‘Okay…Sounds mysterious, but sure, take what you need.’
She waited while Henry carefully peeled one of the sheets from the pad before handing it back to her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m aware I haven’t helped with your problem.’
But Peg smiled at the thought which had already come to her, one which was beginning to take a delightful shape in her head. ‘You might have,’ she replied. ‘You actually might.’
Henry scratched his head. ‘One last thing before I let you get back to work,’ he said. ‘But would you have any kind of drawing pen? Like a fountain pen, or even just a nib and some ink? And maybe a pencil, too.’
Henry’s expression was inscrutable, but he couldn’t hide the tiny light which had come into his eyes. One that certainly hadn’t been there before. Well, if that’s all it took to make him feel better, how could Peg possibly refuse?
‘Coming right up,’ she said.
She worked steadily all afternoon, the artist’s collection of illustrations she’d taken from the bookcase earlier unopened at the side of her desk. Another idea had taken centre stage, and the moment she sat down and picked up her brushes, she knew exactly what she needed to do in order to realise it. What, only half an hour before, had seemed so arduous, now flowed with ease, and she lost herself completely to her art.
When, finally, her hand stilled on the page, she realised she’d been sitting at her desk for over two hours, scarcely moving, and she had the stiff muscles to prove it. She was also desperate for a drink.
She sat back, studying her work once again, looking for where she could make improvements, but as her eyes moved from detail to detail, she realised it was finished. There was nothing she didn’t like, and she was astonished at how quickly the piece had been completed. She would usually have many more hours’ work ahead of her before she would be satisfied.
Getting to her feet, she also realised that the house was silent. Had, in fact, been silent for a while. She checked her watch. Mim would probably not be back for another hour or so yet, but whatever Henry had been up to, he’d done it quietly.
The answer was apparent the moment she descended the stairs. Henry’s long body was stretched out on the sofa, and, being longer than its length, his feet were propped up on one arm, while his head rested on a pile of cushions. His right hand lay upon his chest, while the other curled around Rolo who had snuggled up beside him. He looked as a mummy might. Except,hischest rose and fell gently, slowly, and without a sound.
Peg stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot. He looked so peaceful, and so comfortable, that her first inclination was to find something to cover him. The fire had burned low, and while the room was still reasonably warm, the afternoon was dwindling, as was the daylight; it would be bitter again soon. Butthe longer Peg stood there, the more apparent it became that Henry wasn’t just peaceful or comfortable, he looked at home. In her home. And Rolo obviously thought so too. The niceness of that feeling brought her up sharply.
Tiptoeing past the sofa, she made for the sanctuary of the kitchen, somewhere she could take a deep breath and gather her thoughts, which felt scattered to the four corners of the earth. Her cheeks were burning and she pressed her palms against them. The last thing she wanted to do was compare Henry to her husband, but her head had other ideas. Because it wasn’t the sight of seeing another man lying on her sofa which had disturbed her, but the fact that Henry did so so peaceably. He didn’t snore, or grunt, his breathing was so soft as to be undetectable, whereas Julian was such a big man, he didn’t do anything quietly. When he died, it had made the silence in the house feel so much worse, simply because life with Julian was never without noise.
Once her own breathing had returned to normal, Peg remembered the reason she had come downstairs in the first place. Yes, her work was finished, but she was also in need of a cup of tea. She had no desire to wake Henry, but perhaps if she gently moved about the kitchen as normal, he might come to of his own accord. And if he didn’t, well, that would be fine too.
It wasn’t until she had filled the kettle and set it to boil that she noticed the rectangle of paper on the kitchen table. Centred. Presented. Waiting to be found. And what she saw there nearly took her breath away for the second time. Her hand trembled as she lifted it, her mouth moving as she read the words written there, words she already knew by heart.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Henry had taken her sketch of winter greenery, the page she had filled with images of bright-berried holly, branches of yew and curls of flowering ivy, mistletoe, jasmine and cotoneaster, and filled the spaces in between with the words from one of her favourite Robert Frost poems. A favourite because it exactly described the way she felt whenever some small miracle of nature bestowed its gift on her. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it was that had saved some part of a day for Henry.
It was several seconds before she realised her cheeks were wet with tears.
22
NEW YEAR’S EVE
‘What are you two huddled up about?’ asked Peg coming down the stairs. ‘You’re thick as thieves, the pair of you.’
She had meant it as a joke, but Mim’s sudden start was a guilty one for sure.
