The Things We Live By

two - rory

Rory

I sit outside and wait patiently for the truck to arrive.

It's not that I mind it much; the sun is out and it's the kind that won't turn me red in a matter of ten minutes, a fear I have to endure for most summers. This summer's been a good one – there's just a smattering of freckles on my nose and cheeks and, I dare say, an ever-so-slightly darker hue to my skin.

I bask in the late August sun and wait, and in the meantime I think about what Nan said last night. I was surprised, to say the least. It's been at least three years since anyone occupied the farmhouse, probably because none of the local people will even go near it, and no one new ever comes to Glenderry. And it shows: the walls are dirty, green snakes of ivy scale the walls haphazardly, and the front lawn is a mess, the grass grown a foot high. I look at it, sometimes, when I'm outside, on my way to school or on my way back – just as a peek, an afterthought. I've become so used to its vacant state, to the ever-present silence that echoes from the walls, that it feels strange, unnatural somehow, to know someone's moving in.

Still, I tell myself, it's good for business. I mean, Nan and I are doing fine; the insurance payout from the accident is more than enough and it can sustain us for a few more years, and we don't need much, anyway. Having rent will be a relief, though.

Nan's enthusiasm was undeniably contagious. "New tenants!" she declared with glee, "from London. London! They must be posh. Bored, too, otherwise why would they come all the way over here?"

I mean, Glenderry is not hot on the real estate market right now. Nan said the man was vague, didn't really explain what he was there for. Said it was all a little last minute. He had two kids, he did mention that, but not much else.

So I mowed the lawn, tidied up inside a little bit, and now here I am, late August sun on my closed lids, patiently waiting for the truck and the tenants to arrive, which Nan ordered me to welcome. She has a book club meeting this morning, and she's not much good for moving boxes, either.

At the sound of wheels on gravel wakes me up from my lazy half-slumber, and I push myself up, leaning on my hands behind me. The truck doesn't come into sight straight away: first I hear it drawing nearer, but then it appears around the bend, slow and heavy and obviously having trouble navigating the curling country roads. It slows down and then stops opposite the house, and the same strange feeling hits me again, the feeling of peculiarity, that it just doesn't fit.

A brown station wagon skirts around the truck and pulls into the driveway and I lean forward, curious. That must be them, then; all I can think is that I expected them to have a posher car. I get up and walk, tentatively, towards it.

When the passenger door flies open with almost tangible fury, I pause in my spot, wary of getting myself in the middle of some family dispute. But then out steps a girl – my age, probably, maybe older, barefooted, olive-skinned, with a mane of wavy brown hair – beautiful, the kind of beauty you won't find in Tipperary. She gives me a vacant glare, with anger that doesn't channel itself into one direct, concentrated laser beam, but the kind that just disperses around her in a ball and spreads its smell into the air, cocks her eyebrow at me, and strides towards the front door.

I watch with mild amusement as she reaches the door, grasps at the handle, and then stops.

"It's locked," I call out, stifling a smile.

She turns around and leans against the door. "Yeah, thanks, dude," she deadpans, giving the handle another ineffectual push. "I've established."

"Ruth," a man emerges from the car, followed by a boy maybe fourteen or fifteen years old who looks exceedingly bored by the whole ordeal. His tone is the universal cautionary one of 'I'd-rather-not-tell-you-off-in-front-of-strangers-but-I-won't-hesitate-to-do-it'. "Don't be rude. You're Rory, right?" he turns his attention to me, smiling now, and the similarity between him and his daughter are hard to ignore. I nod in confirmation. "Nice to meet you." He strides forward, grips my hand and gives it a firm, energetic shake. "This is Natan. He's fourteen."