Sheltering Rain by Jojo Moyes Page A

was legendary, according to Thom, for never retaining guests for a second night. She forgot stuff, apparently. Like breakfast. Or even that she had guests at all. And some objected to her habit of walking around the house in the early hours of the morning. But neither Thom nor Mrs. H elaborated on that.
    â€œShe’s not that much older than you. Twenty-seven. How old are you again? Oh. Well, she’s a fair bit older than you. But you’ll like her. Everyone does. Just don’t mind if she’s a bit—well—a bit distracted.”
    Sabine, walking slowly down the dark, wet road with Mrs. H, both huddled under a rather tired umbrella, was intrigued, picturing some Maud Gonne type, all wild red hair and floaty skirts, waving away domestic queries with a thin, artistic wrist. Annie’s eccentric habits sounded a million miles from those of Kilcarrion House. A woman who forgot to make breakfast wasn’t likely to want to hold a formal supper, was she? And a writer husband didn’t sound like all he would want to do is talk about horses. She might be able to relax this evening, sparkle, and be witty in admiring company. Perhaps watch proper telly. Annie might even have satellite—lots of Irish houses seemed to. And besides, Mrs. H told her that Thom would pop by later. He often did, apparently, just to see how Annie “was doing.”
    But the Annie who opened the door was not quite the glamorous eccentric she had envisaged. She was a short woman in a large sweater with straight, shoulder-length brown hair, full lips, and big, sad eyes. They wrinkled into a greeting as she held out her hand—not to shake Sabine’s own, but to pull her gently in to the house. She was also, Sabine noted, a little sadly, wearing chain-store jeans.
    â€œSabine. How are you? Lovely of you to stop by. Hi, Mam. Did you bring the bacon?”
    â€œI did. I’ll put it straight in the fridge.”
    There was no hallway; they walked straight into the living room, almost one side of which was taken up by an old stone fireplace, complete with fiercely burning log fire. Two long, slightly tatty blue sofas sat at right angles to it, while a coffee table sat between them, burdened by huge, precarious piles of magazines and books. Now that she looked properly, books were everywhere. They lined each wall on sagging shelves and sat under stools and tables in irregular heaps. “Those are Patrick’s,” Annie said, from the kitchen area at the other end of the room. “He’s a great one for reading.”
    â€œAnnie? What have you prepared for the supper?” Mrs. H stood up from the fridge and stared around her, as if expecting to see some pan bubbling on the stove. Annie rubbed at her forehead, frowning.
    â€œAhh, Mam. I’m sorry. It went clean out of my mind. We can stick something in the microwave.”
    â€œWe cannot,” said Mrs. H, affronted. “I’m not having Sabine going back to the big house saying we never fed her properly.”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” said Sabine, who really didn’t mind. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”
    â€œA skinny girl like you. In fact, look at the both of yous. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s dog. Annie—you sit down and talk to Sabine and I’ll do us some chops. I put some in the freezer a couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œI—I’m not a great meat eater,” Sabine ventured.
    â€œWell, then, you can eat the vegetables. And we’ll do you a cheese sandwich on the side. How’s that?”
    Annie grinned at Sabine conspiratorially, and motioned at her to sit down. She didn’t talk much, but in that way that prompted confidences, and before long Sabine found herself unburdening herself of the many unhappinesses—and injustices—she was subjected to at Kilcarrion House. She told Annie about the endless rules and regulations, and how completely impossible it