"English, of course," he told me reverently. He rubbed a bit of imaginary grime away with his finger. "Not a Purdey – got one of those – but same period. Nothing wrong with continental, of course. Got a lovely Spanish four-two. Like to see? No? But you can't beat a bit of English craftsmanship. Want me to put it down?"

"No, you're fine, Roger. I'm just getting the perspective. I'll be a while yet." I was. He gazed beyond me, into the middle distance.

"Everything all right, Flora?" he said abruptly.

"Yes thanks, Roger. How d’you mean?"

"Well, I was thinking. Must be odd for you. Coming back."

I glanced up at him from my palette. His eyes were waiting for mine. I smiled. "I'm fine. But thank you for asking." He nodded, satisfied. We were quiet again. Roger resumed rubbing his gun with his finger.

“Do you prefer it to hunting?" I asked, jerking my head at it. “Shooting?"

"Lost my bottle for the chase, Flora. Had one tumble too many. Ended up having a brain scan in Truro General. Bab—Belinda said I was too old for it. Nothing like it, though, eh?" His blue eyes gleamed at me with such intensity that despite them being watercolors of their former selves, I saw his much younger self.

"Nothing. Particularly in country like ours."

"Quite."

We fell to silence, both in our respective reveries. He looked very far away, no doubt landing in some muddy field in his red coat with all the usual suspects. This last association no doubt led to the next, seeming non sequitur.

"You know Shona's on the TV?" he exclaimed, glancing up.

I grinned. Reached for my box of charcoals. "I do."

"Couldn't believe it! There I was, boiled egg perched on lap for Sunday supper, and she came on with a ruddy great microphone outside the Eden Project! Reporting about some break-in! Shot my egg clean into the fire I sat up with such a jolt."

I laughed.

"Roared for Belinda but she just paused by the door and said she'd already seen her. Ages ago. Imagine! She hadn't told me."

I could imagine. I chose a small, stubby, well-used charcoal from the box. "I haven't seen her yet, but Mum heard through Babs that she's really good."

“Really good? Oh, but she's splendid, Flora. Regional news, of course, so you wouldn't get it where you are, just Devon and Cornwall. But there she is, bright as a button, pixie smile in place, all pert and pretty in a very fetching yellow dress, I must say. She looks heaps better than that terrible mousy girl we used to have who murders her vowels and mumbles so you can't hear a word. Speak up, you dismal woman! Not our Shona. Crisp, distinct Queen's English. No messing about. I watch her every night at six thirty with my second Gin and French. Quite makes my evening."