He cleared his throat,
” I feel the creative urge coming upon me”
She smiled, nodded,made mental preparation.
Next morning, she rose at 5, quietly so as not to disturb the children and by association the slumbering genius, she made 3 loaves, herb, olive and her trade mark fennel and tarragon, the perfect foil for her unsweetened apricot conserve.
Mindful that the children’s play might distract, She devised, designed and constructed a mime based pirate board game and found time to carefully and invisibly darn a tiny hole on the rough fabric of his Breton smock.
At lunchtime, conscious that the smell of cooking and the heat from the Aga might cause digestive rather creative juices to flow, she prepared a simple gazpacho with tomatoes from the wooden planters she and the children had made from recycled timber as a holiday project.
Later, much later, children bathed, soothed, he emerged, pale, trembling, exhausted.
He stepped carefully over the willow basket, constructed after a weekend course, filled to the brim with logs, split exactly to a size to fit the wooden burner door.
“How sad it is” he said ” that you have no creative talent to call your own”
She smiled and looked adoringly at his tortured face