She watched his face by the firelight flickering in the next room, saw him close his eyes, sleep, let go. She listened to the anxious rising wind as it gathered strength, thrashing up from the south-west, testing its strength on the trees until they groaned and winced. Claud shifted away from her, muttering and mumbling.

She slid from the bed and went to the window. Clouds raced now across the moon, drawing shadow patterns on the grass. The bonfire flared up, smoke beaten down drifted sideways. The little cat rushed suddenly across her line of vision, chasing, careering. The heart of the fire flared, broke open, exposing bits of paper which, catching the wind, escaped. Laura picked her clothes off the floor, tiptoed from the room, dressed, slipped warm feet into cold boots, let herself out into the windy garden. The wind was roaring now, hell-bent, savage. She ran stooping in the moonlight, catching sheets of typescript, stuffing them back into the fire, raking up the sides, dodging the smoke which, changing direction by the minute, caught her by the throat and sent her coughing back, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Months of work, she thought, watching it burn. Will he succeed, will he write what he told me tonight? It was so good, she thought, watching the fire, will he be able to write it down as he told it, sparse, passionate, original? The cat raced past, buffeting a ball of paper, tossing it in the air, snatching it with its paws, patting, waiting for the wind to startle it into flight so that she could creep, pounce and torment.

Laura bent down, snatched up the cat’s toy, held it in her hand ready to toss back onto the fire, hesitated, smoothed out the crumpled sheet, read, peering close by the light of the moon. When she had read, she crushed the paper violently between her hands, crouched down by the bonfire, thrust deep into the heart of the fire, cried out in anguish as the fire scorched, sprang back, snatched up the rake and raked up the sides of the bonfire so that all that remained of the paper was totally covered.

Its game spoiled, the cat rejoined her as she let herself into the house. She bit her lip against the pain as she searched for Acriflex to cover the burn. Tears blurred her vision. Gasping a little she tended her wound, muttering to herself, ‘You fool, you fool,’ as she covered the burn with gauze. Then she squatted by the fire waiting for the pain to subside, for her equanimity to return. At last she stood up, went to the window, drew the curtains. It would soon be dawn. The wind, decreasing, stroked the branches it had savaged. The fire was almost burned out. There was only fitful smoke.