Loving Daughters by Olga Masters

the blankets, for his sheets as usual were nowhere to be found. He forgot it was a weekday and the Grubbs children would be at school.
    He thought of flesh on flesh, and whichever way he turned he saw a female shape slipping down the road out of sight, and even with eyes shut he strained them trying to decide which it was.
    Dear God, don’t let them slip out of my life forever, he thought, remembering the archdeacon. He gripped his knees hard through his nightshirt, raising them high against his stomach, and was that way until he fell asleep.
    Next day was warm and unseasonable and Mrs Watts said she thought it would rain because the cats’ saucers at home were black with ants.
    These strange Australians! Edwards thought. In England the rain fell gently without surprise, as if doing what was expected of it, and dozens of times opening the door in Kensington to walk to the gardens he had found the street moist and black and the people amazingly in mackintoshes, although it had been fine only hours earlier. Nothing told you it was going to rain in England!
    As if he were still there he told Mrs Watts he was visiting a parishioner, and when her eyes went round for information on the identity Edwards turned to get into his short jacket, as if he was off to see someone in the thick of Notting Hill who would remain nameless. I simply will not fall into the habit of telling everyone everything, he said to himself going off. He turned his back on the road to Honeysuckle (he knew Mrs Watts had an eye behind the window blind) and strode out, the sky clear above him with only a crow flying across it. Aaah, aaah it called, and Edwards thought aaah yourself!
    The day was already part gone and he was bound to fall asleep quickly tonight after his long walk. Nine o’clock would not be too early to set out in the morning. He would not go too fast, detour a little down the Burragate turn-off and stand on the little bridge watching the creek, winter brown and silent among the reeds. It would be hard to waste time though!
    The visit to the Grubbs was not successful. The house was deserted although the front door was open and there were cats on the chairs inside. A dog rose from the verandah and barked savagely. When it stopped and lay down with head on paws, it growled in a way that was even more terrifying. Edwards was afraid to move lest the thing leap on him, and stood riveted to the top step until Mrs Grubb came through the house with something that looked like scraps of hay in her hair and a long fork in her hands.
    She seemed as frightened to see him as he was of the dog, which got to its feet and circled and barked and lowered its hindquarters and shook them, throwing its head about until Mrs Grubb flung a foot in its direction and it went growling over the edge of the verandah and towards the back of the house. Inside, Mrs Grubb sat with the fork between her knees and tried to make conversation with Edwards, who tried not to stare at her hair and make a game of distinguishing hair from hay, surprisingly alike in colour and texture.
    In a very shot while there was a voice from the back door of the kitchen which was down a step from the front room, obviously that of the elder Grubb boy at home from school that day.
    â€˜Dad said get rid of who it is and come and help before it rains,’ called the voice, and Edwards got to his feet so suddenly the chair scraped the floor and the dog, fearful of an attack on Mrs Grubb, raced into the room barking around Edwards’s knees. Above the noise Mrs Grubb explained that the hay stacks had been left uncovered during the dry spell and they had to be covered now that it appeared rain was coming.
    Edwards got himself away quickly, sorrier for Mrs Grubb, who he expected would receive the rough end of Mr Grubb’s tongue when she returned to the hay.
    He would not let the incident trouble him, he told himself, hearing the dog’s bark become fainter. By the time he reached the