Page 72 of An Unholy Affair
‘At art,’ she replied. ‘He’s gifted.’
‘He liked doing it at primary school. But it wasn’t what Ni—Jack didn’t carry it on at secondary.’
Well, he’s clearly been doing it since then. Eveline didn’t know what to say without it seeming like a criticism.
Patricia glanced at the tablet again. ‘I was wondering if you could give me some advice.’
‘I’ll do my best. How can I help?’
Patricia interlocked her fingers and squeezed, the knuckles turning white.
‘I want to buy something for Betsy,’ she said in a hurry. ‘My granddaughter. But I don’t know what she would like.’
‘Maybe you could ask Emily or Stephanie?’
Patricia shook her head rapidly. ‘No. I, er… No.’
Repentance came in many forms and maybe, now Nigel had gone, was Patricia trying to heal the rift between her and her children?
‘Okay, so do you want to take a look online?’
God,I’m very happy that Patricia is making more of an effort with her daughter’s family. But did she not see the irony in denying her son access to art, then buying her granddaughter colouring books and pens?
Striding back to the rectory an hour later, Eveline flip-flopped between her internal rant and self-recrimination for her critical thoughts. As she neared the new back door, oinking and grunting drew her attention.
Please God, not again?
Running around the corner, she found both pigs eating their way through her flower borders. They noticed her and made happy snorting sounds, leaving the few autumn blooms for the promise of better food. Eveline dithered as they trotted forward. If she went back for her wellies, they would carry on around the house and onto the street.
Letting out a cry of frustration, she dashed to the feed shed to grab a bucket of pig nuts. Ruined shoes were better than ruined relations with her neighbours and a write up in the local paper.
‘Pinky! Perky! Come on, this way.’
Slipping and sliding in the muck, she led them back into the pen, then set about mending the fence with galvanised wire. Icy rain was falling and making everything harder. Brushing water off the face of her watch, she glanced at it. Still plenty of time for a long soak in the tub before Evensong.
Upstairs, because God couldn’t control everything, the boiler had stopped working again. Eveline left a message for the plumber, then stripped off and got under the electric shower.
Five minutes later, there was a loud bang, and it ran cold.
‘Come on!’
She rinsed her body in the frigid water, then jumped out and rubbed her pink skin as dry as she could. Wrapping her bathrobe around her, she grabbed the brass door handle and gave it a tug.
It came off in her hand.
Half an hour later,heavy footsteps thumped up the wooden stairs.
‘Eveline! It’s me,’ Jack called. ‘Which door are you—hang on, got it.’
‘I’m s-so sorry to b-bother you,’ she said through the door, her teeth chattering. ‘I t-tried Estelle, F-Finn and Oscar, but none of them p-picked up.’
‘It’s not a problem at all. I’m glad you felt you could call me.’
There was a scraping sound as Jack picked up the handle from the other side of the door.
‘Okay, I see the problem. When it came off on your side, the other one fell out this side with the spindle attached.’
‘I t-tried to break the d-door down, but my shoulder’s still a b-bit sore.’
