All Chapters of Being Yours : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

He flung himself out of bed and stalked across the room, as sleek as a racehorse. Amy noted with something very like terror that he was still rampantly aroused and it was with relief that she watched him throw on his blue silk dressing gown, belt it, and drop into his leather bedroom chair, all in one superb movement.Tm asking you to share my life, not inviting you to a bloody vicarage tea party. I take it you don't like the idea?''Well . . .' Amy began, then went on hastily. 'There's my job . . .''Where on earth does that come into it?'Amy made no reply. In the three months they'd known each other he'd never let her talk about her work, so naturally he didn't realize how important it was to her.It was understandable, she supposed, trying to make allowances. After all, she hadn't known herself before she started what an absorbing job teaching could be.Seven years ago, David had married Jenny and brought her to live on the farm. At first Amy had been a little worried to have anot

The chatter stilled to the required silence. The bell shrilled through it, but the class waited.'That's it, then,' Amy said. 'Off you go.'They straggled to the door, and she checked round the room. Kate Campbell, the head of English who also taught a little drama, worked here next. Partly because she liked Kate and partly out of pride, Amy made a point of leaving everything in good order for her. Blinds up, lights off, blocks against wall, chairs piled; yes, everything was fine except for this piece of junk mail on the floor where it had dropped out of her notebook. She had no idea why she had put it there, but then she hadn't been herself this morning when that thing came in the post.She stooped quickly and picked up the bold-printed envelope, then called to the last pupil drifting out. c Jill!'Overgrown, sallow Jill Gann trailed back, returning the packet of crisps to her bag.'You know you aren't supposed to eat in here,' Amy reminded her gently. 'Is that your lunch?'Jill nodd

'Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.' Tim bowed his fair head over his scrawled page in good-natured resignation. He had the highest total of wasted lesson time in the class. That still left him well short of the thirty minutes which would earn him a lunch-time detention, but the threat kept him working. The rest of the class, having briefly enjoyed his defeat, settled back to their find-the-noun exercises.'How d'you spell "saddle", Miss?' asked serious Jenny.That meant she had finished her exercises and started her story. Amy sighed at the thought of having to read yet another piece about a horse, wrote the word on the blackboard, and turned to survey the rows of virtuously bowed heads. Now that she had them writing she mustn't hover and distract them. On the other hand they might need her help any time, so she couldn't begin any work of her own.Half past three, she noted, and stifled a yawn. This was another thing that didn't happen in drama lessons, these spells when you couldn't do anythin

Perhaps she should have asked him to take the conker as well, and the stocking, and the drawing of an eye. Oh, how she longed to be done with them and forget them. But no, the Clarks said she must keep them; that though they weren't in themselves criminal evidence, they might help later, if other, worse things should happen.Amy shivered and felt queasy at the thought. Paul had wanted to take out Dave's chicken bones as well, but she had said no, some dog might eat them and hurt itself, or else the seagulls would throw them messily about. She wished now that she had let them go anyway; she could smell their greasiness from here.Ah, that was better. Harold had poured delicious-smelling coffee from his thermos.'I could have made you some fresh,' Amy felt bound to protest.'This is as good as fresh.' Harold bent to his bag again, and came up with a tiny bottle half-full of milk. 'My mum buys it special. Besides,' he added, uncapping the little milk bottle and adding its contents to his

'You see.' In the howl-filled dimness outside the front door, Paul had to shout close to Amy's ear. 'It's only a dog.''Are you sure?' She peered down the garden, making what she could of the shadow by the gate. 'It looks more like a wolf.'The creature had quieted, she supposed at the sound of their voices. Its blackness merged with the rustling, twig-fretted dark so that she could see little of its size or shape, but the odd glimmer here and there showed it sitting on its haunches, its great wolf-head silhouetted against the pallor of the inn car park and weirdly framed by the wrought-iron patterns of the gate. It must know they were there; it seemed to be turning towards them.'I suppose,' Amy observed from her knowledge of the Moor Fell dogs, 'it sees in the dark far better than we do.''I should think so.' Paul didn't sound at all disturbed at the idea.'So it can see us better than we can see it.''Smell us, too, of course, given what a keen sense of smell dogs . . .''I know ab