The Donaldson Case by Diana Xarissa Page A

are,” Fred
confirmed.
    “We’re quite
eager to find some paintings of local scenes for the guest rooms,” Joan
said.   “If either of you does
anything like that, we’d love to see it.”
    Molly
snickered and shook her head.   “That
sort of art isn’t for us,” she told Joan.   “We didn’t come up here to paint the scenery.”
    “So why are
you here?” Janet asked.   As soon as
the words were out of her mouth she felt as if it was a rude question, but the
couple didn’t seem to mind.
    “We’re looking
for inspiration,” Fred told her.   “A
change of scenery always helps inspire our work.   A week here should recharge our creative
batteries.”
    “What sort of
art do you do?” Janet couldn’t help but ask.
    “I’m a poet,”
Molly said proudly.
    “Really?   I’ve heard it’s frightfully hard to get
poetry published,” Janet said.
    “I don’t worry
about such things,” Molly said airily.   “I write for myself, not for others.”
    Janet bit her
tongue before she asked how the woman paid her bills.   Even she knew that was a question too
far.
    “Let me share
something with you,” Molly said.   “A
poem that I wrote on our drive here.”   She shut her eyes and then cleared her throat.   “I’ve called it The Drive;
    Long
    Tedious
    Tiring
    Inspiring
    Trees
    Dogs
    Soil
    Snails
    Biscuits
    Darkness.”
    She sat back
and took a sip of tea.  
    Janet looked
at Joan and then smiled brightly.   “That was lovely,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could
muster.   It wasn’t much different to
her tone when she’d told her class of eight-year-olds how talented they all
were when they’d had their first attempt at writing a poem.
    “Thank you,”
Molly said.   “But I’m quite
exhausted.   I think I might just go
and lie down for a bit.”
    “She’s always
worn out after she has these creative bursts,” Fred told them.  
    “Are you a
poet, too?” Janet asked.   As soon as
the words were out of her mouth, she was sorry she’d asked.   What if he wanted to share something
with them as well?
    “No,” he
said.   “I’m a sculptor.   I work with natural materials.”
    “Like marble?”
Janet asked.
    Fred
laughed.   “Like soil and twigs and
rocks,” he told them.  
    “How
interesting,” Janet managed to say.   She didn’t dare look at her sister.   She could only hope that the couple had paid in advance.   She couldn’t begin to imagine where
their income came from.
    “So, do you
have a telly ?” Fred asked as the sisters tidied away
the tea things.
    “I can show
you to the television lounge,” Janet offered.
    “Great.   I’ll just hang out there until Molly’s
feeling better.   Then we can head
out and explore Doveby Dale.   I’m sure it will be inspiring.”
    With the man
happily settled in with the remote in hand, Janet headed back to the kitchen to
make sure Joan didn’t need any help.
    “Well, we
could always try putting a copy of one of her poems on the wall, instead of a
painting,” Janet suggested as Joan started the dishwasher.
    “I couldn’t
even manage to say anything,” Joan said with a shudder.   “It was just so, well,
incomprehensible.”
    “I’m almost
afraid to ask what Fred’s sculptures look like,” Janet replied.
    “Maybe they’re
both really famous and we just don’t realise it,”
Joan said.
    “Maybe,” Janet
said doubtfully.   “At least it will
make us feel better to think that,” she added.
    “They paid
cash in advance,” Joan told her.   “Just in case you were wondering.”
    “I was,
rather,” Janet admitted.  
    It was a
couple of hours later when they heard footsteps on the stairs.   Molly wandered down to where the sisters
were reading in the sitting room.
    “Where’s
Fred?” she asked, sounding disoriented.
    “He’s watching telly ,” Janet told her.   She showed the woman into the next room,
and Molly sank down next to her husband on the long sofa.
    “We should go
out,”