The Broken Chariot

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Housemartins swooped to neat mud nests under eaves because the young were always hungry. It was unlucky if they didn’t trail back every spring. Last year none came, and her mother had died, though in their innocence they were not to be blamed.

Maud looked on with pleasure, fascinated by such graceful devotion, pale and vibrant bellies in curving flight again and again above the window. She could almost hear the sound they made in their passage through the air. It was industry of a Darwinian sort, and the fact that they would still search out the house when all who lived in it were dead was merely a reflection on countryside life.

The gilt-bordered mirror above the fireplace reflected her straight nose and blue eyes, and she did not know whether she liked what was there, though wasn’t disturbed that no alternative could be expected. The lines of her mouth showed a determined spirit that had so far found little to brace itself against.

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