and Dora were loading the dishwasher, and the gentle clatter of crockery made a pleasant background for the loud tick-tock of the kitchen clock and the faint strains of the radio. There was a tabby cat before the Aga, and the cat with the orange coat was sitting on the window-sill.
‘Carrots?’ said Meg. ‘For that donkey of yours, Master Oliver? Pampered, that’s what she is.’ She smiled broadly at Bertha. ‘Not but what she’s an old pet, when all’s said and done.’
Dora had gone to fetch the carrots and the doctor was sitting on the kitchen table eating a slice of the cake that was presumably for tea.
‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ said Bertha awkwardly. ‘You must be a marvellous cook, Meg.’
‘Lor’ bless you, miss, anyone can cook who puts their mind to it.’ But Meg looked pleased all the same.
The donkey was in a small orchard at the bottom of the large garden. She was an elderly beast who was pleased to see them; she ate the carrots and then trotted around a bit in a dignified way with a delighted Freddie.
The doctor, leaning on the gate to the orchard, looked sideways at Bertha. She was happy, her face full of contentment. She was happily oblivious of her startling outfit too—which was even more startling in the gentle surroundings.
Conscious that he was looking at her, she turned her head and their eyes met.
Good gracious, thought Bertha, I feel as if I’ve known him all my life, that I’ve been waiting for him…
Clare’s voice broke the fragile thread which had been spun between them. ‘There you are. Is this the donkey? Oliver, you do have a lovely house—your really ought to marry and share it with someone.’
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