However, her real talent, like all women, was for emotion,
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sun was veiled, as it was for most of that summer, but the sky was hot and pale, bleeding the air of oxygen and the countryside of colour.
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Fields, trees, flowers all looked to be varying shades of grainy grey, like the screen on Maggie’s black-and-white portable.
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They were safe, he told himself. Safe. Protected.
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Her eyes gleamed slyly, that cat’s-eye marble green reflecting the colourless sky.
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It was dark, and there was a smell of sour earth and cigarette smoke.
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Assorted rubbish spilled out across the floor. Make-up, empty lemonade bottles, comics. A battered transistor radio, sweets in a glass jar. A paper bag filled with fireworks, bangers and jumping-jacks and Black Cats in their
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Again normality was restored.
For a while.
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