The Tulip Farm – Part 2: Cut Flowers

"I would like that," said Esther. "Very much."

The kiss was soft and tasted of coffee and spring air. Joris's hand came up to her cheek, warm and earth-stained, and Esther laughed and slid her fingers into his hair. Behind them the tulips glowed in the low light. A lark sang overhead.

"I have never kissed an artist," said Joris.

"I've never kissed a farmer."

"I am not a very good one. My father says I daydream."

"I like daydreamers."

The last day of cutting ended at sunset. The crates stood stacked in the barn, and the whole farm smelled of cut stems. They ate supper at the long kitchen table with Joris's parents, who said little and smiled a great deal, then walked out to the dyke to watch the sky go pink and violet. At the top they stopped.

"My room is over the barn," said Joris. "It is small. It has a window over the fields."

"I'd like to see the view."

"The view is the best part."

The room was cosy and bare, with a narrow bed, a patchwork quilt and the window thrown open to the soft evening. They undressed slowly, laughing at boots and braces, and their love-making was gentle, curious and unhurried, with the scent of tulips drifting in from the dark fields. A single frog sang in the ditch.

At dawn, Esther woke to see the field outside the window blazing in the sunrise, row on row of colour. She sat up with the quilt round her shoulders, reaching for her sketchbook.

"You are drawing?" murmured Joris.

"I'm drawing the view."

"I thought the view was the field."

"No." She smiled over her shoulder. "I'm drawing the one in the bed."

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