Free (11/20) Farther Afield by Miss Read Page A

No doubt she loathed the comfortable bed provided, the dried cat-food, the fresh water, and the concrete run thoughtfully washed out daily with weak disinfectant by her kind warders.
    Where, she would be wondering, is the garden, and my lilac tree scratching post? Where is the grass I like to eat, and my comfortably dirty blanket, and the dishes of warm food put down by a doting owner?
    It would not do Tibby any harm, I told myself, to have a little discipline for two weeks. She would appreciate her home comforts all the more keenly when we were reunited.

    Our fellow guests seemed a respectable collection of folk. In the main, they were middle-aged, and enjoying themselves in much the same way as Amy and I were. There were one or two families with older children, but no babies to be seen. I assumed that there were a number of reasons for this lack of youth.
    The hotel was expensive, and to take two or three children there for a fortnight or so would be beyond most families' purses. The natural bathing facilities were not ideal for youngsters. The coast was rocky, the beaches small and often shelving abruptly. The flight from England was fairly lengthy, and it was easy to see why there were very few small children about.
    It suited me. I like children well enough, otherwise I should not be teaching, but enough is enough, and part of the pleasure of this particular holiday was the company of adults only.
    We looked forward to a short time in the bar after dinner, talking to other guests and sometimes watching the Greek waiters who had been persuaded to dance. We loved the gravity of these local dances as, arms resting on each others' shoulders, the young men swooped in unison, legs swinging backwards and forwards, their dark faces solemn with concentration, until, at last, they would finish with a neat acrobatic leap to face the other way, and their smiles would acknowledge our applause.
    One of the middle-aged couples who had made the journey with us, often came to sit with us in the bar. Their stone house was near our own, and we often found ourselves walking to dinner together through the scented darkness.
    She was small and neat, with prematurely white silky hair, worn in soft curls. Blue-eyed and fair-skinned she must have been enchanting as a girl, and even now, in middle-age, her elegance was outstanding. She dressed in white or blue, accentuating the colour of her hair and eyes, and wore a brooch and bracelet of sapphires and pearls which even I coveted.
    Her husband looked much younger, with a shock of crisp dark hair, a slim bronzed figure, and a ready flow of conversation. We found them very good company.
    'The Clarks,' Amy said to me one evening, as we dressed for dinner, 'remind me of the advertisement for pep pills. You know: "Where do they get their energy?" They seem so wonderfully in tune too. I must say, it turns the knife in the wound at times,' she added, with a tight smile.
    'Well, they're not likely to parade any secret clashes before other people staying here,' I pointed out reasonably.
    'True enough,' agreed Amy. 'Half the fun of hotel life is speculating about one's neighbours. What do you think of the two who bill and coo at the table on our left?'
    'Embarrassing,' I said emphatically. 'Must have been married for years, and still stroking hands while they wait for their soup. Talk about washing one's clean linen in public!'
    'They may have been married for years,' said Amy, in what I have come to recognise as her worldly-woman voice, 'but was it to each other?'
    'Miaow!' I intoned.
    Amy laughed.
    'You trail the innocence of Fairacre wherever you go,' she teased. 'And not a bad thing either.'
    It was the morning after this conversation that I found myself dozing alone, frying nicely, under some trees near the pool. Amy was writing cards on the verandah, and was to join me later.
    I heard footsteps approach, and opened my eyes to see Mrs Clark smiling at me.
    'Can I share the shade?'
    'Of course.' I