Paint on the Smiles by Grace Thompson

struggling up from the sand.
    ‘It’s like a battlefield,’ Ada gasped, pointing at the beach. There were mounds everywhere, abandoned clothes, deckchairs toppled over as people ran past. The rain was making patterns in the sand and, at the water’s edge, barely visible through the heavy storm, a boat was emptying its final passengers, who were searching wildly for the rest of their families, ignoring the rain, hoping to see a waved hand to guide them. The boat was hastily dragged up onto the sand and was lost to sight as the downpour increased in intensity.
    Lightning flashed and thunder growled across the sky and screams echoed through the building. Pushing determinedly through the almost solid mass of people, Cecily dragged Ada behind her and pushed her way through to the green stall near the cricket ground.
    Peter was there, in oilskins, trying desperately to fix the wooden shutters onto the front of his stall. He stared in disbelief as he recognized the two women, then put down the last of the shutters and ushered them inside, handing them some towels. ‘Dry yourselves and I’ll make some tea.’
    He busied himself while they made a vain attempt to dry themselves. They were wearing thin dresses and their skin was wrinkled with the soaking they had suffered but neither was upset. ‘Summer rain won’t hurt us,’ Ada said with a laugh, when Peter showed concern.
    ‘A cup of tea and we’ll be fine,’ Cecily added, but both were shivering as he handed them their cups and they drank gratefully.
    ‘Where did you leave the car?’ he asked.
    ‘We didn’t drive – we thought it better to rely on the buses.’
    ‘I don’t think this crowd will get clear before late evening,’ Peter warned. ‘I think you’d better come home with me to dry out.’
    It took more than an hour to get away from the beach. Traffic was snarled up, with everyone determined to move at once, and with cars stalling and refusing to budge and rain still pelting down, the roads were chaos. There was a blanket in the back of Peter’s car and the sisters cwtched up together under its welcome warmth.
    He eventually stopped in the middle of a terrace where, on a more normal day, there would be a view over the docks, he told them. On that day they couldn’t see further than the neighbouring houses.
    He told them to wait, then after opening his door, returned with an umbrella and hurried them into the house. Putting a match to the fire, he ran upstairs for more towels. ‘Sorry I haven’t any spare clothes, unless you’d like trousers and a jumper in my size.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Ada said. ‘Our dresses are thin and will soon dry.’
    ‘We’ll look as though we were knitted,’ Cecily said, ‘so wrinkled we’ll be, us as well as our clothes.’
    ‘Are you hungry?’ Peter asked as he knelt to coax the fire to blaze. Cecily thought he might be a bit ill-at-ease with them there and decided he would prefer to keep busy.
    ‘We’re starving,’ she groaned dramatically. ‘We didn’t have any lunch – only a boiled sweet.’
    ‘A sweet for lunch? I can do better than that.’
    They sat listening to Peter moving about in his kitchen and he soon reappeared with two beautifully presented omelettes each on a tray covered with an embroidered cloth.
    ‘Who does the handiwork?’ Ada asked. ‘That’s something we’ve often wanted to learn but we haven’t had the time.’
    ‘Or the skill,’ Cecily admitted. ‘This is a pleasant room. You look after yourself well, Peter. I can just imagine how hopeless Dadda would have been without us.’ In spite of the smile, she was feeling a deep sorrow for this kindly man, who spent so much of his time alone.
    ‘My wife. She’s been dead twelve years now. You cope because … life goes on.’
    Once they had eaten and were warmed by the now-cheerful fire, they sat and talked in their normal relaxed way. The brief unease Peter had shown was gone.
    ‘Your husband is home, isn’t he, Ada? Tell him