home that night. Or even give him any Doggy
Chomps.
It made thinking very difficult.
With one last look at the photo, Lexy tucked herself into her sleeping bag. It was still raining, not in great grey rods now, but heavily enough to keep the gutters gurgling and splashing.
She turned out the tasselled lamp on the table next to her and lay in darkness, unable to sleep.
Was that clock getting louder? She stared blindly around. Where was the cold draught coming from? Surely not the patio door? She’d shut it, hadn’t she? And locked it. Perhaps it was
Elizabeth’s spirit haunting the cottage. Writhing and moaning...
Come off it! This wasn’t like her. Lexy pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin and firmly closed her eyes.
She awoke, disorientated, at dawn. Sunlight was extending slim, bright fingers around the sides of the roughly pulled curtains. She’d made it through the night. Grinning
sheepishly at her earlier fears, Lexy pulled on her t-shirt and combats and padded across to open the curtains and unlock the patio doors. A rush of morning cool and birdsong assailed her. Kinky
pushed past her to get out.
She’d have a spot of breakfast – beans, again, unfortunately – then she’d get on to Milo and...
Lexy’s mouth fell open. The garden looked almost magically transformed from the grey gloom of the previous day. The early autumn sun sleeked over the flint wall and shimmered in the
dew-soaked lawn, enticing her out like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
She pulled on her trainers and went into the garden, breathing in the fresh, clear air.
The cottage lay in a low-walled garden bordered with native trees and shrubs – holly, elder, spindle and hawthorn. A sunny raised bed had been planted out with herbs, each carefully marked
up with its name on a wooden stick. Borage, ginger mint, chives, rosemary, golden sage, thyme – there must have been over twenty different varieties, some tumbling and rampant now, needing to
be tended and harvested.
In the centre of the garden, a picturesque mountain ash tree was laden with a mass of orange berries. Birds flitted and chirped in the foliage.
It felt like a little slice of Eden. Certainly a world apart from the rain-lashed scenario of the night before. But then, any amount of rain would be worth it for just one morning like this.
In the corner of the garden was an old lean-to shed. Lexy peered through the cobwebby window. It housed what she supposed to be Elizabeth’s car, a small red model with a serious rust
problem. Obviously hadn’t been driven for a while. Did she walk everywhere? Then Lexy spotted the bicycle, an old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg type with the word Pegasus printed along the frame.
It looked well-maintained, with a sizeable basket on the front, and seemed to fit the image of the woman very well. Lexy imagined the Elizabeth from the photo spinning along the country lanes on
this metal steed, her long, dark hair flying behind her.
She turned back to the garden. Across the grass was a wicker gate. Lexy headed for this, her footprints clear in the dew. It let out on to a path that ran further up the wooded hill. She opened
it, took a step out, and stopped, arrested by a shrill bark behind her. Kinky was standing in the centre of the lawn, looking wary.
“Don’t you want a little walkies?” Lexy coaxed.
In a series of grumbling whines, the chihuahua explained where to shove her little walkies.
“Please yourself.” Lexy set off.
Below her lay Pilgrim’s Farm and through the still, clear air she could see a tiny figure moving about in the yard.
The path led upwards through woodland that thinned as she climbed, eventually revealing an open area of grass, gorse and scrub which extended as far as the cliff edge. The view across Clopwolde
Bay was spectacular.
Kinky caught her up, panting and glaring. Lexy smiled to herself. He was so predictable.
They continued to the edge, the chihuahua again sticking close to Lexy’s heel, a model of
Chomps.
It made thinking very difficult.
With one last look at the photo, Lexy tucked herself into her sleeping bag. It was still raining, not in great grey rods now, but heavily enough to keep the gutters gurgling and splashing.
She turned out the tasselled lamp on the table next to her and lay in darkness, unable to sleep.
Was that clock getting louder? She stared blindly around. Where was the cold draught coming from? Surely not the patio door? She’d shut it, hadn’t she? And locked it. Perhaps it was
Elizabeth’s spirit haunting the cottage. Writhing and moaning...
Come off it! This wasn’t like her. Lexy pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin and firmly closed her eyes.
She awoke, disorientated, at dawn. Sunlight was extending slim, bright fingers around the sides of the roughly pulled curtains. She’d made it through the night. Grinning
sheepishly at her earlier fears, Lexy pulled on her t-shirt and combats and padded across to open the curtains and unlock the patio doors. A rush of morning cool and birdsong assailed her. Kinky
pushed past her to get out.
She’d have a spot of breakfast – beans, again, unfortunately – then she’d get on to Milo and...
Lexy’s mouth fell open. The garden looked almost magically transformed from the grey gloom of the previous day. The early autumn sun sleeked over the flint wall and shimmered in the
dew-soaked lawn, enticing her out like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
She pulled on her trainers and went into the garden, breathing in the fresh, clear air.
The cottage lay in a low-walled garden bordered with native trees and shrubs – holly, elder, spindle and hawthorn. A sunny raised bed had been planted out with herbs, each carefully marked
up with its name on a wooden stick. Borage, ginger mint, chives, rosemary, golden sage, thyme – there must have been over twenty different varieties, some tumbling and rampant now, needing to
be tended and harvested.
In the centre of the garden, a picturesque mountain ash tree was laden with a mass of orange berries. Birds flitted and chirped in the foliage.
It felt like a little slice of Eden. Certainly a world apart from the rain-lashed scenario of the night before. But then, any amount of rain would be worth it for just one morning like this.
In the corner of the garden was an old lean-to shed. Lexy peered through the cobwebby window. It housed what she supposed to be Elizabeth’s car, a small red model with a serious rust
problem. Obviously hadn’t been driven for a while. Did she walk everywhere? Then Lexy spotted the bicycle, an old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg type with the word Pegasus printed along the frame.
It looked well-maintained, with a sizeable basket on the front, and seemed to fit the image of the woman very well. Lexy imagined the Elizabeth from the photo spinning along the country lanes on
this metal steed, her long, dark hair flying behind her.
She turned back to the garden. Across the grass was a wicker gate. Lexy headed for this, her footprints clear in the dew. It let out on to a path that ran further up the wooded hill. She opened
it, took a step out, and stopped, arrested by a shrill bark behind her. Kinky was standing in the centre of the lawn, looking wary.
“Don’t you want a little walkies?” Lexy coaxed.
In a series of grumbling whines, the chihuahua explained where to shove her little walkies.
“Please yourself.” Lexy set off.
Below her lay Pilgrim’s Farm and through the still, clear air she could see a tiny figure moving about in the yard.
The path led upwards through woodland that thinned as she climbed, eventually revealing an open area of grass, gorse and scrub which extended as far as the cliff edge. The view across Clopwolde
Bay was spectacular.
Kinky caught her up, panting and glaring. Lexy smiled to herself. He was so predictable.
They continued to the edge, the chihuahua again sticking close to Lexy’s heel, a model of
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