“That seems very logical,” said Eric tactfully. (After all, the Commodore was his boss.) But when our hostess was out of earshot, he added, “I don’t know if Christine’s pictures are hung the right way up, but I’m sure they’re hung the wrong side to the wall.”

I agreed; before I got married I spent several years at an art school and considered I knew something about the subject. Given as much cheek as Christine, I could have made quite a hit with my own canvases, which were now gathering dust in the garage.

“You know, Eric,” I said a little cattily, “I could teach Dorcas to paint better than this.”

He laughed and answered, “It might be fun to try it some day, if Christine gets out of hand.” Then I forgot all about the matter—until a month later, when Eric was back in space.

The exact cause of the fight isn’t important; it arose over a community development scheme on which Christine and I took opposing viewpoints. She won, as usual, and I left the meeting breathing fire and brimstone. When I got home, the first thing I saw was Dorcas, looking at the coloured pictures in one of the weeklies—and I remembered Eric’s words.

I put down my handbag, took off my hat, and said firmly: “Dorcas—come out to the garage.”

It took some time to dig out my oils and easel from under the pile of discarded toys, old Christmas decorations, skin-diving gear, empty packing cases, and broken tools (it seemed that Eric never had time to tidy up before he shot off into space again). There were several unfinished canvases buried among the debris, which would do for a start. I set up a landscape which had got as far as one skinny tree, and said: “Now Dorcas—I’m going to teach you to paint.”