‘So – you see the problem?’ Annie set down her glass of lemonade on a small, somewhat rickety table and leaned back in the deckchair, closing her eyes. ‘He says he loves me. I think I believe him. And I’m crazy about him, I can’t deny it. But we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, and for some reason he’s absolutely insisting that we get married. Now. Right now. Which seems an incredibly big step to take so soon, don’t you think? Why rush things so? How do we know what we feel isn’t infatuation? It would be so awful to make a mistake. I really, really don’t know what to do. What do you make of it?’ She and her mother were sitting in fresh, clear sunshine in the cottage garden.
Jane, who was knitting, laid her work on her lap and was silent for a moment. ‘I grant you it does seem a little strange for him to be so insistent,’ she said at last, thoughtfully, looking at her daughter over the top of her glasses. ‘I don’t know him well, of course, but Richard didn’t strike me as being – well – that impulsive a person. On the other hand—’ She laughed a little. Annie opened her eyes to look at her enquiringly. ‘Well,’ Jane said, delicately, ‘whilst I suspect that most men wouldn’t be pressing so soon to marry you, they might well be pressing for… some other arrangement, shall we say?’
Annie’s face was already sun-reddened; she could only hope that her mother could not see how it now burned. She could tell Jane a lot of things, but she had not been able to bring herself to say that she and Richard had already made love. That this, indeed, was the greatest of her problems: it was as if their lovemaking had opened a door within her, a door through which light, laughter and breathtaking excitement streamed, a door of promise that she could not bear to close again. But if she refused to marry him, Richard was ready to close that door, of that she was certain. She shifted in the deckchair, straightening her back and leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. Above them a gull wheeled and called; the gentle sound of sea and shingle was soothing. ‘He lived with someone in Paris,’ Annie said quietly, after a moment. ‘An artist – a girl called Isobella.’
Jane cocked her head. ‘That’s relevant?’
‘I think it might be, yes. She wouldn’t marry him, you see. Wouldn’t commit herself. I gather she didn’t believe in marriage. Thought it bourgeois. Unnecessary. She hurt him badly, I think. To be truthful she sounds to me like a thoroughly nasty piece of work. She had affairs. And she was a liar. Richard can’t bear deception—’
‘Can any of us?’ Jane’s voice was quiet.
Annie did not for the moment reply. Then, without looking at her mother, she asked, suddenly sombre, ‘Don’t we all lie, or deceive, sometimes? Can any one of us truly say we don’t? Aren’t there times when it’s better to deceive than to tell the truth? What if the truth is unbearable? What if the truth can only cause hurt? Aren’t there times when deception is the kindest thing?’
Jane was watching her, brow faintly furrowed. Annie did not look at her. ‘Annie?’ her mother said at last, half-smiling, mildly questioning. ‘You make it sound as if you’re harbouring some dark and guilty secret yourself?’ The words were light, but her eyes were bright and searching on her daughter’s face.
Annie paused before replying. She was sucking her lip, her expression distant and preoccupied.
‘Annie?’
She jumped from her reverie. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said – you make it sound as if you’re harbouring some dark secret—?’
Annie shook her head sharply. ‘No, of course not. How could I be?’ She gave a small, caustic laugh. ‘In order to have dark secrets I imagine you have to have lived a rather more interesting life than I have.’
‘I suppose so.’ Jane did not sound entirely convinced, and she was still watching her daughter with thoughtful eyes.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Mother. Now look – in a nutshell, this is it. Richard wants me to marry him. If I’m absolutely honest with myself, I want to marry Richard—’
‘Put like that,’ her mother smiled composedly, ‘there’s a fairly simple answer there somewhere. And perhaps I’d better go out and buy that big hat after all.’
Annie grinned suddenly. ‘Do behave! And listen. It just seems such a big step to take so soon. Yet, the way Richard spoke yesterday, nothing else will do, and I think there’s a very real danger that I’ll lose him if I don’t agree.’
‘He’s that set?’
‘Yes.’
‘Difficult.’
‘Yes.’
Jane cocked her head. ‘This Isobella you mentioned? Am I wrong, or do you think that she’s somehow involved in all this? Is it she who’s worrying you? You think Richard is… well, on the rebound, so to speak? Or something worse than that?’
