“The sea still echoed the storm, foot-high waves breaking with a long hush against the shingle, but the sky was blue and clear. There was no sound from downstairs. I slid out of bed, put on my dressing gown and padded out to the tiny landing. Still nothing. Downstairs there was silence, the unmistakable silence of emptiness. I went down to make sure. Yes, they had both gone. The blankets and towels lay neatly folded on the sofa. In the scullery I found a note propped against a milk carton on the... draining-board. It ran: ‘Many thanks for the hospitality. Hope you slept well. Gone early to hunt for tent, etc. See you around, perhaps?’ It was unsigned. The reference to the tent meant either that ‘John Parsons’ had written it, and was hoping to see me around, or that they had teamed up on a declared truce. Whatever the case, my social life on Moila seemed to have begun. I put a cautious hand to the kettle. It was warm. So they had managed some sort of breakfast, and without waking me.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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