Authors: Frederic Lindsay
From
the
garden,
with
his
face
close
against
the
glass,
Monty
Norman
was
watching
her.
As
she
stumbled
to
her
feet,
he
opened
the
door
and
stepped
inside.
'You
have
a
lovely
home,'
he
said,
the
deep
voice
so calm,
so
indifferent
to
her
fright,
that
she
could
have
imagined
for
a
moment
he
was
making
fun
of
her.
'That
view,'
he
went
on,
'all
the
way
across
to
the
mountains.
I
was
standing
at
the
bottom
of
your
garden
and
they
looked
close
enough
to
touch.
There
didn't
seem
to
be
anything
between
me
and
the
snow
on
top
of
them.
I
felt
good.
As
if
I'd
got
the
jump
on
the
day
being
up
so
early.’
Her
glance
turned
helplessly
to
the
blue-faced
clock
above
the
dresser.
It
read
half-past
eleven.
'Did
you
see Maitland –
my
husband – this
morning?'
Uninvited,
he
sat
at
the
table,
though
she
remained
standing.
'He'd
gone
when
I
got
up.
I
thought
maybe
you
might
have
gone
with
him.’
Did
he
imagine
they
would
have
left
him
alone
in
the
house?
'There's
a
meeting
of
his
department
this
morning.
It won't
be
long
until
he's
home.’
'Not
long?'
he
wondered.
'Mid-afternoon –
wasn't
that
what
he
said?
Last
night,
wasn't
that
what
he
said?'
'I
left
you
talking
together,
Mr
Norman
.
I
went
to
bed early.’
'Monty,'
he
said.
'You
didn't
manage
it
last
night,
but
I
thought
we'd
got
beyond
Mr
Norman.
I
thought
we'd
settled
for
not
calling
me
anything.’
It
seemed
he
had
charm;
and
perhaps
it
was
only
her
impression
that
he
was
conscious
of
it
and
calculated
its
use
which
prevented
her
from
responding.
Still,
it
would
have
been
easy
to
smile.
To
avoid
what
she
felt
as
a
difficulty
she
busied
herself
gathering
up
the
plate
and
knife
she
had
been
using.
'Have
you
eaten
yet?
Did
you
get
breakfast?'
'I
raided
the
fridge.
Not
knowing
whether
you
were here
or
not,
I
helped
myself.
I'm
a
good
cook.’
'I'm
sure
you
are.’
'You
sound
as
if
you
don't
approve.’
'Sorry?'
She
ran
the
plate
under
the
tap
and
set
it
upright
in
the
drying
rack.
'You
don't
like
me
saying
I'm
good.
You
think
that's pushy.’
And
this
time
the
smile
was
there
despite
herself,
for
the
memory
that
came
was
pleasant
to
her.
By
a
kind
of
reaction,
she
frowned.
'My
grandmother,'
she
said,
'always
told
us
that
empty
pots
rattled
loudest.’
She
was
not
a
woman
to
whom
rudeness
came
easily and
she
felt
her
heart
beat
more
rapidy.
'Don't
they
always
think
they
know
best,
the
old
women?
My
mother
was
just
the
same.
Maybe
a
bit
more,'
he
smiled
and
held
up
his
clenched
fist,
'emphatic
than
I
expect
your
gran
was.’
He
could
go
into
the
front
room
to
read;
if
he
had
no
interest
in
books,
he
could
go
for
a
newspaper
or
simply
for
a
walk.
He
had
talked
about
the
mountains;
let
him
walk
up
the
Brae
Road
and
he'd
see
across
three
counties and
as
many
mountains
as
the
horizon
would
hold.
How
else
would
they
pass
the
endless
time
until
Maitland
came
home?
But
as
she
tried
to
put
one
of
these
questions
into
words, he
asked,
'Could
I
change
my
mind?'
'I'm
sorry?'
'And
have
some
coffee.
It
would
be
no
trouble
to
make it
myself.’
'Oh,
no!'
But
that
was
excessive,
and
more
mildly
she
finished,
'You've
made
your
own
breakfast
already.
That's
bad
enough.’
The
water
ran
through
the
grounds
and
flowed
down
the
rod
of
the
Cona.
'Smells
good,'
he
said
appreciatively.
'You're
going
to
have
some
with
me?'
There
seemed
no
reason
to
refuse;
and
pouring
the
cups, adding
milk,
fetching
sugar
for
him,
she
was
drawn
into
a
pattern
of
domestic
routine.
She
settled
opposite
him.
It
might
have
been
any
one
of
those
leisurely
breakfasts
that
went
with
the
mornings
when
Maitland
was
free.
'If
you'd
said
to
me
when
I
got
on
the
train
I'd
be
sitting
here
–
in
a
place
like
this
–
with
someone
like
you
–
I'd
have
laughed
in
your
face.’
He
sighed
comfortably.
'Shows you
can't
read
the
future,
no
use
trying.’