The Way We Were_ A Novel - Marcia Willett [84]
‘I know he is,’ she says quickly, not wanting to start an argument on this last evening. ‘It's not that. It's just, you know, I was wondering about it, that's all.’
Pete watches her. ‘I'm sorry’ he says gently, ‘but I think you'll find that four children under six are going to be an awful lot for you to cope with. You've already said that you didn't know how you managed these last few months, especially when I was at sea. That's why we're getting Linda up from the village to help in the house. Why don't you give it a bit longer before you worry about having any more?’
‘I expect you're right.’ She smiles, hoping to restore the earlier cheerful atmosphere. ‘Anyway, I'm going to have my work cut out teaching Liv to knit.’
‘What on earth does she mean? How the devil can anyone knit Rough Tor?’
‘I think the idea is that they make up a collage with each child doing its own little piece and then they're all sewn together to make the banner. Be grateful you're going back to sea, that's all.’
‘I think I am,’ he says. ‘Well, not really, of course. Six weeks in the North Sea isn't exactly my idea of fun.’
‘It'll be better than trying to teach Liv to knit,’ promises Julia grimly.
When he's gone off down the drive with Uncle Archie next morning, the children waving and shouting their goodbyes frantically from the front door, Julia feels strangely bereft. She glances down at Liv whose eyes are brimming with tears, her mouth turned down at the corners, and knows exactly how she feels.
‘Daddy gone,’ says Charlie thoughtfully.
‘Why does he have to keep going away?’ asks Liv mutinously, repeating a question asked earlier but still unable to grasp the point of the vital importance of the defence of the realm. ‘Yes, but why does he? It's not fair.’ Julia stretches out a comforting hand but Liv shakes it off. ‘Pee po piddle bum,’ she shouts crossly.
Julia leads them all back into the house. ‘It's horrid, isn't it?’ she agrees cheerfully. ‘But he'll be back soon and we'll make a lovely picture to send to him. We can do St Branwalader the Raven Lord. I'm going to make some porridge. Who wants some?’
Gloom as heavy and dull as an Atlantic depression hangs over the breakfast table. Everyone is out of sorts and edgy, and the twins go off to school decidedly glum; the prospect of Branwalader the Raven Lord and the knitting of Rough Tor no longer excites them. Even sunny-tempered Charlie, who is rather enjoying the extra attention now that the twins are at school, grizzles and runs his car across Zack's head, making him cry. By late morning Julia feels the familiar lowness of spirits pressing in and wonders why she ever thought she'd be relieved when Pete had gone. She sees now that the need to keep cheerful for his benefit has had certain advantages. After lunch and the children's nap she bundles Charlie into his out-door clothes, puts Zack into the pushchair, and sets off with the dogs, down the drive and up along the narrow moorland road.
Charlie shouts joyfully as he stumbles amongst the rocks; climbing the smaller boulders, jumping off again, splashing in the puddles and pools. Zack cranes from his seat to watch him whilst Bella and the Turk race away over the moor, barking excitedly, tails waving. Julia plods doggedly on, head bent against the north-westerly wind. She's lost enough weight in the last few months to be able to fit into Tiggy's long sheepskin coat and she wears it gratefully, not only for its warmth but for the comfort she derives from it having been Tiggy's.
She pulls the collar more closely around her neck and catches the faintest whiff of scent: Tiggy's Arpège. It is as if Tiggy is beside her, thrusting her hand under her arm; so strong is the impression that Julia instinctively presses her elbow against her side in response. The remembrance of those happy days with its comradeship and silly jokes assails her and, without warning, tears stream from her eyes. She bends low over the pushchair handle, blind with silent weeping,