Free Mr Mac and Me by Esther Freud Page A

over our three heads. ‘It was most appreciated, the help you gave in getting us moved, and we haven’t had a chance to thank you.’
    I open the box and look down at the oblong blocks of colour. It’s as if I’ve never seen colours before. They are so dense and clean they seem to burst out into the air, and fearful they will lose their shine, I flip the lid shut fast.
    ‘It’s a good box,’ Mac says. It’s much the same as the one he uses himself. And he draws out a book of paper and hands that to me too.
    ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ but unable to explain what I’m apologising for, I pull my jacket round me, and holding my precious gifts against my chest, I run down the street towards the inn.

Chapter 21
    The next Saturday a package arrives for Mr Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Mac must have given out this address when he hoped our good room would come free. The writing on the brown paper is fine and silky and I lift the parcel to my nose to breathe it in. I’m hoping for the perfume, peppery as freesias, that floats about the bright head of Mrs Mac, but instead I’m startled by the smell of liquor. Brandy it could be. Or rum. I sniff again, but the smell forces me to put it down. And anyway, why would this parcel be from his wife, when she works alongside him so closely that when he finishes a sketch of flowers he marks her initials beside his in a pencilled box.
    I’d like to take the package to Mac right away, but first I must make my inspection of the beach, and by then George Allard will be waiting for me. I daren’t not go. He’s still not forgiven me for taking the morning off to move the Mackintoshes’ books, and the next day when I went to help him he said he’d got some other project to be getting on with, and he sniffed and turned his head away. Later I saw him walking through the village with a load of wood, and when he next had a use for me, there was a pulley, rusted and in need of oiling, lying on the ground by his back door.
    Quick as I can, I climb the ladder to my room and prop Mac’s package up beside the small picture of geese. I left the painting of the sea in the good room for the soldiers. The gold and green of it, the white frill of the waves. They’ll need it to prepare them, they’ll need it more than me.
     
    As soon as I arrive at Mr Allard’s, I see from his face that he’s heard about the Suffolks. It’s not his son that’s lost – he’s with the East Anglians – but all the same the news has robbed him of his strength. ‘I’ll do the turning today,’ he says, and with trembling hands he wraps the strick of hemp around my waist.
    I’ve not made rope before, but he seems to have forgotten that. ‘Ease it out gently,’ he says, sitting at the wheel, ‘don’t let it plait until each strand is twisted tight.’
    I keep the yarn as taut as I can and tread back carefully. It’s harder work than it looks and it’s not long before my arms are tiring. At first I’m sure I’ve got something wrong, the three strands are spinning tight enough to curl into a ball, but when I’m halfway down the garden they catch against each other and I grin as the first coil of rope is formed. ‘Keep going,’ Allard croaks. Even his voice has lost its power and so I keep stepping back, down the long length of the garden, until I become entangled in the branches of a small sharp tree that grows beside the gate. ‘On you go now,’ Allard’s voice is a growl, and my arms stinging, my jacket ripped, I reach out and tug open the door. I’m in the wide field, its furrows newly dug, a drift of gulls swooping away and then dropping down again when they see it’s only me.
    The rope is twisting together nicely now. I tread backwards along the narrow path, watching the village from behind, the shape of its roofs and chimneys, and the tower of the church looking down as I step blindly towards the sea. I’ve forgotten about my arms. The rope is golden, strong as wire, and