again until early evening when she joined him for supper. The conversation was pleasant, and she was not inquisitive, as though she were on her best behaviour. She went to bed early.
He was concerned about her walking along the cliff unaided, so he bought her a stick. She was indignant, until he explained that all proper walkers carried one like this, a modified ski pole. Then to his relief, she grudgingly accepted it.
By day four he was nervous of her amenability, and over supper he pushed her a bit. ‘Are you managing?’
‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’
‘Yes. Surprisingly.’
She unwrapped a Nuttall’s Mintoe and popped it into her mouth. ‘You see, I told you I wouldn’t be much trouble. And I’m not, am I?’
‘Not so far, no.’
‘Hmph!’
He avoided asking when she thought she would go back. It was only three days, after all. ‘Have you got enough clothes and things?’
‘Oh, yes. I think so. I thought I might have a bit of an expedition, though. Get myself some new bits for the summer. There’s some nice sailing stuff in Cowes.’
He grinned at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going sailing.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve booked the course.’
He nearly choked on his coffee. ‘What?’
She rolled the peppermint around in her mouth. ‘At the sailing academy.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘It’s for five days.’
‘But you—’
‘They’ve had older people than me doing it. The man said so.’ She noted his look of wide-eyed astonishment but carried on, savouring the moment. ‘I’ve always fancied getting out on the water, but your Granddad never liked it, so we never did.’
‘No.’ He was staring at her, astonished.
‘Only little dinghies. Toppers, I think they’re called. Quite fast, though.’
‘Yes.’
‘Should be all right as long as I can remember to keep my head down.’
His jaw dropped.
‘Catching flies again?’ she asked.
He closed his mouth hastily. ‘You crack me up. You really do.’
‘What a lovely thing to say. I must remember that.’ As she went towards her room he heard her chuckle to herself, then murmur, ‘You crack me up, you really do!’
Between his concern for his grandmother, his need to complete more paintings, his thoughts of Debs and a new van, Alex kept drifting into his mind. He toyed with calling her. To see if she was all right? To ask her out for supper? No. There was too much to think about without that.
And so he found himself staring at the grey Austin A30 van in the second-hand car dealer’s yard in Newport. He liked old vans: they were characterful and practical: you could get a lot of paintings into the back. Difficult in a sports car. That was what Rosie wanted him to buy, of course. Something more racy. He shook his head, and felt a little embarrassed that it was he who was unadventurous while his grandmother was the fast lady.
‘’Sgoin’ for a song, mate. Only twelve ’undred quid.’
‘Twelve hundred?’
‘’Sa collector’s item, that is.’
‘What sort? A debt collector?’
‘Discerning.’
‘Well, maybe I’m not discerning enough.’
‘Suit yerself. It’ll go.’
‘But not to me.’
He cursed himself on the way home for being pathetic and indecisive. And for being walked over, first by Debs and then by Rosie. It was time he put his foot down. But how could he? He couldn’t simply turn her out. She might look a tough old bird, but he had seen her moved to tears in the last week, and he didn’t want to dash her spirits when she seemed to be on the mend.
He turned into the gravel path at the front of his cottage. ‘The Anchorage’, said the small slate sign. He couldn’t help thinking that, as far as Rosie was concerned, the name was appropriate.
He walked along the veranda at the front of the house, between the forest of bright green montbretia leaves, and glanced into the tiny boxroom next to the front door. It was the one place where he could tuck a computer, without it taking over the
He was concerned about her walking along the cliff unaided, so he bought her a stick. She was indignant, until he explained that all proper walkers carried one like this, a modified ski pole. Then to his relief, she grudgingly accepted it.
By day four he was nervous of her amenability, and over supper he pushed her a bit. ‘Are you managing?’
‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’
‘Yes. Surprisingly.’
She unwrapped a Nuttall’s Mintoe and popped it into her mouth. ‘You see, I told you I wouldn’t be much trouble. And I’m not, am I?’
‘Not so far, no.’
‘Hmph!’
He avoided asking when she thought she would go back. It was only three days, after all. ‘Have you got enough clothes and things?’
‘Oh, yes. I think so. I thought I might have a bit of an expedition, though. Get myself some new bits for the summer. There’s some nice sailing stuff in Cowes.’
He grinned at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going sailing.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve booked the course.’
He nearly choked on his coffee. ‘What?’
She rolled the peppermint around in her mouth. ‘At the sailing academy.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘It’s for five days.’
‘But you—’
‘They’ve had older people than me doing it. The man said so.’ She noted his look of wide-eyed astonishment but carried on, savouring the moment. ‘I’ve always fancied getting out on the water, but your Granddad never liked it, so we never did.’
‘No.’ He was staring at her, astonished.
‘Only little dinghies. Toppers, I think they’re called. Quite fast, though.’
‘Yes.’
‘Should be all right as long as I can remember to keep my head down.’
His jaw dropped.
‘Catching flies again?’ she asked.
He closed his mouth hastily. ‘You crack me up. You really do.’
‘What a lovely thing to say. I must remember that.’ As she went towards her room he heard her chuckle to herself, then murmur, ‘You crack me up, you really do!’
Between his concern for his grandmother, his need to complete more paintings, his thoughts of Debs and a new van, Alex kept drifting into his mind. He toyed with calling her. To see if she was all right? To ask her out for supper? No. There was too much to think about without that.
And so he found himself staring at the grey Austin A30 van in the second-hand car dealer’s yard in Newport. He liked old vans: they were characterful and practical: you could get a lot of paintings into the back. Difficult in a sports car. That was what Rosie wanted him to buy, of course. Something more racy. He shook his head, and felt a little embarrassed that it was he who was unadventurous while his grandmother was the fast lady.
‘’Sgoin’ for a song, mate. Only twelve ’undred quid.’
‘Twelve hundred?’
‘’Sa collector’s item, that is.’
‘What sort? A debt collector?’
‘Discerning.’
‘Well, maybe I’m not discerning enough.’
‘Suit yerself. It’ll go.’
‘But not to me.’
He cursed himself on the way home for being pathetic and indecisive. And for being walked over, first by Debs and then by Rosie. It was time he put his foot down. But how could he? He couldn’t simply turn her out. She might look a tough old bird, but he had seen her moved to tears in the last week, and he didn’t want to dash her spirits when she seemed to be on the mend.
He turned into the gravel path at the front of his cottage. ‘The Anchorage’, said the small slate sign. He couldn’t help thinking that, as far as Rosie was concerned, the name was appropriate.
He walked along the veranda at the front of the house, between the forest of bright green montbretia leaves, and glanced into the tiny boxroom next to the front door. It was the one place where he could tuck a computer, without it taking over the