Authors: Frederic Lindsay
They
ate
breakfast
sitting
at
the
table
and
Lucy
made
it.
She
put
muesli
into
a
bowl
and
set
it
down
in
front
of
Maitland
who
poured
on
honey
then
milk.
Monty
Norman
shook
his
head,
not
wanting
any.
She
grilled
bacon
and
made
toast
and
not
just
coffee
as
usual
but
tea
as
well
since
that
was
what
their
guest
asked
for.
She
didn't
feel
at
all
like
eating
and
when
they
were
served
she
poured
herself
a
coffee
and
sat
at
the
table
too.
Part
of
her
felt
it
as
strange.
But
she
did
it.
What
sense
would
it
have
made
to
feel
demeaned
by
something
as
everyday
as
making
breakfast?
Afterwards
though
when
the
two
men
went
out
together,
she
began
in
her
head
to
describe
all
of
it
to
Anne
Macleod.
What
words
would
she
find
to
tell
how
she
had
made
a
breakfast
eaten
in
silence
and
then
how
the
two
men
had
gone
out
leaving
her?
She
sat
looking
from
Maitland's
bowl
where
he
had
pushed
it
aside
to
the
two
plates,
crumbs,
a
fragment
of
crust.
She
began
to
gather
the
dishes
together
as
if
in
a
moment
she
would
take
them
to
the
sink
for
washing.
And
having
got
so
far
with
Anne
Macleod
would
she
be
able
to
find
the
words
for
that
too?
Just
say
it.
Washed
them.
And
then?
She
got
up
and
went
into
the
hall.
Moving
more
quickly
all
the
time,
she
put
on
her
coat
and
a
hat.
Not
able
to
find
the
second
glove,
she
stuck
one
hand
in
her
pocket
and
hurried
out
by
the
back
door
leaving
it
unlocked
again
behind
her.
Turning
left,
she
couldn't
pick
out
a
car
that
might
be
Norman's.
The
scatter
parked
on
either
side
seemed
the
familiar
early
morning
pattern
of
the
village
street.
On
the other
hand,
it
had
to
be
said
she
was
capable
of
trying
to
get
the
key
in
the
lock
of
a
different
make
from
their
own
simply
because
the
colour
was
the
same,
more
or
less
the
same,
and
so
that
didn't
prove
much.
His
car
might
still
be
there
and
the
two
men
walking
somewhere
nearby.
She
could
go
back
down
through
the
woods
towards
the
estate
as
she
had
done
yesterday.
Or
to
the
top
of
the
Brae
Road.
From
there
on
a
day
like
this
she
would
be
able
to
look
across
all
the
counties
of
the
strath.
With
telescope,
searching, unwanted,
Lucy
Inside
gave
her
that
image.
'I
was
watching
you
from
inside
the
shop.’
The
minister's
wife
tapped
her
on
the
arm
with
her
newspaper.
'Standing
in
a
dream.’
She
started
to
walk,
drawing
Lucy
into
step
beside
her.
'The
manse
is
finally
sold,
isn't
it
wonderful?
An
offer
of
sixty
thousand.
Believe
me;
they'll
have
to
spend
that
much
again
to
get
rid
of
the
damp.
I
can't
tell
you
how
glad
David
and
I
shall
be
to
move.
Did
you
know
it
has
to
be
to
a
four-bedroom
house?
Not
that
we
need
so
much.
There's
a
church
rule
–
bedrooms
for
children
and
you
need
one
for
the
visiting
minister.
All
out
of
date – nineteenth
century,
eighteenth,
seventeenth,
some
century
or
other.
All
nonsense,
in
any
case.
Any
century
but
this
one.’
It
was
Janet's
house
they
were
passing.
This morning would she be curled up in a chair head bent over a book about women opening their legs? Perhaps now she didn't have to
.
At
the
gable
end
there
was
a
lane
and
Lucy
turned
into
it.
Behind
her
she
heard
the
minister's
wife
rattle
on
for
half
a
sentence
before
coming
to
a
stop.
She
was
a
woman
who
was
fonder
of
talking
than
listening.
‘Poor
Lucy,’
she'd
say,
‘still
behaving
rather
oddly
I'm
afraid.’
Madness
had
its
privileges.
On
this
side
of
the
street
the
village
was
as
wide
as
a
single
house,
each
one
with
a
garden
so
long
that
it
seemed
narrow;
feus
from
a
time
when
land
was
cheap.
The
burn
of
brackish
water
that
wound
along
behind
them
was
stilled
in
ice,
and
late
autumn's
sucking
churn
of
mud beside
it
had
frozen
into
a
path.
Cold
weather
had
taken
a
grip
just
when
it
was
time
to
think
of
the
way
things
would
be
when
spring
came
back.