Free Laura Possessed by Anthea Fraser

you want in here?’
    â€˜God knows. Whatever you’ve got there will do.’
    They worked side by side for the next hour, mostly in silence, measuring, ruching, inserting the hooks and finally hanging the curtains. There were only four rooms in the original cottage, two up and two down, but a bathroom extension had at some stage been added behind the kitchen. There was no hall; a wooden staircase went straight up from a corner of the living-room. Very little furniture was in evidence—a bed and chest of drawers in Lewis’s own room and a camp bed put up, no doubt for his expected visitor, in the other upstairs room. A couple of chairs stood rather bleakly against a wall.
    â€˜Home sweet home,’ Lewis said sarcastically, and again she realized guiltily that he had intercepted her rather disparaging glance.
    â€˜At least it all looks bright and fresh with the new paint,’ she offered placatingly.
    â€˜I warned Harry he’d have to take me as he found me. We were out in Biafra together for a few months and I haven’t seen him since. Anyway conditions here are slightly better.’
    Biafra. Laura stood dreamily with a pair of curtains over her arm, imagining the whining bullets, the humidity of the thick forests, the sudden explosion of bombs—violence, violence which he’d seen at first hand. A memory stirred of Edward saying, ‘You should speak to Lewis—’
    â€˜Come on or we’ll never get through,’ Lewis broke in on her thoughts. ‘Is this the last pair?’
    â€˜Yes. Sorry.’ Working beside him, watching his strong hands with the black hair on the backs of them, she felt strangely at peace, relaxed as she had never felt at Four Winds—except, she realized with a surprised tremor, the night he had been there. Odd how, at Four Winds last Friday and again now, she should all at once feel resigned—more than resigned, acquiescent, to whatever might follow. Mistily she remembered the revulsion she had spoken of to Paul, but it had no meaning here.
    Together they hung the last pair of curtains and Lewis stepped back, wiping his hands down the sides of his old corduroy trousers. In them and the rather ancient open-necked shirt which he wore, he looked much more as she remembered him. ‘Remembered’? She pulled herself up sharply. She had only seen him twice before and each time he had been wearing a dark suit.
    â€˜Well, I for one am ready for a cup of tea. How about you?’
    Without waiting for her reply, he went clattering down the wooden stairs ahead of her, whistling tunelessly. Laura followed him slowly and stood in the centre of the living-room arching her aching back and looking round for a spare chair. This was the most energetic afternoon she had spent for a long time.
    Through the tiny diamond window-panes a shaft of sunlight struck like a pointing finger, alighting on one of the piles of books along the wall. Idly she went over and picked up the topmost book. It seemed to be a scrapbook of some kind, a conglomeration of old photographs and press cuttings with Lewis’s name at the head of the columns.
    â€˜Come and get it!’
    She carried the book with her into the kitchen and laid it down on the breakfast counter, hoisting herself up onto one of the stools. Lewis was rinsing the milk bottle under the tap and standing it on the draining board. He hadn’t turned as she came in. Resentfully, she thought, ‘He wouldn’t be so offhand if I were Caroline!’ and surprised herself by the latent jealousy in the thought. She, who didn’t even like him!
    He leant over her shoulder to plonk a mug of steaming tea in front of her, and an electric tingle ran through her. ‘What have you got there?’
    â€˜Please let me look—that mention of Biafra has aroused my interest. You must have had a fascinating life.’
    â€˜That’s one word for it.’ He hitched himself up beside her,