>Heather Farm, part 1

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Here is the story I promised you – not quite my usual style, but what can I do but give you what you ask for?

I.
”Our new home, darling!” Thomas wrapped his strong arms around me and kissed me.

”Oh wait, Joanna.” He lifted me up and carried me over the threshold.

”But we are not exactly newly-wed, silly”, I laughed, kicking and struggling because he took the opportunity to tickle me.

”I know, but this is our first real home.” He put me down in the rather dark and damp living-room. ”And just wait, in a year or two it will be a splendid place.”

I ran around, opening doors and cupboards, seeing everything with fresh eyes, because now it was ours. We helped each other open all the old windows with their thick layers of paint.

“It seems they have all painted the doors and windows green,” I mused.

“Of course. The colour of hope, spring, new life. We are going to stick to that colour, aren´t we?”

“And keep chickens and a temperamental turkey, and fetch water from the pump outside. You are trying to make a real countrywoman out of me, aren´t you?”

“Well, I thought our first priority was having water and electricity put in, but if you insist, sweetheart …”

“First priority? You can begin by scrubbing all the dirt and grime off each and every surface, and when you have done that, come back and I´ll tell you what is our second priority.”

We laughed and we cried a little bit because it was all so overwhelming. When the dusk came and the shadows grew long and slightly scary, we squatted in the living-room in our sleeping bags, sharing a cheap bottle of Spanish plonk. We knew we had lots to do, but it didn´t matter, because we were young and strong and very much in love.

And our gorgeous, new home was right next to the pretty, old lighthouse which cast its long shadow over us most of the night.

To be continued tomorrow – and NO, I didn´t knock over the lighthouse!

About Dorte Hummelshøj Jakobsen

I am a Danish teacher. In my spare time I read, write and review crime fiction.
This entry was posted in flash fiction, Gershwin & Penrose, Thy. Bookmark the permalink.

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