Vera, the murderess

As I straightened my clothes and rubbed the grass stains from his trouser-knees, we made an arrangement to meet for lunch in his shed behind the rose-garden wall. He assured me he just wanted to ask me about the odd things going on.

'No shortage of them,' I replied, 'and I’m not the person to ask for elucidation.'

There was that grin again.

'Eluciwhat, our Millie?'

'Sorry! I’m going to better myself and stop talking like a dictionary.'

'Shame! I’ll have less to laugh about.'

He swung his leg over the cross-bar and wobbled off down the lane, waving a huge stick of rhubarb like a banner proclaiming his lascivious evening, legs too trembly to push hard enough and maintain balance properly, but with enough energy to sing, 'Goodnight, my pretty maid,' at the top of his voice, through the whole village.

If I stopped using big words and he stopped smiling? That’s no good.

I went indoors and tried not to blush u