Free The Red Cliffs by Eleanor Farnes

must admit you ’ ve had some good times with him. ”
    “ I do admit it, but I know there ’ s a wolf in that sheep ’ s clothing. ”
    “ I should think Roger Falcon is far more likely to be the wolf than Ralph. ”
    “ Just because he looks like a pirate, ” laughed Alison.
    “ Anyway, will you do me one small favour? ”
    “ Anything I can. What is it? ”
    “ When you go down to Combe Russet, don ’ t let Roger know you ’ re going. ”
    “ And how will that be doing you a favour? ”
    “ I want, to test, one or two theories of mine. ”
    “ But Roger specially asks me to let him know. ”
    “ That ’ s why, ” said Lucy cryptically.
    “ I think it would be rather disobliging, ” said Alison, “ but to please you, I ’ ll go without telling him. ”
    She went on a cold, blustery March day, her car loaded with her personal possessions. Such furniture as she possessed was left with Lucy for the time being, but her clothes, many of her carvings, her typewriter, record player, small sewing machine and pieces of pottery—in fact, all the impedimenta gathered together by a girl living in a flat—went with her. There had been a light fall of snow in the night, which in London had already changed to a slushy film blackening the pavements, but when she reached open country, it lay in white drifts against the hedgerows and scattered on the higher fields.
    She had started early and drove steadily all day, stopping for her picnic lunch on the roadside and later for a cup of tea at a roadside snack bar. The sun appeared, hesitantly at first and then with more strength, brightening the white clouds chased across the sky by the high wind. This trip to Combe Russet was more of an adventure than either of the others had been, for now she had burned her boats behind her. She had given up her job, and given up her place in the flat to a friend of Lucy. She was going to look forward and not back. The unhappy and disappointing things were behind her: Evelyn ’ s death and Tom ’ s, the disillusionment about Ralph. The present and the future were what mattered. ’
    It was early evening when she came to Combe Russet, with still enough daylight to see that daffodils were coming out in bunches along the front of the garden fence, and that Roger had made a wide, dry path of beach to the garage door, which was a great improvement on the lank grass growing there before. She drove the car into the garage, took a suitcase and bag with her and left the rest of her things to be unpacked later.
    She went into the house, and the warmth that greeted her could not be entirely due to the contrast with the boisterous evening outside. Surely, the boiler was alight, heating the radiators: very thoughtful of Roger, but very expensive, too, for fuel. She put down the suitcase and carried the bag into the ki tchen—and there she paused in amazement.
    The hitherto spotless kitchen was anything but spotless now. The table was littered with used cups a nd saucers, many of which had been used as ashtrays, crusts and crumbs spilling off a bread board, sauce bottles, tins of instant coffee, empty cigarette packets, dead matches, screws of paper. The sink was filthy and held more dirty dishes. Very dirty tea-cloths lay crumped on the draining board. The binette for rubbish, was overflowing.
    Alison looked about her for a minute or two, and then walked into the sitting room, where, although it was not in such a parlous state as the kitchen, there were still signs of occupation, with crumpled cushions, overflowing ashtrays and scattered newspapers. One bedroom and bathroom assured her that Roger had been keeping an eye on her house from all-too-close quarters. She wondered for how long. The number of towels and sheets in the linen basket suggested that he had appointed himself resident caretaker ever since those rainy days at Christmas.
    She was hungry, but she could neither cook anything nor eat it until some of the mess was cleaned up. She