Elizabeth knew that shifty look, in son Duncan’s eyes, as she listened, impatiently, to his wheedling tone.

“This cottage is too far from town, really, mum, and awkward for you now, especially with the Arthritis. Your artist days are over.  Wouldn’t you be better off in a home, where people could look after you?”

She looked into his transparent face.  At forty-five, he’d never amounted to anything, and probably never would.  He even looked out of place in his cheap business suit.  Podgy, in face and mind.  She wasn’t sure where she’d gone wrong, but he was her only child.

How typical of him, and his scheming wife, that they should be shedding crocodile tears now. Since the specialist had given her the fateful news, that there was no more to be done,  the two of them had become, all at once, very attentive. 

Such a tragedy that neither of them cared for the history, that shouted loud from every inch of this old place.  They couldn’t see beyond their own greed, and it pained her deeply.  She frowned, hotly, as he continued,

“I know you haven’t much money left, but this place would fetch a hundred grand, easily. More than enough to take care of the years left to you.  Seventy-three now.  You deserve to be looked after.”

Elizabeth raised her hand, to silence him, wincing with the pain that caused her.  Fixing him with a glare from her, still-bright eyes, as she thought about her home. Her cottage. Sixteenth century . Three acres of unspoilt land.  Close enough to town to be highly desirable.  Far enough away to be peacefully rural. 

She could have wept, as he continued, “Of course, I’d sell my house to pay for your care, once I’d moved in here”.

 “So you’re worried about me?” she scornfully retorted,    “Couldn’t be that Fiona has designs on this place, could it?  She’d have the right address, then, wouldn’t she.  Does she know that you need money, to save your ailing business?”

He ignored the question, recalling his childhood with distaste. The constant visitors, pushing paintbrushes into his hand.  How he’d hated it.  Art was so boring, but at least it kept his mother happy. Now it was his time.  His house, his land his future!  Pulling out some papers, he whispered,