There was never anyone around at weekends. She could do what she wanted. Usually she’d pick a new angle and draw the old bits of machinery. The rust would often rub off on her clothes as she sat on cogs or ducked through wheels. She liked the iron red of it, how the colour had its own scent, a sharp metallic tang she breathed in and tasted.
She’d arranged to meet him here. He came most Saturdays. He had to walk down from the hill, cutting through the beech woods, but he didn’t seem to mind.
When he arrived, she made him take his shoes off, so that she could draw his feet. She had him place them on the old millstone. She was interested in the contrast, she told him, between flesh and stone.
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