A Handful of Pebbles Read Free Page A

closing her eyes.
    Putting her empty glass next to Laurence ’s untouched coffee on the table, Sarah steadies herself to crunch across the gravel. Walking helps.
    Laurence has taken his suitcase from the car, but Sarah ’s is still in the boot. She tries to lift it out but it is heavy and she scrapes the material on the boot lock, leaving a black mark. Then the luggage strap catches and she gives up. Laurence can do it later, but for now, she unzips the front pocket and takes out her flip-flops. The cat comes to help, biting at the ankle straps of her relinquished shoes, then jumping on the coloured leather flowers that adorn her new summer flip-flops. The flat leather feels cool to her soles and the cat’s antics help to relax the tightness in her chest and her breathing slows. She’ll be fine after a few days’ holiday.
    The animal accompanies her through Juliet ’s arched gateway, which is crowned with wild roses that Sarah had not noticed on the way in; so pretty, it lifts her heart. The fence of the holiday cottage next door hangs heavy with vine leaves and grapes no bigger than a fingernail, green and hard. A butterfly is darting around them, its white wings never settling. A bee searches the leaves and the cicadas’ song fills the air. There seems to be more nature here somehow. The world seems more alive and, as suddenly as the tears and tension that sprang earlier, a feeling of lightness, possibilities, as if anything could happen, a sense of hope and freedom engulfs her. Energy returns to her limbs. Laurence is right, her moods are becoming unpredictable.
    The cottage is a restored old, low stone barn with an equally old but carefully restored lean-to, the roof of which slopes almost to the ground. The area between the lean-to and the barn has been paved with weathered stone flags shaded with a pergola that is all but taken over by vines. Under the dapple of this greenery are two loungers, a table with four chairs and a hammock strung from the building to one of the pergola supports. A traditional, domed bread oven and an orange tree all but block the view to the garden behind, where a shimmering blue streak indicates the pool. It ’s perfect.
    A shadow passes across the inside of one of the patio windows —Laurence. No doubt unpacking, laying out his ablutions, filling chests of drawers, lining up shoes. When all is perfect, he will, no doubt, check his emails. He strides past again. Her hand on the gate becomes motionless. The house looks inviting, the pool even more so, but she needs space, time, just a little, for herself.
    Down the lane , a movement catches her eye. The dog, nose down, lurches this way and that, sucking up smells. She glances again at the blue, the hammock, the darkened windows before deciding there is time to walk to the end of the lane to see the dog and then hurry back to help Laurence.
    Turning on her heel , she marches briskly, arms swinging, but her haste only lasts a few steps before her speed is ground to a snail’s pace by the intensity of the sun, and in her lethargy, she has time to look around her, to observe the details of her world in all this bright, beautiful sunshine. The sun has dried and browned the central grass strip up the middle of the lane. The angular stones of the wall on her left have softened and smoothed under the years of re-applied paint, and now the wall appears to have dribbled down the lane and frozen in time. She exhales slowly through puffed-out cheeks. The long wall is the back low building, roofed with terracotta tiles, age-worn and discoloured, dipping in places. The variation in colour is limitless.
    A lizard stands motionless on one of the hot tiles, one leg raised, blinking, rolling its eyes. It lifts each leg in turn, in sudden , sharp movements. Sarah comes to a standstill to watch as it twists its head on parched skin, tongue darting out to taste the air before scuttling away, tiny nails tapping on ceramic.
    At the end of the lane , the dog