Annie pulled a small face and sighed. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. But yes, both thoughts have obviously occurred to me. It’s quite clear that the way she treated him has influenced the way he feels about us – about me – and no, I suppose whatever’s behind it I don’t like that very much.’
‘Well, my dear.’ Jane wrapped her knitting around the needles and stuffed it into the bag that hung behind her on the chair. ‘I don’t see that there’s much to be done about that. You must make up your own mind, trust him to have done the same, and decide from there what you want to do.’
Annie looked at her with mock indignation. ‘A fat lot of good it’s done me coming to you for advice! I could have worked that out myself!’
Her mother smiled and shook her head slightly. ‘You know very well there’s nothing else I can say. By all means talk, if it helps sort things out in your head, but in the end no one can make the decision but you.’ She stood up. ‘I made a Madeira cake yesterday. Fancy a slice?’
‘Yes, please.’ Annie hauled herself out of the deckchair and followed her mother into the sunny kitchen. ‘Who are these people Davie’s gone to the beach with?’ she asked.
‘The Millers. Lovely family.’ Jane spoke over her shoulder. ‘They’re from Reading, I believe. They’ve two boys and a little girl. We met them a couple of days ago – they’re here for the week and they’ve got a beach hut. Davie and the boys got on like a house on fire the moment they met, so they invited him down for the day today. He’ll be back after tea.’ She glanced at the clock, then a little mischievously back at Annie. ‘Which gives us,’ she said with an amiable smile, ‘just about time to have a nice big glass of sherry with our cake. I do so enjoy a sherry with Madeira cake.’
‘I’m back, Nan!’ Davie flew through the kitchen door in a clatter of buckets and spades and a shower of sand. ‘The Millers said they couldn’t come in because—’ He stopped. ‘Mother! What are you doing here? You aren’t due until tomorrow—’ He ran to her, flung his arms about her and kissed her. Then as he stepped back and glanced around, the implication of her presence here alone hit him and his face dropped. ‘Where’s Richard? Is he coming in the car tomorrow?’
Annie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Davie, no, he isn’t. He sends tons and tons of apologies, but he got called away on business. To Paris.’
Davie could not hide his disappointment. ‘Business?’ he said disgustedly. ‘At the weekend?’
Annie laughed. ‘He’s got a living to earn, Davie. Anyway, he said I was to tell you that he promises to take us both to the seaside next weekend.’
Davie’s face brightened, and his eyes fell upon the cake. ‘That’d be wizard,’ he said. ‘Can I have a piece of cake, please, Nan?’
Jane picked up the knife. ‘Of course. How big?’
Davie eyed the wedge of cake judiciously. ‘About half that, I reckon,’ he said. ‘With some jam, please.’
‘Davie!’ his mother exclaimed.
He smiled at her disarmingly, his dark eyes shining in a nut-brown, handsome face. ‘I’m ever so hungry,’ he said. ‘The Millers are very nice, and John and Luke are smashing, but their picnics aren’t like yours. They only had paste sandwiches and biscuits. And not many of them, either. I’m starving.’
‘I somehow doubt that,’ his grandmother said crisply. ‘But you are a growing boy, so here, tuck into that and then you’d better go and have a bath – you’re shedding half of Southwold beach onto my nice clean floor!’
The train slowed, huffing steam, and pulled into the station with a screech of brakes. The elderly gentleman who had shared their carriage from Halesworth put his hand through the open window to turn the door handle, then doffed his hat courteously to Annie before stepping onto the platform and slamming the door shut behind him. The distinctive, acrid smell of steam and coal fumes wafted into the carriage. There was a bustle of activity on the platform and then the shriek of a whistle. The huge engine hauled itself forward, belching smoke and steam like some great mythical monster, and they were off again, running smooth and fast through the green countryside. Annie stood up to slide the window shut, fastened the leather strap, then sat down and studied her son, who was sitting in the window seat opposite her, absorbedly reading a comic.
His week on the beach had bleached his thick hair and eyelashes almost to silver, his skin was smooth and brown. Sensing her eyes on him he glanced up and smiled, then dug in his blazer pocket for a crumpled paper bag. ‘Would you like a humbug?’ he asked, proffering the bag. ‘They’re spiffing. Ever so strong.’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
He extricated one of the sticky things and popped it into his mouth, licking his fingers. Then he looked out of the window. ‘Where are we?’
