-fleeting moments. This tree still has leaves even if others have started to lose theirs, so for now, Sol won’t spot Rae tilt his head back or hear his voice turn bark-rough either.

I’m the only one who gets to hear that hoarse, “Yeah,” and I’m the only person who echoes his groan after he wriggles a hand between us. Rae gives my dick a squeeze that leaves me wanting.

His voice is still rough. “You working tonight?”

I nod and close my eyes when he squeezes again.

“And tomorrow?” His teeth graze my throat when I nod again, and fuck me, I like that.

Like it?

I think about it that night when my second shift of the day is over.

That’s when I sit in the car park with the Land Rover engine ticking and my whole body aching, and with my gaze fixed on a gap between trees at the top of the valley where light would glow if anyone was still awake in the art building.

Maybe it’s for the best that it is dark up there night after night, and I head back to the stables to creep past Rowan’s bedroom. Rae needs to work, and I’m dead on my feet.

That’s the first thing Luke notices on Friday when he joins me for a nature session and catches me mid-yawn.

I’m still torn between seeing him as a stern coach and a comedian. “Goodness,” he says dryly. “I could almost see what you ate for breakfast.” He lets me know why I haven’t seen Mitch. “Justin hasn’t been well, but he’s on the mend now. They’re both looking forward to joining you soon.”

I wish I could say the same. For now, I focus on the children. Luke does too.

“You’re a big hit with Hadi.” He points out his son. “He talks about your sessions nonstop at home.”

He names my quietest student, who brings his dad a fallen sycamore leaf, and Luke shows me another facet, neither stern nor comedic, as he names it for him in English and what I assume is Arabic. That’s an unexpected reminder of Dad, but I guess it is only what I’ve copied by naming everything here in Polish.

Luke finds some of those labels I’ve made and approves of them. “Heritage matters. Let’s work together on adding the Cornish names too.” He also says, “Well, well, well. Someone is very interested in nature all of a sudden, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t mean his son, who hunts for more leaves, or Asa, who usually has ants in his pants.

Luke has actually spotted Rae, who is in my clearing again, this time with his sixth-form students.

They all carry rolls of paper. He’s told me they will use them to document their pathways to Glynn Harber. That they need to look back before they can move forward without the past snagging them like brambles.

Rae’s own roll is tied with string. There’s a text message on my phone telling me why. I read how he doesn’t want to influence his students when I was sitting on a tractor at sunset. Another text told me he only shares his journey stage by stage rather than all at once. Now he waggles that tight roll at us in greeting.

I nod hello and wish I hadn’t committed to so much extra farm work, only there’s no way I’ll verbalise that to Luke. Not while I still feel like I’m on a bench, waiting to get selected.

This is still a trial. Still temporary. He said we’d talk again after the half-term break. That weeklong school vacation is rushing up already, and the weeks I’ve already spent here with my harvest workload as a stark contrast means I can see that staying would be a more sustainable option.

I don’t need to use my chainsaw every day here, or steer heavy machinery that I still feel rumble long after I switch off the engine. My hands could be proof of that. They are rock steady as I tell Luke, “I don’t mind sharing space with them. I’ve learned a lot about art this week from Rae.”

I learn even more when Rae notices the leaves that Hadi has found and uses them as a prompt for another art lesson. He kneels down to ask my group of little kids a question.

“Did you know there’s a famous artist who used to do farm work just like Mr. Novac does in addition to running your nature sessions?”

That leads to lots of questions. Asa’s are all speed related. I grin as he zooms in a circle, and I agree. “Yes, I do get to go on quad bikes sometimes. And tractors.”

Little Maisie Dymond’s questions are more practical. She leans on a handrail and asks, “How can you work in two places at the same time?”

“I don’t. I do farm work in the evenings and on the weekends.”

I don’t have an answer for her next question.

“But when do you play?”

Noah fields that for me. His voice has deepened in the last month. “When harvest is over.” He rubs his chest. “I’ll be more help with that next year.”

Luke says, “I bet your family will be glad of an extra pair of hands, Noah.”

Farming is a family business. Marc and Stefan won’t need so much help from me once Noah is fully recovered.

That’s a good thing. I still dig the toe of a boot into leaf matter, kicking that worry away, and I change the subject gruffly. “What’s so special about this artist?”

Rae swings his attention to me. “The way he took what he saw while farming and turned it into art is pretty special. He made beautiful things out of wood. Out of leaves. From natural resources.”

“Like you do!” Maisie shouts. “You’re good with wood, Mr. Novac!”

Rae has crouched. I can’t see his mouth over the heads of little children. I can still tell he’s smiling. Those lively eyes meet mine and skip away just as quickly. “Yes. He is very good with wood. So is this artist. He makes amazing pictures out of everything you have here.” He looks my way, perhaps asking permission to hijack this session. I nod before deferring to Luke, but that’s okay—he nods too, so Rae goes for it. “Want to see?”

