Grace would too, wasn't the house but the garden and the haven of this hothouse with its community of beloved plants.
~
Grace visited Twester Heatherstone Estate Agents the next day, first looking for a house to move to. She spent the afternoon visiting four horrible little boxes, all eminently desirable according to Tony Twester. But then he would think a dog kennel was quite suitable for his own mother.
On coming home, the Dunphy driveway was blocked by a pantechnicon, plain-sided as an expressionless face. Hyperica emerged from the front door, carrying two bulging carrybags. "Scuse," muttered Hyperica, scooting past her mother on the steps. Grace ran in the house and up to Hyperica's room. The only things left were walls punctuated with picture hangers where all the mirrors had been, a litter of magazines and an unmade bed.
The front door slammed and Hyperica stood in the hall with a man with the body of a T-shirted and jeaned gladiator and the skin of an old lizard. "This is Angel, Mum."
Angel moved his legs apart and rippled his muscles in the way other men smooth their hair back. Grace waited. Angel adjusted his cleft chin towards Grace like he would welcome an argument, and was used to winning.
"Angel has this van business and we're getting married, aren't we, Angel?" Hyperica cringed up at him, as she took his arm and he shook her off.
"Not here," he snapped. "Tole you that, dint I."
Suddenly, Angel lifted a meaty arm to look at his watch.
"Is your ladyship 'bout finished here?" he asked, looking at no one, but his voice dripping with the same syrupy bile that Hyperica had always dispensed.
Hyperica's face flushed beet. She scuttled off like a trained cockroach, lugging the heavy carry bags and with difficulty, lifting them and herself into the lorry.
She had barely installed herself before the pantechnicon leapt from the curb with never a look back from girl or man—just a black diesel fart for remembrance.
Next week was the Nobel awards, and the Dunphys would have sent their regrets if there had been an address to send them to, but there wasn't. Hyperica had disappeared just as completely as the jewellery in Grace Dunphy's jewel box. But that was a small price to pay for happiness.
~
It was a cool spring evening when Cloudmere and Grace left the home of their new next-door neighbours.
"Grusha and Irena have settled in well, haven't they?"
"Almost as snug as we are," Cloudmere sighed, as he put his arm around Grace, nestled beside him on the floor of the hothouse, now the site of many romantic trysts instead of just escapes. "And you were going to abandon this. Lucky for us your clairvoyant friend turned wrong early enough. Superstitious piffle."
Grace winced from the painful memory. "How would you explain her rightness?"
"Close enough hits on some things that you papered over her wild misses yourself. That's how predictions work. Maybe I should take up the trade," Cloudmere concluded with only a half-gloat of I-told-you-so in his voice.
Grace pulled out a tin from the base of the passionfruit vine. "Have a biscuit."
Cloudmere took three, and was dipping in for another handful when Grace closed the box. "Maybe you're not a man," she smiled mischievously.
"Hmm?" Cloudmere asked, his mouth full.
"They're Miss Cassandra's recipe. She warned me that you would hate these biscuits, because all men dislike this taste."
Cloudmere stood and pulled Grace up with him. "I predict you'll find Miss Cassandra wrong again ... but I'll let you count the ways."
~
A tree fell against the front door. At least it sounded that loud, though no tree was close enough to make that bang. It was a dark and balmy night, and the Dunphys tensed against each other in bed. A second tree fell almightily against the solid oak, and then the polite doorbell tinkled, and tinkled again, followed by a series of bashes, and an "Open up!"
"Do you think you should go?" Grace clutched Cloudmere, meaning "I think you should go, but
~
Grace visited Twester Heatherstone Estate Agents the next day, first looking for a house to move to. She spent the afternoon visiting four horrible little boxes, all eminently desirable according to Tony Twester. But then he would think a dog kennel was quite suitable for his own mother.
On coming home, the Dunphy driveway was blocked by a pantechnicon, plain-sided as an expressionless face. Hyperica emerged from the front door, carrying two bulging carrybags. "Scuse," muttered Hyperica, scooting past her mother on the steps. Grace ran in the house and up to Hyperica's room. The only things left were walls punctuated with picture hangers where all the mirrors had been, a litter of magazines and an unmade bed.
The front door slammed and Hyperica stood in the hall with a man with the body of a T-shirted and jeaned gladiator and the skin of an old lizard. "This is Angel, Mum."
Angel moved his legs apart and rippled his muscles in the way other men smooth their hair back. Grace waited. Angel adjusted his cleft chin towards Grace like he would welcome an argument, and was used to winning.
"Angel has this van business and we're getting married, aren't we, Angel?" Hyperica cringed up at him, as she took his arm and he shook her off.
"Not here," he snapped. "Tole you that, dint I."
Suddenly, Angel lifted a meaty arm to look at his watch.
"Is your ladyship 'bout finished here?" he asked, looking at no one, but his voice dripping with the same syrupy bile that Hyperica had always dispensed.
Hyperica's face flushed beet. She scuttled off like a trained cockroach, lugging the heavy carry bags and with difficulty, lifting them and herself into the lorry.
She had barely installed herself before the pantechnicon leapt from the curb with never a look back from girl or man—just a black diesel fart for remembrance.
Next week was the Nobel awards, and the Dunphys would have sent their regrets if there had been an address to send them to, but there wasn't. Hyperica had disappeared just as completely as the jewellery in Grace Dunphy's jewel box. But that was a small price to pay for happiness.
~
It was a cool spring evening when Cloudmere and Grace left the home of their new next-door neighbours.
"Grusha and Irena have settled in well, haven't they?"
"Almost as snug as we are," Cloudmere sighed, as he put his arm around Grace, nestled beside him on the floor of the hothouse, now the site of many romantic trysts instead of just escapes. "And you were going to abandon this. Lucky for us your clairvoyant friend turned wrong early enough. Superstitious piffle."
Grace winced from the painful memory. "How would you explain her rightness?"
"Close enough hits on some things that you papered over her wild misses yourself. That's how predictions work. Maybe I should take up the trade," Cloudmere concluded with only a half-gloat of I-told-you-so in his voice.
Grace pulled out a tin from the base of the passionfruit vine. "Have a biscuit."
Cloudmere took three, and was dipping in for another handful when Grace closed the box. "Maybe you're not a man," she smiled mischievously.
"Hmm?" Cloudmere asked, his mouth full.
"They're Miss Cassandra's recipe. She warned me that you would hate these biscuits, because all men dislike this taste."
Cloudmere stood and pulled Grace up with him. "I predict you'll find Miss Cassandra wrong again ... but I'll let you count the ways."
~
A tree fell against the front door. At least it sounded that loud, though no tree was close enough to make that bang. It was a dark and balmy night, and the Dunphys tensed against each other in bed. A second tree fell almightily against the solid oak, and then the polite doorbell tinkled, and tinkled again, followed by a series of bashes, and an "Open up!"
"Do you think you should go?" Grace clutched Cloudmere, meaning "I think you should go, but
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