4
Cissie rifled through her wicker sewing basket looking for a dusky pink thread. At least she knew she could sew better than anyone else. Her fine needlework was admired wherever she went and Cissie unashamedly revelled in the praise. So immersed was she in her task that when she finally looked up she was surprised to see George sitting in his armchair across the darkening room wearing a faraway expression, a book casually abandoned on his knee. With winter just around the corner, evening had seeped in quickly, catching them unawares. She lay her sewing on the table beside her chair and leaned forward to throw another piece of wood on the fire. George didn’t move.
‘Let me guess,’ Cissie said. ‘You’re already thinking about the next refresher?’
George blinked. ‘What? Oh no, not really.’