‘Just south of Colchester. Not long now.’ She hesitated. ‘Davie?’
‘Hm?’ His nose was back in his comic.
‘You… like Richard, don’t you? Very much?’
‘He’s smashing. So’s his car.’ The answer was distracted. The boy giggled at something in the comic and rolled his humbug noisily around his mouth.
Annie tried again. ‘Do you like him enough to… well, that is, do you think you would mind if—’ She stopped.
She had his whole attention now. His wide, lustrous eyes fixed suddenly on her face, and he stopped chewing.
Annie fidgeted a little; took a breath. ‘Look – Davie – I know you weren’t too keen on my marrying Fergus. Could I ask you something?’
The boy nodded, a little warily.
‘Was that because of Fergus, or because you didn’t want me to get married again?’
Davie looked a little uncomfortable. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t like Uncle Fergus exactly,’ he said carefully, after a moment. ‘I just – didn’t like him enough.’
His mother nodded. ‘I can see that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And… Richard?’ she asked tentatively. ‘How much do you like him?’
Davie stared at her for a moment. ‘Richard?’ he asked, his eyes suddenly, sharply, alight. ‘You mean you’re going to marry Richard?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said hastily. ‘But – well – there is some suggestion that—’
‘But that’s wizard!’ Davie exclaimed. ‘Will he come to live in Kew? Will he bring the car?’
‘Davie!’ Annie laughed exasperatedly. ‘I’ve just said – I haven’t made up my mind. I just wanted to know how you’d feel about it if I did, that’s all. But for goodness’ sake, child, if I do get married it will be to Richard, not his wretched car!’
Davie grinned blithely. ‘I know that. But it would be fun, wouldn’t it? James Barton would be green with envy!’
Annie gave up. ‘So – you wouldn’t mind?’
He looked at her in genuine surprise. ‘Mind? It’d be smashing!’
‘It’s just… well… it all seems to be happening rather fast—’
Her sometimes too-astute son’s grin widened. ‘Lots of things happen fast, Mother,’ he reassured her. ‘Look how fast I broke my arm when I fell off my bike!’
Annie laughed, then sobered. ‘It took a lot longer to mend,’ she said quietly. ‘Remember?’
‘Of course, but…’ Davie lifted his left hand and flexed it encouragingly, ‘it’s as good as new now.’
Annie could not resist a smile. ‘I’m not sure Richard would be too flattered to hear you comparing my marrying him with falling off a bicycle!’
Davie was silent for a moment, his face pensive. Then, out of the blue, ‘Mother – was my real father anything like Richard?’ he asked.
Annie stilled, and for a moment did not answer the unexpected question. When she spoke it was slowly and with a certain care. ‘I… no, not really, not as I remember him. He was… much younger of course.’ The words sounded stiff and awkward, almost wary, in her own ears, but Davie did not seem to notice.
‘Yes, I s’pose he was.’ Davie brightened a little. ‘P’raps he would have been like Richard if he’d managed to get a bit older? Anyway – don’t worry – I think Richard would make a topping father,’ he added with beguiling directness, and, apparently unconcerned, went back to his comic.
Annie leaned back in her seat and turned her head to watch the flying countryside with suddenly shadowed eyes.
Richard sipped his coffee. The sun was warm, the wide, tree-lined pavement busy; a young couple wandered past hand in hand, utterly absorbed in each other. He watched them for a moment. The girl had hair as dark as Annie’s, and as she tilted her head to smile bewitchingly up at her companion, it moved, silkily heavy, as Annie’s did. He set the small cup back in its saucer, reached in his pocket for his cigarette case. The girl swung away from her young man, laughing, their hands still linked. They were the very picture of carefree love and laughter.
What was he doing?
His face expressionless, Richard bent his head to light his cigarette, the lighter flame cupped in the palm of his hand. For the dozenth time, in his head he heard the distinctive, quietly husky voice, almost a whisper: ‘After all, Richard, in the end isn’t it only love that counts? Not money. Not possessions, but love?’ Richard had shaken his head. ‘How can you of all people say that? Love is transient,’ he had said, glancing around the lovely, shadowed room. ‘Love fails. Art endures.’ He could see the faint smile. ‘No.’ The answer was very soft. ‘Love is all. Even, perhaps, the transient kind. What does your Shakespeare say? Better to have loved and lost…? Experience’ – again that faint, almost mischievous smile – ‘experience tells me that is true. You’ll come to know it in time. Believe me.’