He’s come prepared with printed examples of those outdoor art projects, and he asks the little ones, “See how he uses everything that you’ve already found? Great big leaves as well as little ones. Twigs and stones too, see? Look at how he’s grouped all the same colours together.” He looks around, getting up to grab something from the clearing floor and coming back with a selection. “Like all of these…”

“Sycamore leaves?” Maisie offers.

“Perfect.” He hands one to her that the autumn has painted scarlet. He skips Hadi to next show a yellowing leaf to Asa, who stops wriggling for long enough to name and claim it.

“Oak!”

“And this last one?” Rae asks no one in particular.

“That’s from the willow tree!” Hadi shouts, which is a first from a child who is so often silent.

“He’s a sponge,” Luke says quietly. “The right task squeezes out all the English he’s soaked up. He just needs time to put his words in order. Leaving him until last and asking an open question like that was perfect. A low-pressure way to give him a chance to join in. Very neatly done.”

Rae is oblivious to this praise. He kneels again and taps his lips as if he’s thinking. “I wonder if you could put everything you’ve found into colour order like my artist did? Can you group all the shades of red, like pink, crimson, and scarlet?” He issues another challenge. “And then can you help each other to put them into size order from the smallest leaf to the biggest?”

He extends a fist towards the biggest student.

Teo bumps his own fist against it as Luke murmurs, “Sorting and grouping. Mathematical categories and vocabulary extension. Nice.”

While the little kids hustle to collect leaves, Rae asks the older students a different question. “Let’s talk about the art we grew up seeing, yeah?”

“Art?” Noah snorts. “More like graffiti, sir. Tags, like the ones spray-painted on the walls of the art building.”

“We did that last year,” Teo adds. This is quieter. “It was a good day. First time I could see myself staying instead of running, innit.”

“Because you saw familiar symbols and were allowed to make marks of your own?”

Teo thinks about that and then nods.

“That’s the power of art,” Rae says. “Seeing yourself and making connections.” He lifts that roll of paper. “Feels like it’s almost time to show you the marks I grew up seeing. But for now, think about this: What if you didn’t have any spray paint to make your mark? What if none of you did? Could you still see yourself here and make your mark, only maybe like this instead?”

He shares more images of what looks like street art, only these vivid symbols cover a forest floor. The reds, golds, and greens of the leaves the artist used instead of paint are vibrant. Bold. A visual statement as clear as Rae’s next one. “Think you can tag these woods with whatever colour leaves the little ones find? Make patterns and connections with them. Help them feel as seen as you did when you were allowed to make your mark on the walls of the art building?”

“Oh, he is good.” Luke slides a look my way that I can’t read. “Someone that smart? He’ll get snapped up by a school if he ever wants to put down roots. Snapped up by someone local as well. In fact, I heard that someone’s already working on that.”

“They are?”

Dammit. That popped out way too quickly.

Luke doesn’t grin. He doesn’t have to. I’m becoming a master at knowing when eyes laugh at me.

He does say, “School scuttlebutt is that you two only just slid back through the gates a minute before curfew last week. You must have been very busy to lose track like that.”

That’s one way to describe me scything a path to those old living quarters for Rae. Maybe someone saw the glow of my phone after we got back, both of our heads bent over it as I translated more of those diary pages. That took another hour of us sitting close together in the Land Rover, me reading out what Olek valued enough to write about or draw.

That brown leather football of his featured often. So did a pool he learned to swim in.

His handwriting was harder to decipher, but Luke doesn’t have any trouble translating what I want in my own near future.

“So, are you going to show him some more art inspiration this weekend? Get him fired up for his project?”

He’s as mistaken as I was about how inspiration would strike Rae. He is usually such a live wire, like he is with these kids now. I more than half expected fireworks—for him to be excited and loud about it after I hacked through those brambles.

The calm that actually descended?

That was a surprise I’ve spent this week turning over. The more I do, the more it makes sense that peace settled for Rae the moment he knew how to kick off his story.

I’d feel fucking calm too if I could see my own sure way forward.

Luke misinterprets my huff—a soul-deep exhale that will cloud once these woods turn frosty. And they will soon. These fallen leaves will turn dry and crunchy regardless of whether I’m still on Luke Lawson’s year-round payroll.

He lands on a different subject. “If you do go out again looking for inspiration, there’s a lot of local artwork in the restaurant at the Anchor in Porthperrin. Good food too.”

Marc told me the same. I’m pretty sure the Anchor is where Stefan wined and dined and stole him before I got a chance to date him, only right now, I’m so fucking relieved at how that panned out. Because it isn’t Marc who I picture with a candle flickering between us on a restaurant table.

