The Way We Were_ A Novel - Marcia Willett [12]
She'd learned, however, that contentment was not something that could be supplied by other people: it couldn't be grappled with and twisted to her need. On the contrary; she'd realized that it was achieved only by letting go; by accepting that she could not control Archie or force him into the pattern she wanted him to fit.
It was when she and Archie had moved from Trescairn to the cottage that she'd taken up a long-abandoned hobby. She'd unearthed her painting equipment, made a space for herself in the small spare bedroom and, once she'd proved to herself that she was still able to produce an adequate watercolour, she'd joined the local art class. One of the members was a retired art master from Truro who was glad to share his experience with the group, and Em enjoyed these sessions and the painting expeditions to Padstow to sketch the fishing boats in the harbour or to the Jubilee Rock to attempt to capture the golden flowering furze. She'd bought a small rucksack to hold her paintbox and a few brushes, along with a bottle of water to clean them, and a pad of watercolour paper. On such mornings, she'd make sandwiches and a Thermos of tea, pack a waterproof jacket and set off for a happy day sketching and painting. Sometimes the group would pay for a professional artist to give them an inspiring demonstration and celebrate it with a small party to which they'd all contribute some delicious teatime treat and a little gift for a lucky dip. It was fun, and Em liked her fellow artists; it was her own special thing and Archie encouraged her in it.
He'd been impressed by her work and had persuaded her to submit a painting for auction at a fund-raising event for the RNLI. When it was knocked down at forty-five pounds Em was shocked into silence whilst Archie was openly jubilant.
‘It's simply because it's for charity,’ shed said on the drive home from Padstow. ‘Forty-five pounds. Madness!’
‘Not a bit of it,’ crowed Archie delightedly. ‘You had those ponies off to a T. And the clouds massing just behind the Tor. It was excellent. I wish we'd kept it. And to think I never knew you had all this talent.’
‘Nonsense.’ muttered Em.
A few days later she'd been approached by a local architect who asked her to design a Christmas card for his company.
‘It's just because he's one of your cronies,’ she'd said uncertainly to Archie. ‘I haven't got the nerve to design a Christmas card.’
‘It's nothing to do with me,’ Archie had replied. ‘He loved your painting and he thinks you've got talent. Have a crack at it.’
Nervously she'd made a sketch of Delford Bridge under snow, with a dipper perched on a boulder mid-stream, and washed it with soft colours of blue and grey. It was delicate, charming, and though she was privately pleased with it she was sick with anxiety lest it should be rejected. The architect had loved it, insisting on paying her for the original, which he'd had framed and hung in his office. She had felt a little thrill of pride; her small skill was raising her self-esteem and confirming her determination to work towards allowing Archie his freedom for charily work or to go sailing without any resentment on her part.
How exhilarating it had been to discover that by giving Archie freedom from what might have been a crushing affection she'd become the recipient of an even deeper love. Over the years, as her confidence had grown, so a new measure of happiness had developed between them. It had come as a shock, after his death, to realize that she must now apply all that she'd learned to the new painful, lonely business of being a widow; accepting kindness and love without being choked by the insidious creeping tentacles of