Richard narrowed his eyes against the drift of cigarette smoke. Why the philosophy? he asked himself for the umpteenth time. Was there a touch of suspicion there?
The lovers had stopped beneath the canopy of a huge chestnut tree. The girl’s arms were lightly about the young man’s neck, their bodies very close. She tilted her head to look into her sweetheart’s face and, with unaffected tenderness, he kissed her smiling lips.
Richard averted his eyes, looking down at the hand that held the cigarette. It trembled very slightly. ‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. ‘Oh, shit!’
‘When’s Richard coming home?’ Davie asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. He looked up to watch Annie, chewing on the end of his pencil.
‘Don’t do that, darling,’ Annie said automatically, as she slid the cake she had just mixed into the oven. ‘You know it isn’t good for you. Tomorrow, I think. Or perhaps the next day. I’m not sure.’
He cocked his head, eyes bright. ‘Have you decided?’
‘Decided?’
He shook his head impatiently at her assumed innocence. ‘You know! Whether you’re going to marry him or not.’
Annie smiled a little wryly. Put like that, it sounded so very simple. As indeed it had seemed in the middle of the night as she had lain, sleepless and alone, aching for the touch of Richard’s hand, the sound of his voice, the smooth length of his body beside hers. For what seemed like the dozenth time then, she had taken a firm decision: she could not – would not – risk losing him. He had turned her humdrum life upside down, had shown her a world of warmth and excitement; what possible risk could there be in agreeing to marry him? Why had she even hesitated? Yet, once again, here in the cool light of day the doubts were nagging…
Davie sighed and rested his cheek on one hand, watching her. ‘Honestly, Mother,’ he said with frank exasperation, ‘don’t you think you should make up your mind before he comes back?’ His brow furrowed, a little worried. ‘He might go and find someone else.’
Annie had to laugh at that. ‘There is always that possibility, I suppose,’ she agreed; something else, she had to admit, which had occurred to her in the middle of the night. She sat down opposite the child, leaning her elbows on the table and her chin on her linked hands. ‘You really would like to live with Richard, wouldn’t you?’ she asked softly.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Her smile was slow and wide. ‘Yes. I do believe I would.’
‘D’you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I’d even move if he wanted us to.’
She sat quite still, studying his small, earnest face, then said at last, ‘And d’you know what?’
‘What?’ There was a small glint of excitement in her son’s eyes.
‘I think I would too.’
They held each other’s smiling eyes for a moment. Then, ‘Hooray!’ Davie shouted. ‘We’re going to live with Richard!’
‘And his motor car,’ Annie added, straightfaced.
‘Oh, yes, and his motor car. I wonder if he’ll run me to school sometimes? James Barton’s going to be greener than grass!’
Irritatingly but she supposed inevitably, the decision taken, Annie began to worry. Tuesday came, and then Wednesday and there was no news of or from Richard. She wrote to Jane telling her that a big hat might well be in order after all, and received by return of post a prompt and openly delighted reply leavened with a touch of motherly leg-pulling: ‘Even as a child you were always a little slow on the uptake, but I have to admit that you usually get there in the end…’ She smiled as she tucked the letter behind the clock on the mantelpiece, and as she did so her eye was caught by the two neatly engraved cards that were already there. She took them out and looked at them thoughtfully. She had no telephone of her own, but she knew the whereabouts of one that she could use. Was Richard home? Annie so wanted to hear his voice… so wanted to tell him… She flicked at the cards with her fingernail for a moment. Looked at her watch. Davie would be home in ten minutes or so. She would leave it until tomorrow. If she had heard nothing by then, she would telephone. At least, surely, his secretary would be able to tell her when he was expected back? Humming light-heartedly, she went to the window to watch for Davie.
She waited until the afternoon, still half-hoping that he would arrive on the doorstep, but the day dragged on and nothing happened, so, armed with the cards he had given her, she made her way to the small office around the corner that was run by the Red Cross.
