It was almost as if Rose were invisible, though she fervently wished at times that she was, certainly so far as the old farmer, whose name was Maurice, was concerned. If he wasn’t talking to her, endlessly relating tales about his lumbago, his pigeons, or how well his leeks were doing, he would watch Rose with fascinated interest. She would often pretend to be asleep as she sat by the fire after supper, so as to avoid those staring eyes, yet somehow his riveted gaze seemed to imprint itself upon her closed lids. They were certainly an odd couple and even though Rose had been at the farm for several weeks now, she still didn’t feel as if she knew either of them very well. Agnes spent much of her time knitting, and had no doubt embroidered the religious texts which adorned every wall. These were the only form of decoration in the bare room which served as both kitchen and living room, there being not a sign of an ornament, picture or piece of bric-a-brac anywhere; not even curtains at the windows, save for the paper blackout blinds.
