‘You must have been worried.’
She was wearing a light print sleeveless dress with a wide neck, her legs and feet were bare. She was suddenly conscious of her hair and tried to smooth it with both hands, running her fingers through her hair as though they were a comb. The child was hanging on to her dress and in her confusion she bent and rubbed his head and patted him, murmuring an endearment. ‘Go and play now.’ She looked up at Holmes. ‘Perhaps you would like tea?’
‘Thank you.’
She indicated a chair on the terrace. ‘Do please sit down.’
She turned and went back to the house, flying in to her room, brushing her hair, putting on powder and lipstick. Her heart was beating. She was confused and nervous. There was something the matter. She was not able to recognize what it was. It was perhaps merely the presence of a man and yet it was more than that. It was the presence of a particular man. It was a compound of all the empty nights and the unrest and the terrors which now seemed to be resolved. She was unable to understand quite what was happening but there was a wild hope beating inside like a bird beating its wings.
She felt herself coming alive as they sat over tea outside, watching the child playing. She was able to relax in the chair.
‘Have you seen Morrison?’
She nodded. ‘He and Colonel Lamb called on me yesterday.’
‘You know about the pension.’
‘Yes.’
‘It will make a difference.’
‘It will make all the difference in the world.’
‘Will you be going back to Belgium?'
‘I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t any plans?’
‘No.’
There seemed to be no need to talk about what had happened. Neither wanted to talk. They sat there, enjoying the sun, the quietness of the garden. After tea he came into the kitchen to help wash up. She was now aware of him with a vivid intensity which made all her movements difficult and in some way laborious. She was aware that she was waiting for something to happen and struggling to live only on the immediate surface of her mind and not on the turmoil which was seething inside.
‘All you’ve got to think of now,’ he said, ‘is creating some sort of future. You’ve got to forget all this. It won’t be easy. I don't know how you've managed to put up with it. But now you've got the pension. Maybe you'll marry someone and settle down again.'
He was aware of the conventional absurdity of some of the phrases he had used and became silent, embarrassed. He had wanted to say something that would help.
By accident, leaning forward to reach a cup on the draining board, he touched her arm. The warmth of the touch was a shock. It released something. Neither could speak. Their eyes met. She could see the longing and the need in him and her arms went round his neck. The room seemed to disintegrate. He was kissing her with a great hunger. She was pressing her body against him. It was like a delirium, a fever, a new world.
If you enjoyed The Shepherd File check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.
Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.
The Shepherd File Page 19