She wasn't listening. Her eyes were roving along the beach, until she found something, or someone.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “See you later!" she called down.

There was a pause, then: “Need any help?” drifted up. A man's voice.

"No thanks, my friend's here now!"

I stared at her, but she wasn't meeting my eye. She'd already plucked up the easel then sidled round ahead of me. On she forged with her back to me, painting and easel outstretched in one hand, steadying herself on the tufts of grass with the other. I'd never seen her so agile and dexterous. She reached the little path and walked on up to the top of the cliff as I followed.

"Who's that?" I asked, as I joined her at the top.

“Hmm?” She pretended to be busy, unscrewing the canvas and setting it on the grass.

"Who were you talking to, Cele? Down there on the beach?"

"What? Oh, that's Ted," she said nonchalantly, taking her backpack from me and swinging it on to her shoulders. She kept her eyes averted as she collapsed the easel and popped it under her arm. "He's down here doing some conservation project. I ran into him up here on the cliff and he helped me down with all my stuff."

"Oh. Right."

I turned and gazed back down below. A tall, tanned, blond-haired man with windblown curls, very much channelling the beach-combing look in a faded blue T-shirt and old khaki shorts, grinned and waved. Celia beamed and waved extravagantly back. Still avoiding my eye, she picked up her painting and, holding it delicately with the tips of her fingers, easel under arm, she turned to go. Before she'd turned, though, I'd seen the light in her eyes. It had nothing to do with the vivid, sun-baked colors or the light glancing off the water. Nor the way the tints and the tones were speaking to her. Nothing to do with the way her painting was flowing off her brush, brimming, as she was, with creative impulse. It had nothing to do with any of that, at all.

Chapter 8

Babs was just leaving our front door as we got back to the cottage, with Piggy trotting busily at her feet.

“Ah! There you are." She stopped. "I was just coming to look for you. Iris and I are going for a ride on the beach later — want to come?"

"Oh, I'd adore to!" I felt my spirits lift immediately.

“Thought so. Celia?"

"I won't, I'm afraid. I'm a suburban girl. My adolescent leisure activities revolved around the public swimming pool, the library and cleaning out my budgie."

“Ah well, there wasn't much else to do around here, was there, Flora? Apart from surfing."

“Sounds idyllic," said Celia enviously. "Can you surf down there?" She jerked her head back towards the beach.