Flood by Ian Rankin

of them sitting at home watching themselves and feeling embarrassed, but laughing it off because they had won the tea service and the grandfather clock and the decanter with six crystal glasses. These prizes would be crammed into their already overflowing house, and if they had video-recorded their efforts they would inevitably show it to any visitor from now until New Year. They would show off the decanter on a shelf in their wall unit. They would open a cupboard, and there, in shadowy hibernation, would be the tea service, awaiting that elusive 'special occasion'. They would squeeze past the dully ticking grandfather clock in their narrow hall when they went to bed at night. Their life had been full. Mary wondered why she watched these programmes at all. They did not excite her.
    People shopping on the following morning would talk about the television programmes, would mention the prizes on the quiz shows admiringly. They seemed excited by it all. Real people, she supposed, were being shown winning for a change, but it was a hollow enough victory.

    There was a knock at the door: one, two, three in rapid succession -- Andy. She flicked channels to a documentary, and examined herself in the mirror. It was far too late to do anything about her appearance. She hurried to the door and opened it. The street lamp was on now, though the sky was still blue, a deepening blue as if it were a sea rather than a sky. Andy was smiling.

    'Sorry for interrupting,' he said, but she was already ushering him awkwardly inside. 'And so late. I hope I'm not. . .'

    'Nonsense, Andy. I was going out of my mind. Yet another quiet night in front of the goggle-box.' She felt more relaxed once the door was closed, separating them from the outside world of looks and whispers, whispers and looks. She could feel him relax too. 'Sandy didn't come home this evening, so I've not spoken to a soul all day.' This was a white lie. She had spoken to the usual people whom she met while shopping. She had also spoken to her mother, who would turn in her grave if she heard her daughter lying. Mary giggled to think of it, and Andy continued to smile.

    'Anything good on the box?' he asked, still a slight distance from her.

    'No,' she answered, nearing him and hugging his waist.
    'We'll switch it off.' Their lips touched.

    They had met at a parents' night. She had spent an age that evening in her bedroom making herself presentable.
    She always liked the teachers to know that Sandy's mother was nicer than local folklore would have them believe. Mr Wallace was quite new to the school then, and quite new to the area.
    An outsider, she had thought, a bit like herself.
    They had got on famously. It had been a few weeks later, however, when they had bumped into each other in Kirkcaldy, that he had actually asked her if they might go for a drink some evening. She had asked him if that were not rather irregular, having already decided to go. He had mumbled something flattering. Yes, it was that meeting that stayed in her mind rather than the more formal first encounter. She had wondered at the time about the propriety of the thing, but Sandy had not batted an eyelid on discovering their attachment. Word spread like wildfire, of course, and the town saw it as a bewitchment. She had made a schoolteacher break the silent golden rule. Andy's headmaster had spoken to him twice about it, but as yet the young man was refusing to give in to any discreet pressure.
    He still saw the mother and he still taught the son, and the town still whispered with hissing venom behind their backs.
    Carsden had become just a little colder since then, but Andy did not care. He knew that he was infatuated, and he knew that the infatuation was worth anything, even if it meant having to resign. Sometimes he wondered if the woman with the old hair and young face, who could tell so many bitter tales, really was a witch. Sometimes there seemed no other explanation. Then he would become rational again