‘All right if I use the telephone, Judith?’ she asked. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Of course. Help yourself.’ The plump little woman who was sitting at the desk tallying two long rows of figures straightened her back, stretching a little, and put down her pen, waving a hand at the battered black Bakelite sit-up-and-beg telephone on the desk. ‘I’ll make myself scarce for a bit, if you’d like. I could do with a cup of tea.’
Annie tried the home number first, to no avail. ‘There’s no reply, Madam,’ the bossy-sounding operator informed her, entirely unnecessarily. Annie gave her the office number.
‘Mr Ross’s office.’ The voice was clipped and precise.
‘Is Mr Ross there, please?’
‘May I ask who is calling?’
‘It’s Mrs Hill. Annette Hill. I just wondered when Rich—Mr Ross was due back from Paris?’
‘He returned two days ago.’ The words were crisp and cool. ‘Do you wish to make an appointment to see him?’
Annie’s heart seemed to have stopped entirely.
‘Mrs Hill? Are you there? Do you wish to make an appointment?’ There was a touch of impatience now.
‘Yes, I’m here. And no, I don’t wish to make an appointment. I’d like to speak to Mr Ross, please.’
‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. He isn’t in the office.’
‘Could you tell me where he is?’
There was a small silence. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to do that, Mrs Hill.’ The voice was openly sharp now. ‘If you wish to speak to Mr Ross, I’d advise you either to make an appointment or to telephone tomorrow.’
‘I—thank you. I’ll do that.’ Annie, never completely at home using the telephone, seemed to have lost the ability to think clearly. She felt as if she had been reprimanded by a disapproving schoolmistress.
‘Very well. Goodbye, Mrs Hill.’
‘Please – would you tell him I rang?’
Another small and, Annie felt, faintly hostile silence. ‘If you wish,’ the other woman said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hill,’ she repeated.
‘Goodbye.’
She replaced the receiver very carefully on its hook, stood staring down at it with blank eyes. The disappointment was crushing; and as the implications sank fully into her mind, mortification all but choked her. Two days! He’d been home for two days and had not come near nor by her. Anger struggled with misery. How could he? How could he…?
‘Everything all right?’ Judith had come back into the room, carrying a sheaf of papers and a cup of tea.
Annie smiled, very brightly. ‘Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.’
‘Fancy a cup? There’s a pot made.’
‘No, thank you.’ Desperate to get away, Annie shook her head. ‘I’ve got some errands to take care of before Davie gets home. I’ll see you next week.’
‘Good.’ The other woman gave her a quick, friendly smile and addressed herself to her paperwork.
Annie stepped out into the street. It was crowded and very busy. The noise of the traffic seemed suddenly deafening. She walked quickly; all she wanted was to get home. To be on her own. To think.
Why hadn’t he called? Or even dropped a short note to let her know he was back? Why hadn’t Miss Whatever-her-name-was recognised her name? Obviously Richard hadn’t even mentioned it to her. And yet – he had asked her to marry him. And – chagrin brought warm colour to her cheeks – she had told Davie and her mother…
She hurried up the garden path and let herself into the quiet house, flinging off her coat and hat, kicking off her shoes in a sudden savage spurt of temper. How dare he? How dare he make such a fool of her?
She stalked into the sitting room, threw herself into a chair, nibbling at her thumbnail, trying desperately to keep the goad of her anger white-hot. Trying not to feel the awful, physical ache of disappointment. She rubbed at her hot cheeks with the palms of her hands. Why should she care? She hadn’t really made up her mind to marry him anyway. Defiantly she lied to herself, fighting off the miserable tears. One thing she was resolved upon: she would not be telephoning his crabby old bat of a secretary again. Not for anything.
Unable to sit still, Annie scrambled from the chair, walked on stockinged feet to the French windows, looked out into the early summer garden. She took a deep, calming breath. She was letting her thoughts run away with her, she knew it. He’d come, of course he would. There must be some explanation, some reason for his silence. She dashed a quick hand across her eyes. There had better be, she told herself a little grimly.
