“She's sharpening the knives!" he whispered. “That's really bad news. Only happens in absolute extremis. You're for the high jump, Flora!" he squealed, utterly delighted, clearly thrilled it wasn't him.

"Well, she's hardly going to stab me, is she, Roger?" I said, sounding far more confident than I felt.

He lurched towards me in his chair. "We can only hope!" he whispered theatrically. Then he sat back, chuckling, inordinately amused.

Later that day, when I was exhausted by the concentration and so was Roger, I sought out Celia. She took some finding. I walked all along the cliff path above the estuary where Babs had suggested she position herself, but there was no sign of her. As I rounded the corner and gazed up towards the headland, only a couple of lone walkers strolled by with a terrier. Back I turned towards the cottage. It was only when I happened to glance below to the beach that I spotted her, perched halfway down the cliff, on a wide ledge. There she was, before her portable easel in her blue smock, beret on head — Celia always liked to look the part — palette in hand. It was actually a terrific spot for a seascape, if a little precarious, and she must have scrambled down a pretty rocky incline to get there. Celia was very much a lounge lizard and I was quietly impressed. I scrambled down to join her, the chalk crumbling with an aching familiarity beneath my fingers and my canvas shoes, a whole panorama of my childhood panning out in that single, simple sensation.

“Don't fall in!" I called, clinging to the tussocks of grass sprouting from between the rocks as I edged along to join her.

“Try not to," she laughed. "But isn't this marvelous? What a spot!" The wind was in her hair, her eyes alight.

"Well, it is today, but if you get a westerly tomorrow you might find somewhere more sheltered. You'll be blasted off the cliff."

"Nonsense, I've got that protrusion overhead sheltering me," she jerked her head up. "And anyway, this weather's set fair for ages, I checked my app. Look at that view!"