![]() ![]() Rosie got up, wagged her tail and nudged open the back door in order to take her morning frolic around the back meadow.īill chided himself for allowing her to sleep at the end of his bed. Rita was gone and poor Rosie was only doing her best. He would need to get a move on and shave. The Mass crowd would be quick to notice if he turned up looking rough. He had started going to the nine o'clock since Rita passed away, two years ago now. It constituted social contact of a sort, which he sadly lacked, alone in the workshop for hours on end. Still, the carpentry kept him going, a hobby now, rather than a means to make a living. It was hard to remember a time when he wasn't fashioning wood into pieces of furniture. He made a present of his creations to charity auctions, or to friends and neighbours, but sold the odd bit, when approached to make a unique piece. He climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse to the bedroom and ran the electric razor over his cheeks, chin, and neck. He thought of the weekend ahead - nothing much on the agenda. Fridays were the hardest days to get over. When Rita was alive they used to collect the pension and do a big grocery shop together on a Friday.Īs he came out of the bedroom the landline pealed. Glad to oblige," Bill said, "I'll pick you up shortly." I was wondering could you drop me down to the bus-stop on your way to Mass? Such a curse to be living out the country." He made his way down the stairs to the hall table. Hilda, never having learned to drive, was marooned in her house since her husband died. Bill never minded bringing her into the village. ![]()
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