Shrines of Gaiety

by Kate Atkinson

He was a man inclined to a metaphor.

She had never owned a pet, never visited a farm or a zoo. Cows and sheep were merely ornaments that dotted the landscape of the north as it rolled past the train window.

‘Hmm,’ she said when she scrutinized the cards. A more expressive sound than it appears when written down.

The cook had been with the Cokers so long that she had acquired their expressions for her own. The Cokers all had very eloquent eyebrows. They could conduct entire conversations with them, without saying a word.

Gwendolen’s mother had been a foolish woman, inclined to believe any passing nonsense. Of such people were patriots made, in Gwendolen’s opinion.

Lying came easily to Niven, he thought of it as a means of protecting the truth.

Lately she had begun to notice nothing but flaws. She supposed that was how love died,

He brought her a cup of tea, the first and last resource of an English husband.

War was a foul thing. It should be sent back to hell where it had come from and never let out again.