The Light of Amsterdam by David Park Page A

exactly the best time of year from a business point of view so she was surprised he’d organised it because after the lull of November they had the Christmas trade to deal with – the decorations and lights, the rows and rows of poinsettia plants, the increasingly tacky and Americanised items and of course the trees themselves. Apart from the horrible, gaudy artificial ones there were the real ones, some rootballed for replanting, the rest specially grown in the sustainable woodland they’d planted five years earlier with the help of a grant and which allowed them to supply other outlets as well. Perhaps it was because he was now so confident that the place could be managed by Alex, who had been with them almost from the start, that allowed their absence and she wondered if there might be a possibility of a longer summer holiday for the first time in their marriage. She had always wanted to go to Italy – perhaps a hotel on Lake Garda or a villa somewhere in the countryside.
    When she arrived back home Richard wasn’t there and she assumed that he was out locking up for the evening. The house felt empty and still. She told herself that she should find him and say that she’d enjoyed her first visit, describe how plush everything was and let him know that his money had been well spent. So she dropped her sports bag in the utility room in front of the washing machine and headed out the back door and along the floodlit passageway that linked their home to the garden centre. She passed the huge polythene tunnel frosted by the whiteness of the light. From inside, the red glow of heaters looked like the eyes of animals peering out at her. In the third one there was a light on and she saw her husband’s giant silhouette thrown against the skin of the tunnel, his arm raised and moving as if he was conducting some invisible orchestra, but although she strained to catch his voice she heard nothing but the hum of electricity and the far-off sound of passing traffic. She squirmed through the plastic flap and saw him standing with a rolled-up catalogue in his hand and heard the laughter from the two girls who were sitting at the table potting up seedlings. For a second, lost in the sound of his laughter, he didn’t register her presence but then followed the gaze of the two Polish girls to where she stood watching. The girls lowered their eyes to their work again as if they were servants in the presence of their mistress. They should be going home by now, if the small terraced house that five of them squeezed into could be called home. She had tried to brighten it for them and felt a little better about it in that they only charged them a very nominal rent. There were so many stories about exploitation and she was determined that no one would ever have grounds to level that accusation at them. They were reliable workers and for the most part good girls but they never stayed long, the realities she supposed never quite matching up to their dreams.
    â€˜These girls should be going home,’ she said, hoping that her face had been drained of some of its redness. ‘I can drive them.’
    â€˜It’s all right,’ he said, dropping the catalogue to his side. ‘They’ve just been finishing off some stuff and I said they could have their tea with us. We can send out for some Chinese if you like.’
    â€˜It’s all right, I’ll make something,’ she said, wondering why his capacity for generous gestures usually entailed more work for her. ‘I’ll stick something in the oven, but it’ll be nothing too wonderful, girls.’
    â€˜Thank you, Mrs James, but please don’t go to any trouble,’ Anka said and Celina nodded her agreement.
    â€˜It’s OK , girls. It’ll be about half an hour.’ She was about to turn away.
    â€˜So how did it go?’ he said, but he shouldn’t have done it in front of them because it felt as if it should be