Anne Mather - The Smouldering Flame

Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘Jacob use washing machine and drier. While you have supper.’ He looked anxious. ‘Jacob do wrong?’

‘Oh, no.’ Joanna couldn’t prevent a smile from lifting the corner of her mouth. ‘I—well, thank you, Jacob. Thank you.’

She turned away and went along the hall to the living room. The room was in darkness, but she switched on the light and started at the tentlike erection of mosquito netting which had been rigged over the canvas bed. But sure enough, her clothes were there, somewhat creased perhaps, but freshly laundered. With a rueful smile, she left the room again, switching out the light as she went.

Shannon’s door was ajar, and through the crack she could see a lamp had been lighted beside his bed. She pushed the door a little wider, wincing as it squeaked a little, and looked in. At first she thought he was asleep, but he had heard her because he turned his head against the pillows, and said harshly: ‘You’d better come in.’

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