Free Killing Me Softly by Marjorie Eccles

stood by the window, drinking coffee while he waited for Clare to finish getting ready.
    Apart from her lavish herb-and-vegetable plot at the side, there was no garden as such at Clacks Mill – just a gravelled forecourt with tubs by the front door that were filled with flowers in summer, and a short stretch of lawn at the back for sitting out or sunbathing. The natural landscaping of the mossy, tree-shaded banks, the stream rushing between the red sandstone rocks and past the wheel, was pretty enough to need no added embellishments.
    Sam had already had a quick check around to satisfy himself that everything was in order, running his eye over the weather-boarding, gutterings, window frames, things in general. The drive needed resurfacing, he noted, there were puddles in the gravel. And something should be done about clearing and making use of that spare land alongside the lane, between the main road and the mill house. A quaggy four and a half acres, overgrown with sycamore saplings, brambles and holly, it wasn’t much use for anything in its present unkempt state.
    The millstream was high and running full spate over the rocks, and he’d walked along to the bridge over the race, testing it with his weight, shaking the low handrail to make sure it was safe. He was nothing if not practically minded, and felt it his duty to keep his eye on such things, here at Clacks Mill, since he knew Clare’s husband never deigned to lower himself to such mundane tasks.
    On the way into town they chatted for a while, then fell into a companionable silence. Sam could only guess what his daughter’s thoughts might be; if she was under stress, she was determined not to show it by anything she said, but he’d noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands were clasped tightly together on her knee. And he was pretty sure, when her sleeve had slipped back, that it wasn’t his imagination which had discerned a livid bruise on her forearm. He tried to push this new worry to the back of his mind.
    â€˜Remember Mary Bellamy?’ he asked her suddenly, with a quick, sideways glance as they drew up to a red light.
    â€˜Of course.’ Mary was the widow of one of Sam’s acquaintances who had died some five or six years previously. She was a young-looking woman of about sixty, a retired nursing sister, childless, comfortably off, a good-humoured and practical person with a cheerful smile, whose name had cropped up more and more in Sam’s conversation lately. ‘She’s a lovely lady.’
    â€˜Good to hear you say so, Clare, I want you to like her. I’m – er – taking her out to dinner tonight.’
    â€˜Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Dad?’
    He grinned, looking suddenly boyish. In his late sixties, he was still a handsome man, well-muscled and spry, his fierce dark brows and tanned, craggy face a contrast to the crest of thick white hair and bright, quick brown eyes. ‘I somehow thought you’d have guessed. Dammit, this isn’t the time to say this, I should’ve waited, but there’s something you should know.’
    â€˜You’re getting married!’ Clare guessed, delighted.
    He was evidently a little disconcerted that it had been so obvious, but pleased at her reaction. ‘She’s a fine woman, Clare.’
    â€˜She’ll be getting a fine man,’ Clare said affectionately, and since she couldn’t hug him when he was driving, she squeezed his arm and pressed a fingertip kiss on his cheek.
    â€˜You could be prejudiced!’ he returned, smiling, keeping his eyes on the road.
    â€˜I could. But it’s wonderful news, you’ll make each other very happy, I know.’
    He said seriously, ‘I wish I could feel as certain about you, m’duck.’
    â€˜Leave it, Dad.’
    She’d always known how he felt about Tim. He’d never been happy about their marriage and had done his best to stop