Mai Griffin
Doris Lynch must be one of the few people in the
village who were indifferent to her picture, not even
glancing at it when it was carried in, which was a
shame really, as Clarrie might then have discovered
why it was causing such a stir. Half asleep, gazing at
the canvas as her eyelids drooped, she imagined she
saw the figures moving; the boy with the spade stopped
digging to stand and gaze around him and the young
man with the bright yellow backpack walked
purposefully down the path to the house. When the boy
flung aside the spade and moved furtively to the back
door of the building, a wave of apprehension swept
over Clarrie. When the walker entered the open front
door, a sharp pang of terror jerked her back to reality.
She still felt sick with fear although fully awake, but
why? What caused the sense of panic that swept over
her?
It took her several minutes to calm down,
whereupon she felt more able to dismiss her weird
experience and put it down to tiredness after an
exhausting day. Pulling herself together, she prepared
to go out, resisting with determination the urge to
glance again at the unfinished painting.
Feeling better after the short walk, Clarrie settled in
a quiet corner of the saloon with what she considered
was a well-earned drink. Apart from the wind, which
made it difficult to return with everything intact, things
were going well. The opportune arrival of Postie
proved heaven sent – she surely would have lost her
grip of something without help, and as the thought
crossed her mind, he walked into the bar with several
other men who all seemed to be together. Laughing and
joking, they went straight to the end of the room and
took over the dartboard while Postie stayed at the bar;
presumably, he was buying the first round! She really
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