The Padova Pearls
The early June evening was damp and overcast, prematurely dark. Sophia Jordan, a plastic carrier bag in her hand, a stone-coloured mac belted round her slim waist, was hurrying home. Back to the ground floor flat in Roleston Square, Belgravia, she had shared with her late father, Peter.The thought of the empty flat still filled her with sadness for though her father had been quite ill for the past year, his death, some twelve weeks earlier, had in the end been sudden and unexpected and had left her bereft and lonely.
Old Mrs Caldwell, a widow who owned the large house in Roleston Square and, along with her niece, Eva, occupied the flat across the hallway, had understood how she felt and been very kind.
Just that morning when Sophia had knocked at her door to enquire what shopping she needed, grey-haired and stooped, cheerful in spite of her arthritis, the old lady had urged, 'Come across after work, dearie, and we'll have some supper together.
'Though with Eva being away on that special course,' she had added, 'I'm afraid you'll have to do the cooking, if you don't mind?'
'Of course I don't mind. Is there anything in particular you'd like me to cook?'
'Would ... read full excerpt from The Padova Pearls ebook
