The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

between the milk float and the trailer with a long stick as though trying to impale something on it, while Tabby risked life and limb by darting and leaping around in the same patch, like it was some fun game, narrowly missing being turned into a moggie kebab.
    She had known that living in the country would be different, but even her wildest dreams hadn’t lived up to this.
    Unexpectedly, she felt lonely. How odd, she thought. Not two minutes ago I was looking forward to uninterrupted time on my own, now here I am feeling dejected. She missed her friends, her social life back in Reading. She missed having friends to talk over all the curious things that happened. She missed Amy. With heavy feet she left the room, closing the door behind her. It was only when she contemplated asking Elsa in for a coffee, that she pulled herself firmly together and went back to work. A short while later the growl of Elsa’s van struggling up the track filtered into the studio. Meli found herself relaxing, knowing that the old woman wouldn’t be lurking around every corner.
    Meli was so engrossed that she didn’t notice any of her family return home, and she visibly jumped when a voice sounded behind her. “Looks to be going well.” It was Cal.
    Overcoming her shock, she leaned back against him when he draped his arms over her shoulders, and together they both studied the features of the mask she was working on, which, despite being wooden had a far from wooden appearance; somehow Meli’s touch could bring the most lifeless log or stump to life, managing to give it a persona all of its own. “Yes, it is going rather well, I’m pleased to say.” Rising to her feet she turned, and throwing her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and kissed him full on the lips; a long, hungry kiss, savouring the contact with another human being.
    “That was nice,” Cal murmured when Meli’s lips released him from their almost inescapable suction. He held her for a moment longer as he gazed into her face, kindling passion warming the depths of his blue eyes. When Cal lowered his hands and began kneading the soft fleshy mounds of her bottom through her thin cotton shorts, Meli realised that he had misinterpreted her need for contact as being one of a sexual nature. Not only wasn’t this the right time nor place, she really wasn’t in mood.
    “What time is it?” she suddenly asked, pulling away.
    “After six thirty.” Her withdrawal, and the way her tiny buttocks had stiffened into marble slabs beneath his touch, was as effective as dousing him with cold water.
    “Ooops, had no idea, and I haven’t even thought about dinner.” Again, a little voice whispered inside her head, but didn’t say it out loud.
    “I noticed,” Cal commented. The warmth in his blue eyes faded as he conceded defeat to both of his needs, which he could tell were not going to be met if left to his wife. Still, there was one he could do something about. “Dinner at the Smugglers Arms?”
    Meli nodded. Now she had stopped she felt totally pooped, and her body ached from being stooped over the bench, or crouched on the floor for hours on end. The prospect of toiling over a hot oven was as appealing as giving into Cal’s lustfulness on this occasion.
    “I’ll have a quick tidy in here, while you shower. Do you want to tell the kids to get ready?” She hoped that they were actually all back by now.
    “Sure,” Cal remarked as he swung round and strode away dejectedly in his crumpled suit, loosening his tie as he went.
    It only took a few minutes to clear away. Locking the door, she crossed the drive. A quick perusal at the pyramid of shoes piled under the coats was enough to confirm that everyone was home. Even Quassi had returned, appearing the instant she stepped through the door, tail wagging as he hurled himself at her in greeting. In the kitchen she washed her hands and then stood looking for the towel. That’s odd, she thought, she knew she had put one out earlier. She dried her hands on kitchen paper, reminded as she did so that the remote control had never turned up. In fact, neither had Cass’ hairbrush.
    Slopping a tin of dog food into Quassi’s bowl, she wondered whether Cal would have enough cash for the meals. “Hold on Quassi,” she told him, fighting away his frantically probing muzzle with an elbow so she could put the bowl safely on the floor before going to her handbag, to check how much money she had. The handbag was down by the