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"Welcome to the club darling. I had four."

The next evening Mary called and to tell Katherine her midwifery license had been renewed without her being required to update. "It appears my reputation is such that I'm held in high regard. I also pointed out little has changed."

* * *

Visiting the village to buy milk and bread, Katherine glanced at the Public Information Board and a computer-generated card caught her attention. It was headed, 'Accommodation for an Artist as a Young Man'. An itinerant writer entering the area had liked the 'savagery;' of its coastline and was seeking full accommodation with a hospitable family with a low threshold in respect of payment for the privilege of having him or her staying with them.

Katherine smiled. The person could be Irish. He/she certainly sounded cheeky and possessing character. The heading had intrigued her because in her bedroom bookshelf was a twice-read copy of James Joyce's 'A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man'. On impulse (and impulse was no stranger to her) she called. There was no reply so she left a message.

Just before 7:00 that evening her phone went.

"What are you doing?"

"Excuse me?" Katherine said biting back an indignant reaction to some jerk phoning women at night.

"I asked a perfect reasonable question and thank you for not displaying hostility."

This time Katherine caught the slight accent. It was the advertiser!

"I'm in the bath, soaking. And reading. My reading glasses are perched on my nose and if I claimed to be reading the Bible you wouldn't believe me."

Her wit was ignored. "So what are you reading?"

She sighed. "A cheap woman's magazine article on breast augmentation."

"You sound interesting."

"Aren't we all if studied well enough?"

"Hmmm. That's deep thinking. Are you old?"


"Then you're young?"

"No, drifting along between those extremes."

"You didn't say both extremes."

"Why? The word 'both' in that instance is redundant."

"Ah, educated are we?"

Katherine thought enough of this. "So you are the Irishman for whom I left a message?"

There was a pause. "I softened my accent. How the hell did you work that out?"

"Intelligence usually goes with being well educated."

He laughed. "My name is Danny Connor. May I come and live with you and your family?"

"Are you clean and tidy and at least 90% reputable?"


"Do you lie?"

"Not to a soft-spoken educated woman who's read 'The Portrait of an Artist of a Young Man. Where do you live?"

"On Dante's Peak."

The pause was followed by a soft, "Jesus."

"Yes, most people wouldn't live at a location called that, would they? It's listed on local maps. My name is Katherine Blake, a widow, newly pregnant and I live alone and paint seascapes sold in galleries. If none of that is to your likening then obviously you'll be a no-show. Goodnight."

Katherine slid her phone shut and began breathing heavily with suppressed tension. She'd expected an interesting man to enter her life if she waited patiently. She had expected it would be a meeting at a friend's home or at a gallery display opening. Was Mr Connor the one?

Five days later Katherine was up a ladder cleaning leaves from the roof gutters, wearing jeans with a tear in the ass from the time she'd climbed lazily over a barbwire fence when she saw a small white car arrive. She was braless and the sweater had shrunk in the wash. She wore a tight woolen cap under which her hair had oozed out in all directions and her makeup was non-existent.

"Oh god, a fucking visitor," she spat.

She waved and turned back to pull out the branch she'd already dragged closer.

"You being pregnant makes me wonder if that's a good idea you being up there?"

The accent was softly Irish.

"Hello Mr Connor. I have cleaned out my studio for you. It's beside my bedroom and faces out to sea for inspiration. Take your things up now or just leave them and I'll do it when I climb down."

"I wasn't seeking excessive hospitality."

"Well that's a relief."

"Come down and greet me. Go carefully."

"Well I'm due for coffee.

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