she stood looking down at the table.
The book was there, in her head, ready to start and it was going to be even better than Jane . Kate smiled as she pulled her notepad towards her and switched on her word processor.
The knock on the front door two hours later took her by surprise. She had completely forgotten Bill.
‘Hi!’ He grinned at her as she led the way into the living room. ‘How are you? Ready for lunch?’
She stared at him, miles away, reluctant to lose the mood, aching to go on writing.
Bill was watching her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said softly. ‘You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? I’ve boobed. I’ve intruded on the writer with her muse.’
‘Oh, Bill, I’m sorry. Of course I heard you.’ Kate dragged herself back to the present and gave herself a little shake. ‘Blow the muse; she can go back in her box for a few hours. And yes, that’s a super idea. I’d love lunch.’
The walk through the wood was thoroughly enjoyable and eagerly she looked around, noting the crisp air, the soft muddy track, the whispering fragrant pines, the winter-dead oak, and birch and hazel bright with young catkins, as she plodded beside him, her hands in her pockets, throwing off her preoccupation with the background of the poet’s father, mad Jack Byron, in order to recount her adventures of the night before.
‘That’s typical of Greg, I’m afraid, not to tell you about the fire or leave you any logs,’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘There’s a petty streak to him. He’s angry about having to give up the cottage for you.’ He kicked out at a rotten branch which lay half across the track.
‘I didn’t realise he lived there.’
‘Oh yes. Greg is a brilliant painter. He dropped out of university about six years ago, halfway through getting a Fine Art degree, came home here and more or less squatted. That was before Roger had to give up work – I don’t know if you realise, but he’s got cancer.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Anyway, the Lindseys indulged Greg disgracefully, there is no other word for it, and I think Roger gave him some sort of allowance, but when he had to stop work himself there were a few heavy hints that Greg might get off his backside and get a job to help the family coffers. He was impervious to them all, I gather. He has lofty views on the sacredness of talent and the fact that the rest of the world owes him a living so he can indulge that talent. Poor Diana, I don’t know how she’s coped until now. The idea of renting the cottage did not go down well with old Leonardo, as you can imagine. I gather he was dragged out kicking and screaming. So, don’t take his animosity personally. But don’t expect him to come calling with bunches of flowers either.’
Kate frowned. ‘You might have told me all this before, Bill.’
‘Why? Would you have changed your mind about coming?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but it explains a lot.’ She paused. ‘I found some paintings in the bedroom. He must have forgotten them.’
‘I doubt it. If he left them there, he left them there for a reason. Which means he wanted you to see them.’ Bill glanced at her. ‘His paintings are pretty grim, to my mind.’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t like them. There was one which showed the cottage under the sea. It was –’ she hesitated, trying to find the right word ‘– morbid – threatening.’
‘Take no notice. We’ll ask Diana to take them away.’
‘It seems wimpish to make a fuss.’
‘Not at all. You’re as much of an artist as he is, remember. A better one, because you are disciplined. And you are entitled to feel as sensitive and touchy as he is.’ He grinned. ‘Are you feeling sensitive and touchy?’
‘Not in the least. Hungry covers it rather better.’
‘Good. In that case, let’s find your car and go eat.’
The farmhouse was empty. After a cursory glance through the windows to convince themselves that there really was no one at home they turned their
The book was there, in her head, ready to start and it was going to be even better than Jane . Kate smiled as she pulled her notepad towards her and switched on her word processor.
The knock on the front door two hours later took her by surprise. She had completely forgotten Bill.
‘Hi!’ He grinned at her as she led the way into the living room. ‘How are you? Ready for lunch?’
She stared at him, miles away, reluctant to lose the mood, aching to go on writing.
Bill was watching her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said softly. ‘You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? I’ve boobed. I’ve intruded on the writer with her muse.’
‘Oh, Bill, I’m sorry. Of course I heard you.’ Kate dragged herself back to the present and gave herself a little shake. ‘Blow the muse; she can go back in her box for a few hours. And yes, that’s a super idea. I’d love lunch.’
The walk through the wood was thoroughly enjoyable and eagerly she looked around, noting the crisp air, the soft muddy track, the whispering fragrant pines, the winter-dead oak, and birch and hazel bright with young catkins, as she plodded beside him, her hands in her pockets, throwing off her preoccupation with the background of the poet’s father, mad Jack Byron, in order to recount her adventures of the night before.
‘That’s typical of Greg, I’m afraid, not to tell you about the fire or leave you any logs,’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘There’s a petty streak to him. He’s angry about having to give up the cottage for you.’ He kicked out at a rotten branch which lay half across the track.
‘I didn’t realise he lived there.’
‘Oh yes. Greg is a brilliant painter. He dropped out of university about six years ago, halfway through getting a Fine Art degree, came home here and more or less squatted. That was before Roger had to give up work – I don’t know if you realise, but he’s got cancer.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Anyway, the Lindseys indulged Greg disgracefully, there is no other word for it, and I think Roger gave him some sort of allowance, but when he had to stop work himself there were a few heavy hints that Greg might get off his backside and get a job to help the family coffers. He was impervious to them all, I gather. He has lofty views on the sacredness of talent and the fact that the rest of the world owes him a living so he can indulge that talent. Poor Diana, I don’t know how she’s coped until now. The idea of renting the cottage did not go down well with old Leonardo, as you can imagine. I gather he was dragged out kicking and screaming. So, don’t take his animosity personally. But don’t expect him to come calling with bunches of flowers either.’
Kate frowned. ‘You might have told me all this before, Bill.’
‘Why? Would you have changed your mind about coming?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but it explains a lot.’ She paused. ‘I found some paintings in the bedroom. He must have forgotten them.’
‘I doubt it. If he left them there, he left them there for a reason. Which means he wanted you to see them.’ Bill glanced at her. ‘His paintings are pretty grim, to my mind.’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t like them. There was one which showed the cottage under the sea. It was –’ she hesitated, trying to find the right word ‘– morbid – threatening.’
‘Take no notice. We’ll ask Diana to take them away.’
‘It seems wimpish to make a fuss.’
‘Not at all. You’re as much of an artist as he is, remember. A better one, because you are disciplined. And you are entitled to feel as sensitive and touchy as he is.’ He grinned. ‘Are you feeling sensitive and touchy?’
‘Not in the least. Hungry covers it rather better.’
‘Good. In that case, let’s find your car and go eat.’
The farmhouse was empty. After a cursory glance through the windows to convince themselves that there really was no one at home they turned their
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