‘No, I won’t. Go and stuff your face with jam and cream, I’m only envious.’
‘You could come with us. I’m sure Blanche wouldn’t mind.’
But Peg shook her head. ‘No, I’m having enough trouble buckling down to work as it is. I don’t need any more distractions. Besides, you two won’t want me tagging along. I’ll cramp your style.’ A car tooted from the lane outside. ‘Just don’t eat too much or you won’t want your dinner.’ She shook her head, amused. ‘God, I sound like my mother.’ She kissed Mim on the cheek and opened the door for her. ‘Have a lovely time.’
Still smiling, she went through to the living room, to the bookcase where her collection of wildflower books lived. There was one in particular whose style of illustrations she loved, and she was sure that if she found the right flower for her piece, the rest would follow. Her gaze travelled the titles, finding the one she needed before alighting, unbidden, on the shelves which held her fiction collection. Henry had been very interested in these since his arrival, but he wouldn’t find what he was looking for, she had made sure of that.
Selecting the book she needed, she carried it to the sofa, where she perched on the arm to leaf through it. She was about to take it back upstairs when Henry appeared in the doorway. He’d been sitting at the dining room table helping Mim do a jigsaw, something which, much to his amusement, he’d found himself enjoying.
‘You didn’t feel up to afternoon tea then?’ she asked. Henry was still getting headaches, although the severity of them seemed to be easing.
‘I wasn’t invited,’ he replied, pretending to be hurt. ‘I think it’s a “girls only” thing,’ he added, grinning.
‘Or a “pensioners only” thing?’
‘And either way I don’t qualify, although I’m very much closer to one than the other. Closer than I thought.’ He cocked his head back towards the dining room.
First it’s jigsaws, next it will be crochet,’ said Peg. ‘It’s a slippery slope.’
‘So the jigsaws aren’t yours then?’ he asked. ‘Mim brought them with her, did she? From her house?’
Peg smiled. ‘Busted…But, as you’re just discovering, they’re actually rather addictive.’
Henry rubbed at his neck. ‘I’m trying to pace myself,’ he said. ‘My head feels as if it’s about to drop off. I thought I might check if there’s anything on the TV worth watching. Would that be all right?’
‘Of course, you won’t disturb me. I’m away upstairs again anyway – I only came down for a book to help wrestle something I’m drawing into submission.’
Henry pointed to the sketch pad under her arm. ‘May I have a look?’
‘It’s not finished yet, just some working sketches.’ They were a lot more than that, but Peg hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hand them over just yet.
Henry was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry. It’s none of my business.’
‘No, it’s not that…’ Peg blushed. ‘I’m just being self-conscious about some drawings which are not all that good. It’s silly really.’ She didn’t want to admit that his opinion mattered. That she worried he might think her a poor artist.
Henry’s smile was warm. ‘I have the artistic equivalent of two left feet…two left hands, is that it…?’ The smile widened. ‘So I won’t be judgemental, I’m not at all qualified. But I understand if you don’t want me to see them.’
Peg considered his reply. What did it matter if he looked at her stuff? They were just drawings. She needed to stop being so precious. But the little voice in her head was telling her it had nothing to do with being precious, and everything to do with not letting Henry into her world. She smiled and plucked her sketchbook from under her arm, holding it out for him to see.
‘I’m writing a piece about wildflower gardening, and I want some dreamy watercolour washes to illustrate it. The kind which might make you think you were sitting in a meadow at the height of summer – soft sun, warm breezes, that kind of thing. What I’ve got at the moment are more like botanical drawings, and that’s not the same thing at all.’
Henry nodded. ‘And the book?’
‘Illustrated by an artist whose style I admire. I thought it might help me find the right…’ She trailed off, unable to find the word she was looking for.
‘Vibe?’ offered Henry. ‘I can imagine that might be difficult on a day like today. When you’re aiming for dreamy summer meadow, and outside we’ve got freezing squally rain.’ He took the sketch pad. ‘I’m not sure I can help with that, although I do have a bright yellow tee shirt with “The Bees are Coming” written across it. You’re welcome to borrow it, if you think it might help.’ His smile was teasing.
He began to turn the pages of the book, silently, rotating the sketches this way and that as he studied them. Peering closer at a detail before holding them further away. And all the while, Peg watched him, seeing his eyes grow rounder. Eventually, he reached the most recent page she’d been working on.
‘I can see what you mean,’ he said. ‘In that the style might not be what you’re looking for…but these are still stunning, Peg.’ He looked up at her, his brown-eyed gaze searching her face for several seconds. ‘And they remind me of…’ He waggled his fingers. ‘No, never mind, but there’s a couple of sketches here…’ He turned back several pages. ‘What will you do with these?’
Peg shrugged. ‘Nothing. They were just preliminaries…Me stretching out muscles which hadn’t been used in a while.’
‘Might I borrow one?’ asked Henry. ‘But it would mean removing the page from the pad, would that be okay?’
‘I don’t see why not. What are you going to do with it?’
Henry was about to reply when he changed his mind. ‘Now it’s my turn to be self-conscious. Can we just say I’ll show you when it’s done?’
