Watercolours by Adrienne Ferreira

kidney stone?’
    He hadn’t.
    â€˜Well, it’s possibly the most painful experience outside childbirth.’
    Dom nodded warily. He didn’t want to go there.
    Realising she was still clutching the bottle of wine Mavis presented it to him proudly. ‘A sample of the local poison. Made right here from the town’s own mulberries.’
    He studied the label with genuine curiosity. ‘Mulberries?’
    â€˜Of course!’ Her grey eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Surely you’ve noticed the trees?’
    Dom read the label: Famous for over 100 years and still made to the original Italian recipe, Cherubini Mulberry Wine has a vibrant, fresh flavour. Capturing the purity of the Lewis Riverand drawing on the therapeutic quality of mulberries, this easy-drinking wine goes with just about anything — or perfect on its own!
    He should have known. He’d spent enough time picking mulberries as a kid; whole Saturdays had been devoted to the activity when it was the season — hunting for the biggest trees, sneaking over people’s back fences to fill ice-cream containers with the squishy fruit. They were urban children relishing the chance to forage, imagining themselves lost in the wild, lost in time, hunting and gathering to survive. It was fun, all that purple juice staining their fingers and feet. Once Dom ate a stinkbug by accident, felt the bitter crunch on his tongue as he bit into it. His mouth gushed saliva and he spat violently while everyone laughed. After that he was always careful to look closely at each berry before putting it in his mouth. He could still remember the sensation of biting into that stinkbug: the crack of exoskeleton, the bitter squirt of soft innards. He grimaced, wanting to open the bottle of wine straightaway to drown his mouth’s memory.
    It was as though Mavis had read his thoughts. Her eyes lit up. ‘Let’s crack it, shall we?’
    She darted through his door so quickly Dom wondered whether it was the sneakers that made her look agile or if he had overestimated her age. She stopped by the dining table and stared around the living room.
    â€˜Jesus! It looks like a sack of potpourri exploded in here!’
    Dom quickly pulled on his discarded shirt. ‘It’s cheerful,’ he attempted. ‘Homely.’
    â€˜Cheerful? Are you mad?’ Mavis rested bony knuckles on her hips and shook her head sadly. ‘Joy always did have her taste in her arse.’
    Dom gaped.
    â€˜Pardon my French, dear,’ she demurred, her face radiating innocence.
    Dom studied her covertly as he did up his buttons. She seemed to move in and out of focus. Just when he thought he had her figured out she shifted. It was disconcerting. ‘Who’s Joy?’
    â€˜Your landlady, of course!’
    Mavis cruised the flat, taking her time to inspect the art collection. In the bright afternoon light the rooms dazzled, a ye olde cottage kaleidoscope of lilac and rose, apricot and lavender. Through the sliding door a breeze billowed the curtains, lifted the frills on the lampshades, set the basket of dried flowers rocking lamely. She looked at him and burst out laughing.
    â€˜Sweet Jesus!’ she said, sweeping her arms wide to encompass the horror. ‘ Look at this place!’
    Her cackling gave way to a loose, hacking cough. She pressed her chest with one hand for a moment until she recovered, then scooped tears from beneath her eyes with a crooked finger.
    â€˜Oh, you poor boy! Joy’s decked this out specially, I can tell. All her own work, you know. You should be flattered! She doesn’t usually go to this much trouble. The last tenants were a sweet young couple. Out of wedlock, though, so she didn’t approve. There was none of this for them.’ She fingered a lace-fringed lampshade with distaste. ‘She must have been saving all these treats for someone she thought deserving of them. A respectable teacher. Are you