Where was she heading, in her art or anywhere? She had no idea at all. In the past, before her marriage, she had wanted to go to art school but everything about the idea had horrified her mother. Depraved hippy types with rope sandals and greasy hair, that was how she saw art students and there was no way any daughter of hers was going to join them. Good heavens, they probably had diseases.

Sarah’s father had died only months before. It seemed too much to pile yet another blow on her mother’s suffering head and in the end the dreamy, shy girl Sarah had allowed herself to be persuaded. She had married Douglas instead.

She rushed home clutching her explanatory leaflet and buoyed up with enthusiasm. Two nights away, that was all, she would be back by Sunday evening and if her mother came over there would be no problem about the children. She could even leave all their meals in the freezer, perhaps a lasagne for Douglas and her mother and that baked bean and mince thing for the children; they could eat it with French bread and that would be no trouble. She could make a salad and a roast that they could have cold—oh, it was easy. Gingerbread in the cake tin, shortbread in the biscuit barrel and Mrs Burton popping in on Sunday morning to straighten things up. Nobody could possibly complain.

When she rang the course centre they were charming, helpful and welcoming. Yes, of course she could make a provisional booking, she sounded exactly the sort of person they wanted. Lots of married women came and most of them took their art seriously, as she wished to do. Enjoyment came from determined effort.

‘I’ll confirm as soon as I’ve made arrangements,’ assured Sarah. ‘The children and so on—but I’m sure I can sort it out. Thank you. I’ll let you know. ’Bye.’

That was the first step, then. Her mother was out when she phoned, so instead she cooked and baked furiously, stuffing the freezer with more food than her family could possibly eat in a fortnight. Why had she not thought of this before? It was the parable of the talents all over again, she would make a life for herself using the gifts she had. Just imagine, she might have gone on and on moping around telling herself she wasn’t miserable when all the time the answer lay in her own capable hands. She might even make a career of it, only a little career, working from home, of course. The possibilities made her head swim. Then her mind stopped in its headlong imagining as a horrible thought struck her. Suppose they were not such wonderful gifts after all? Suppose all she could produce were third-rate seascapes that would moulder in the attics of relatives because they were too terrible even to be hung in the loo.

An image of the tutor looking pityingly at her work rose before her. He might be so appalled he would not even dare say so, but would take refuge in platitudes and metaphorical pats on the head. It would be absolutely awful. In a panic she abandoned a casserole half-made and went to rummage in the attic, finding canvases she thought she had forgotten until she saw them again and remembered the exact moments of planning, construction and final, almost pleased conclusion. Was she wrong or were they possibly quite good? Douglas always said they were far too flamboyant and it might be true. They were—exotic.