Drake closed the door and stumbled down the stairs. He stepped outside just in time to retch into a bush. Afterwards he stood as if he was an old man, bent over, his hands restingon his thighs trying his best to recover, but his body continued to let him down. It began to tremble as feelings of hurt were replaced by anger. It seeped into every vein, filling him up and urging him to return and tear them apart. He wanted to, Lord knows he wanted to, but he couldn’t. Despite his anger towards his mother, he would not embarrass her by challenging her while she was naked. He straightened and breathed in deeply, trying to calm the volcano raging inside him. He turned towards Carrack Estate and began to run. He ran and ran and ran, until he felt his heart might explode with the pain of it all and then he ran some more.
* * *
Drake stood in the potting shed, looking at the rows of small, terracotta pots that were lined up like soldiers along the wooden bench. Fragile shoots, in a variety of stages, sprouted from each one. They were emblems of his close relationship with the head gardener as it was only their labour, their sharing of ideas, their experimentation in propagation and cultivation that had brought life to these rare specimens. He saw Timmins approaching. Not now, Drake thought, I cannot face him now. It was too late, Timmins had blocked his escape, oblivious to Drake’s simmering anger.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Timmins, casting a glance over the pots. ‘There’s work to be done on the east side.’ He left, expecting the boy to follow, but when he didn’t Timmins was forced to turn back. ‘Come on, Vennor,’ he ordered, with a jerk of his head. ‘I’ll not ask you again.’
‘Then don’t. Go dig your own pits.’
Timmins stepped inside. Heat blasted down on them through the glass panes.
‘Watch your tongue, boy,’ warned the head gardener.
‘Or what? You will stop bedding my mother?’
Drake still hoped that he had misinterpreted what he had seen, but Timmins expression quickly destroyed that. It was written plainly on his face. He had not been mistaken.
‘When did you find out?’
‘Last night.’
‘You came to the house?’
Drake nodded.
‘You came to the room?’
He nodded again. ‘What sort of man are you?’ spat Drake.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Taking advantage of my mother like that.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, boy.’
‘Well, I won’t let you any more.’
‘You have no say in what I do in my free time.’
‘I have every say. I’ll find work somewhere else.’
Timmins grew angry. ‘You foolish boy. Have you no respect for your mother?’
‘I have more respect than you do. How long has it been going on? Sneaking off . . . lifting her skirts at any opportunity. The thought of it . . . Seeing you both . . . It makes me sick to think of it.’
Timmins stepped closer and pointed his finger at Drake. ‘I care for your mother.’
‘You hardly know her! You are here most of the time!’
‘I knew her before you were born.’
Drake hesitated. He had not expected that. ‘You lie. My mother would have told me.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Is that why you took me on? Not because you thought I would make a good head gardener one day, but because you wanted to get into bed with my mother?’ Timmins’ struggle to reply was clear upon his face. ‘You bastard!’
‘Now steady, lad.’
