Free The Evil that Men Do by Jeanne M. Dams

I admit. Alan hates to shop. It’s not usually my favourite occupation, either, but on a beautiful day in an enchanting village, it seemed like a good idea. And it was a mild assertion of my right to choose my own activities.
    My husband sighed elaborately, then grinned. ‘A draw, I believe. Very well. You do your shopping, my dear. Do try to remember that Bill Gates has not yet given us that grant.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best. And what are you going to do, meanwhile?’
    â€˜I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll gamble away what pittance you leave me, at the Cheltenham racecourse.’
    â€˜You go right ahead. Who knows, you might win, and then I could shop some more.’ Alan had been known to place a small wager on a political contest from time to time. He had never, in the years I’d known him, bet on a horse. I had no idea how he planned to spend the day, but my attitude, unlike his about me, was that he was in no need of supervision. Alan is tall, broad-shouldered, and fit, despite his seventy years. He is also both intelligent and sensible. He could look after himself. As, I firmly told myself, could I. ‘Back at Tisanes for tea?’
    We amiably went our separate ways. I had very little cash with me, but a visit to the nearest ATM soon remedied that. Anyway, in today’s society cash is almost unnecessary. Almost. If I decided to hop a bus for Chipping Campden, I’d need some actual money.
    I didn’t think I’d do that, though. That was the sort of excursion that would be more fun with Alan. No, I would confine myself to Broadway. Certainly it had enough shops to keep me busy as long as I could stand it.
    My first stop was the Edinburgh Woollen Mills. Some people, I know, shun the chain outlets. Not me. Their clothes are inexpensive and very often to my taste, and there’s always something on sale. This time they were offering very attractive tee shirts, decorated with embroidery and lace and other delectable trimmings, at an excellent price. I bought three, left, and went back and bought three more, a little guiltily. It wasn’t the price, but the bulk. We were travelling on foot, and backpacks will hold only so much. We could always ship them home, though, and I liked the way I looked in them.
    After browsing in a couple of antique shops and finding much of interest, but nothing I wanted to buy, I was in need of a place to sit and a little sustenance. I’d had a pretty skimpy breakfast, after all. I had wandered freely and wasn’t sure of my bearings, so I looked around for a sustenance provider.
    I couldn’t see anything that looked like a tea shop, but a small and attractive pub stood on one corner. I could get a cup of coffee there, and perhaps a snack, and I could sit. One hates to admit it, but as age creeps up, sitting becomes more and more desirable.
    There was only one other patron inside, though a few people were drinking beer under attractive umbrellas in the garden. I got my coffee and one of those odd buns the English call doughnuts, and found a comfortably padded chair in front of the fireplace. It was unlit on this bright, warm day, but its warmth might be welcome when night fell.
    The other man in the room looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen him until he was joined by another man, also striking a chord in my memory. Then they began to talk, and I recognized the horse farmer I’d mistaken the other night for the lord mayor, and his eager customer.
    â€˜Sam,’ said the farmer, nodding on his way to the bar.
    â€˜George,’ responded the other. The typical effusive greeting between two Englishmen. I smiled into my coffee.
    They said no more until George had settled down with his pint. At (I looked at my watch) 11:15 in the morning. Ah, well.
    â€˜Lucy’s in splendid form, Sam,’ said George after he’d taken a healthy swig. ‘I’m sure you’ll be