Free Cold to the Touch by Frances Fyfield

collect whatever she needed from the herb beds at the back, and any time soon she would be able to collect wild garlic and fennel from the beach herself.
    She was not that close to Nature. Nature could take care of itself.
    The phone rang. This time it was the vicar. Call me Andrew.
    ‘Do you really mean it? About painting the vicarage? The main room, anyway? Only I thought I’d give you a chance to change your mind. I’ve got masses of white paint. Do you mean it?’
    ‘Yes, but not white.’
    He laughed with relief.
    ‘Oh, good. Not white. So sterile and godly. Marvellous – er, when did you think you could start? I mean
we,
only I’m busy all day tomorrow, then it’s Sunday, and Monday’s difficult with meetings and things and . . .’
    He was flustered and hurried, anxious that she should not go.
    ‘The day after, then. Start on Tuesday. I’ll give myself a long weekend to limber up. It’s supposed to be very cold again next week. A good time to be in.’
    ‘Are you sure? What about the colour?’
    ‘I thought a nice classical warm light grey,’ Sarah said. ‘With your white paint as undercoat. I’ve taken the liberty of buying some. Was that very presumptuous of me?’
    There was not a murmur of protest, only a sigh of relief.
    ‘Sarah, please presume as much as you like. I’ll enjoy it.’
    ‘And I’ll look forward to it.’
    She put down the phone, smiling at the prospect and cautiously pleased to have got her own way. She already knew the right colours. She had seen that graveyard of a room. Time spent redeeming it would be good for both their souls and she liked the thought of that.
    Jessica flitted across her mind on the way out. Sarah couldlie in bed all weekend if she wished. There was nothing she had to do: she was a free agent and time flew sweetly when you were free. She had a hundred miles to walk and a garden to tend. She had formed a talent for irresponsible postponement and she was thoroughly enjoying it.

C HAPTER F OUR
    Dear Mummy,
    I want to come back, but I don’t know how
.
    Who would I talk to? They all hate me because of what I was. Why did you ever let Daddy grow such a chip on his shoulder, and then drive him away – but no, I suppose it was Life did that. Whipped butcher’s boy, wants big house, blah, blah, blah, then leaves home to die. How clichéd he was. You too, I suppose: unloved grande dame plays sourpuss. I’m sorry, I know why you do, but people could love you, you know. They did once
.
    I did, I do. You deserve better
.
    If I came back, I couldn’t even cook for people. They’d think there was poison in it, so I couldn’t do anything, because cooking’s all I can do. Not that it made me able to keep a man, did it? Still doesn’t. Love doesn’t work, Mums. They always love the dog best
.
    He would have come back for the dog. Even Jack would come back for the dog. I know I told a lot of lies, but the bitabout the vicar was true. I wish you hadn’t trusted him, but then you have to trust somebody
.
    Hope you enjoy your view of the sea. Wonder what it’s like down there – can you hear them fighting outside the pub on Saturday nights? Can you hear the gulls?
    I wish you’d get e-mail, Mummy, it makes writing easier
.
    I hope you’ve stopped using the baby buggy for shopping. I know it’s practical, but . . 
.
    It’s going to get better, Mums. Spring is springing
.
    Tell me I can come home
.
    Jessie
.
    That had been the last letter to plop through the letterbox, the third in a fortnightv, and now it was Monday again after another interminable weekend and there had been none this morning otherwise she would have heard. She had begun to miss the sound; it was as if Jessie’s letters had their own sound. All sounds here were distinct.
    Down in the last two streets of cottages that spread from the bottom of the hill and turned their backs on everyone else, Celia Hurly contemplated the restrictions of the view from her bedroom window. The view was