The Way We Were_ A Novel - Marcia Willett [19]
Yet still she sat in the sunshine, thinking about that first meeting with Tiggy twenty-eight years before.
1976
‘Damned cold out there,’ Archie says at breakfast one chilly morning. ‘Shouldn't be surprised if we had some snow. Isn't Julia's friend arriving today? Funny name, Tiggy.’
Buttering her toast, Em looks at him rather vaguely; she hasn't been concentrating. A few days earlier she had a rather startling idea and all through breakfast she's continued to brood on it; conning it over in her mind. Last week she received a letter from an old friend; no, not a letter but a notelet, that was the name for it. On the front is a pretty painting of a butterfly, a very accurate depiction of a marsh fritillary and Em is beginning to wonder if she might be able to design a cover for a set of these little cards – perhaps several different covers – and offer them for the next RNLI fund-raising event. She's already decided that the first painting should be a montage of spring flowers: daffodils leaning almost protectively over the smaller blooms; violets and snowdrops and primroses, all set against a pale blue sky. Her thoughts speed forward: the cliffs in summer, cushioned with pink thrift, and the rich purplish colour of the heather …
‘Snow,’ repeals Archie loudly, as though Em has become suddenly deaf. ‘I think snow's on the way.’
She nods intelligently, trying to look alert, but her reaction both startles and amuses her: she's had a horrid stab of anxiety that the prospect of snow might prevent him from going out. Her one ambition is to go up into her little room and get to work, and she knows from experience that it is much more difficult with Archie around. He tends to hover, offering coffee, or wondering how she is getting on with the work in progress. Em reaches for the honey.
‘I doubt it will amount to much,’ she says cheerfully. ‘It's a glorious day. Wonderful to see the sunshine after all those endless weeks of rain.’
‘Heard the early forecast,’ he tells her triumphantly, ‘and it's more than possible later on. Make a shopping list and I'll get a few extra supplies while I'm in Bodmin. Just in case.’
Em is almost shocked at the extent of her relief. ‘Good idea,’ she says warmly.
She pours more coffee thoughtfully, her mind straying back to her project, wondering if she will be able to strike a good deal with the printer in Bodmin. Archie has spoken again.
‘Sorry, darling.’ she apologizes. ‘Just thinking about that shopping list.’
When Archie has gone she sits on for a little longer with her mug of coffee, still brooding. She is pretty certain that the printer in Bodmin will give her a good deal once he knows that the notelets are for charity, and if she is lucky she'll be able to sell the original paintings.
With excited anticipation Em climbs the stairs to her little studio, the small back bedroom that has become her own special place. As she opens the door the warm glow of the electric fire, which she has turned on earlier, welcomes her. It is a pity that the pretty little fireplace has been blocked up but it would be tiresome to carry wood or coal upstairs each time she wants to work. She turns off one bar of the fire and looks about her with satisfaction. The worn lovat-green carpet needs a rug or two so as to hide the worst of the rubbed areas but the rather arty effect of the paisley shawl draped over the wine-coloured velvet of the old wing chair is very pleasing. Sometimes she brings up her cup of favourite Darjeeling tea and sits here beside the fire, planning her next painting without interruption, and enjoying the atmosphere she's created. Her small mahogany bookcase holds some of the tools of her trade: reference books, sketch pads, photographs and camera. On the top shelf are her favourite photographs: she and Archie on their wedding day; the twins clutching