It was two hours later, and she was sitting in the garden trying to read a book when she heard the sound of the front doorbell. Sighing, she laid the book aside and stood up. Davie was forever mislaying his door key. She went through the house to the front door, opened it and blinked.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hill – these came for you this afternoon, when you were out. The lad asked me to take them in for you – but then I had to go out myself…’ The woman who stood there, rather awkwardly clutching a bunch of long-stemmed roses, was small and bird-like, with a twittering voice. Her eyes, behind rimless glasses, were bright with curiosity. She lived in the house across the road. ‘I’ve only just come back, and I said to myself, “I must deliver these straight away” – lovely flowers – I did put them in water…’
Annie’s heart had lifted. She reached for the flowers. ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Dobson, that was very kind of you.’
Mrs Dobson had her nose buried in the blooms, sniffing noisily. ‘Lovely smell, too. Flowers do make such a lovely gift, don’t they? Is it your birthday?’ Again that bright, curious glance. ‘Are congratulations in order?’ The words were coy and questioning.
Annie shook her head, trying to contain her impatience. ‘No. No congratulations, just a present from a friend, I suspect.’ Again she reached for the flowers. Reluctantly the woman gave them up.
‘Thank you again.’ Annie stepped back, began to close the door.
Mrs Dobson leaned forward confidentially. ‘Have you heard the news?’ she asked.
‘News?’ Annie’s face was blank. There was a small envelope attached to the flowers. She pulled it off, her fingers itching to open it. ‘What news?’
‘The Pattersons. The whole road’s talking about it.’
‘Pattersons?’
‘You know – at number eight. It seems,’ she leaned even closer and her voice dropped, ‘it seems she’s in the family way. Again.’ She nodded her head in an odd and smugly satisfied way.
‘Oh.’ Annie fingered the envelope distractedly. ‘That’s nice,’ she added, since the other woman was patently expecting some kind of reaction.
Mrs Dobson sniffed. ‘Four mouths to feed seems quite enough to me, when you’re only a bank clerk,’ she said, righteously pious. ‘Mr Dobson and I were saying so just the other day.’
Annie’s temper was rising. She opened her mouth to speak and then, over the woman’s shoulder, caught sight of Davie, satchel swinging, school cap at a rakish angle on the back of his head, socks wrinkled about his ankles, dawdling down the road. ‘Here comes Davie,’ she said. ‘At last! His tea is spoiling. Thank you again for taking in the flowers.’ She lifted her voice firmly, and beckoned. ‘Davie, do come along. You’re late again.’
Davie, lifting his eyebrows in faint but unconcerned surprise, quickened his pace infinitesimally. ‘Hello, Mother. Hello, Mrs Dobson.’ Then he saw the flowers and his face lit in a wide grin. ‘They from Richard? He’s back then?’
Mrs Dobson cocked an interested head. She still had not moved from the doorstep. Davie slid round her, dropped his satchel on the hall floor and tossed his cap towards the newel post, missing it by a yard and leaving it where it lay. ‘What’s for tea?’
Annie smiled sweetly at Mrs Dobson, raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Boys!’ she said, and shut the door in the inquisitive woman’s face.
Davie had perched himself on the stairs, his elbows on his bare knees, watching her. ‘Well?’ he asked, nodding towards the envelope she still held. ‘What does he say?’
She slit open the envelope. ‘If it has anything whatsoever to do with you,’ she said mildly, ‘I’ll tell you. Here – hold these for a minute.’
He skidded across the hall floor and took the proffered flowers, stood watching her with expectant eyes.
Annie read the note. Twice. Davie hopped from foot to foot. She lifted her smiling eyes to his. ‘The first part is not your concern.’
‘What about the second?’
She grinned. ‘The second says, “Pack your bags and your buckets and spades. I’ll pick you both up at nine on Saturday morning. P.S. Bring the green thing and the little black hat.”’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s a joke. About a dress.’
‘Oh.’ Davie shrugged, dismissing such silliness. Then his face lit up. ‘Where are we going, do you think?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea.’
He dumped the flowers back into her arms and turned to dash into the kitchen. ‘I hope it’s ever so far away.’ His voice came back to her and she heard the pantry door open. ‘A really, really long drive. Is Scotland too far, do you think?’
‘Just a bit.’ Looking back at the note, she smiled, tucked it into her pocket. There came a clattering crash from the kitchen. ‘Davie, what are you doing?’
‘I just dropped the biscuit tin.’ His voice was cheerful. ‘But it’s all right. They’re only a bit broken. I can still eat them. I’m famished!’