Holding the bucket of vomit, Harry watched Lady Smock leave. The compromise weekend on Sark made neither of them happy. To top it off, he knew he should have fixed the sconce in the kitchen before they left. He could see it was gnawing her. Aggravated and angry he booted the bucket and watched it rocket off the dock and over the swelling water, trailing his bile.
Lady Smock heard the clatter and saw the volitant vomit ribbon through the air then heard it splatter across the waves. She marched up the hill, through the village with Harry, light-headed and empty from the channel crossing, following behind, bumping their wheeled suitcases along the cobbled road.
They checked into Sue’s B & B and Tea Garden. The proprietress, Nancy, gabbled on about the touchy shower which only produced enough warm water between 8:00 and 8:11 precisely, so be quick about it. They were. Afterwards they lay on the bed thinking about England.