Mai Griffin
certainly didn’t draw, or even see. The house was on
fire. Splashes of flaming orange vibrated in the
windows and licked around the frame of the open door.
In alarm, Clarrie hurriedly threw off the duvet and
rushed to inspect the wet canvas again; perhaps the
paint had run: no way! It wasn’t that wet. To her relief,
the unfinished picture looked no different from when
she packed up for the day. Only after checking it, was
she able to get to sleep, but it was a restless night
disturbed by dream snatches that melted from her
memory as she awoke. When she heard heavy footsteps
passing her bedroom door she guessed that the lovely
Mr Lynch was on his way down to eat and, although
she would have welcomed a few more minutes rest,
Clarrie hastened to get up, to join her hosts for
breakfast.
Afterwards, they both helped to load her gear into
the car. The weather seemed good but because the
wind blew up so unexpectedly yesterday, Clarrie had
decided not to walk to the hill. There, the road was wide
with no parking restrictions, so there was no point in
risking being caught in another gale. With her head in
the open boot, through the windscreen, she saw Postie
emerge from next door carrying a newspaper stand
and she heard someone call, “Morning Mr Parker, nicer
today than yesterday, thank goodness.” Well, that’s
something, she thought, I needn’t call him ‘Postie’ when
I next meet him in the pub!
Standing on the pavement, watching her drive
away, Clive gave a friendly wave… His thoughts
churned. As soon as he could get away, he would
follow. From the far side of the hill he would be able to
approach her through the woods without being
observed and be in a good position to see if anyone
else was around. He didn’t allow himself to plan beyond
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