Clear Light of Day by Penelope Wilcock Page B

said. “I know it blocks the pavement a bit, and I know Ember doesn’t like that, but I park it carefully so pedestrians can get by.”
    â€œYes, but …” He shrugged his shoulders and buried his hands deep in his pockets, offering her a brief sideways glance. “Traffic comes by close sometimes and besides that … Bring your car into the yard, Esme; don’t leave it parked on the road.”
    â€œWell, okay, if you think so. Thanks anyway. Bye-bye!”
    As she went on her way, Esme felt a warmth of acceptance and belonging somewhere at the center of her being. Next time you come … When you come again. She stowed their words away as a secret treasure of belonging. I love those two. They’re amazing. I love that cottage, she thought. She walked cheerfully down the path to her car, smiling at the thought of Ember looking forward to macaroons.
    Jabez went back into his kitchen, checked the firebox in the Rayburn, and threw in a couple of small logs from the basket. He picked up the tin of tobacco from the table and rolled himself a cigarette. He stood leaning against the stove rail, smoking reflectively, very still.
    After a short while Ember came into the kitchen. She washed up the mugs they had used and emptied the teapot.
    â€œâ€™Tisn’t like you to invite somebody in,” she remarked, drying the crockery and hanging the mugs on their hooks beneath the shelf beside the table.
    â€œI like her, Jabez,” she said.
    Their eyes met, and he held her gaze, but he said nothing, had no need to.
    â€œYou want to roll ’em thicker,” said Ember. “That thing’s gone out.”

    Though she and Marcus worshipped at Brockhyrst Priory, on the afternoon of Holy Saturday, Hilda Griffiths took a large armful of daffodils and a generous mound of greenery from the garden to help decorate Wiles Green Chapel for Easter Day.
    She returned from this mission to find Marcus relaxing in the sitting room with a cup of tea and the Saturday Telegraph .
    â€œDo you know, my dear,” she said conspiratorially, “I’ve just seen Pam Coleman in the village as I was coming away from the chapel.”
    â€œReally?” Marcus tried unsuccessfully to sound impressed.
    â€œAnd, do you know, she says she’s seen Esme going into Jabez Ferrall’s place three times this week! Parks her car right outside on the road!”
    â€œWell, I should think she’s wise to do that,” Marcus murmured vaguely. “I expect Jabez’s yard has been cluttered up with bits of lawnmower belonging to people like me with the first sign of fair weather.”
    Hilda perched herself on the chair opposite him, and leaned toward the screening Telegraph, not to be put off.
    â€œI said to Pam, ‘I expect she’s looking for a bike, dear—I know she was interested to find one; Marcus recommended her to try Mr. Ferrall.’ But, really! Three times in one week! I think it’s a bit indiscreet! In a person of her standing—don’t you think she should know better? After all, an odd-job man! And right under our noses in the village! What’s more, Mr. Ferrall must be twice Esme’s age!”
    â€œTwice her age?” Marcus lowered his paper, disregarding the crumpling of its pages, his eyes vaguely aglow. “Twice her age? Then, my dear, the time must be auspicious for them, if your surmise is correct, and they have embarked on a now deepening friendship. Because only in one year of your respective lifetimes can you be twice someone else’s age.”
    â€œMarcus, whatever are you talking about?” Hilda’s tone grew petulant, and she flung up one hand in a gesture of frustration. “He’s twice her age and he always will be!”
    Marcus’s gaze rested its lambent gleam upon her.
    â€œNot at all, my dear, you are surely not considering. Supposing Esme to be thirty-five and Jabez to be seventy—though I am not