It’s Rae.

Luke leaves me then, time for another teacher to be my mentor.

A deeper sigh huffs out from me once he’s gone, because the Anchor is way out of my budget and I’m too busy.

All the children turn my way, so I guess that sigh came out loudly. So does a shout.

Little Adam is pleased to see me, and I drop to my knees with my arms wide open. That’s instinctive. So is catching him when he stumbles. I scoop him up as Charles approaches, but he doesn’t take his runaway son back from me. If anything, his first comment is surprising.

“Look at how easily he loves you.”

I can’t pretend that doesn’t sound raw, and the shadows under his eyes prove a point he makes once the children are busy.

“Sorry I haven’t been much help this week. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. Lost perspective.” He’s brutally honest. “Felt like I was the one and only person responsible for everyone’s well-being. Even Hugo’s, and he’s an actual functioning adult.” This is the fiercest I’ve ever heard him. “Of course he’s got my back, and of course everything won’t fall apart if I stop trying to be everything to everybody. Thank you for showing me that I don’t have to.”

“Me?”

Adam must be tired. He snuggles into the crook of my neck and shoulder, a fully relaxed weight adding to building blocks three other toddlers must have stacked in my chest. Now I hold Adam against mine and sway from side to side with him.

“Yes, you.” Charles sways right along with me, even though his arms are empty. “Look at him, so safe and sound with you. So secure. Cared for by someone who isn’t me or Hugo. Running right for you, and me not feeling bad about that, because here’s the thing.”

I was wrong about him being fierce before. This is the real deal.

“I cannot keep trying to pour for three little people from an empty vessel. None of us can, can we, Hayden? Keep pouring out everything we’ve got, I mean. We have to refill that vessel, even if it means letting other people rock our babies.”

I can’t help picturing my sisters.

Who the fuck knows why I’m defensive.

“I don’t have any babies.”

Charles doesn’t argue. He simply comes to a decision. “I’m going to ask for more help. Call in some babysitting favours. Rally the troops so I can take Hugo out and show him a bloody good time, and do you know what else?” Here’s a smile that looks so much better on him. “I’m going to get my empty vessel well and truly filled up.” He nods like that’s a done deal. “Right, that’s my weekend sorted. Now tell me what fun you have planned.”

“This weekend? Making hay while the last of the sun shines.” Or baling more straw, to be more accurate. “And harvesting potatoes, depending if anyone needs a hand with that yet.”

“You’ll still have your nights free, won’t you?”

He can’t have ever worked in fields against a clock ticking down to winter. I settle for teasing. “It’s like you never wondered why tractors have headlights. The bigger farms even set up floodlights.” I can’t say I’m a fan of the flashbacks to nighttime practices at the academy those lights give me.

I must frown.

Charles does too, if only for a moment. His next optimism shines as brightly as this late September sunshine. “I’m sure you’ll think of how to fit in some fun like me.” He holds his hands out for Adam. “Let someone else rock your babies, Hayden. Prioritise filling?—”

“My empty vessel?”

I’m kidding, but I watch Rae, who is busy helping kids make their mark here, and I don’t know how or when, but he’s left a mark on me—tagged me with more than his name and didn’t need leaves or a can of spray paint to do it.

Charles pats my shoulder on the way past to join the children. “Just don’t forget to make some hay of your own, or it will be winter before you know it, and…” He tilts his head towards Rae.

He’ll be long gone.

“Make hay, Hayden,” Charles repeats.

And me?

I watch Rae spread out leaves in lines that flow across the clearing, a stream that forks the same way the river running through these woods does.

A shaft of light lands on him at the same time as a bolt of lightning hits me, which is exactly how I imagined inspiration would strike him.

I’m lit up with an idea of how to make more than some hay with Rae.

Waiting to tell him until the kids have finished splashing this space with colour is murder. Torture . Finally, the chimes of the school bell faintly echo.

The children leave, along with Charles, and Rae and I are back where I last kissed him.

A willow curtain closes behind us, and Rae’s arms are around me only seconds later.

“Wait.”

He blinks at that order, and part of me wishes he could see himself like this, smiling while strafed with emerald. The rest of me gets his romantic shit together.

“Listen. You know I’m working all weekend, right?”

He nods.

“I could take a few hours off later on Sunday afternoon to take you somewhere.”

I rub the back of my neck, clamping my hand there to stop its tremble at the thought of turning down cash. That wasn’t ever my long-term plan. Neither was getting attached to someone, even if they’re a short-term addition to Glynn Harber. It’s worth it when I tell Rae what came to me after I watched him make rivers of leaves with the children.

“Because if you don’t mind getting wet, I can show you the pool your Polish boy learned to swim in.”