Remember?’
‘I used to live on them,’ Polly said, holding the little pot that Rose had passed to her. ‘Them and Solpadeine.’
She put the crème caramel back in the fridge and went to the window.
‘Quite a view of the big house I’ll have here in the morning,’ she said.
Rose showed her how to draw the curtains, using the rope rather than just pulling them across.
‘Leave them open, though, Rose. I want to look at the sky for a bit.’
Rose took hold of Polly’s hand. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Of course,’ Polly said. ‘I’m a tough old bird.’
‘Don’t I just know it,’ Rose said, and drawing her close, she gave her a big hug. ‘Right. Time to leave you to your own devices. And you’ve got everything you need?’
‘The bed is there,’ Polly said.
‘And remember, just turf the boys out in the morning. Send them down to the house.’
‘I will. Never fear about that.’
On her way back to the house, Rose smelled woodsmoke. She wandered round to the back and found Gareth stoking the woodfired pizza oven that he had built on the terrace. It had been one of his pet projects. Rose hadn’t seen the point, but he had just gone ahead with it anyway. She was quietly boycotting it – she had her work cut out enough getting to grips with the Aga. And, as she did most of the food preparation, her inactivity had led to the pizza oven sitting there unchristened by food. But they had spent a couple of family evenings out there enjoying the heat it created when it was fired up with the doors open.
‘That’s nice,’ she whispered, slipping her arm into his. They stood, letting the flames warm their faces, watching the sparks rise and flicker towards the gaping mouth of the chimney.
‘Where did you get to back then?’ she asked, after a while.
‘There was something I needed to finish off in the studio. It wouldn’t keep. Polly said she was fine about me going.’
‘It just seemed a bit abrupt, you going off like that.’
‘She really didn’t mind. I behaved really well tonight.’
‘You did.’
‘I’m trying my best.’
They sat close together on the wooden bench, the light from the applewood flames flickering on their faces. The rain from earlier had stopped and the night was clear and cold. They could see every star up there, and the crescent of the moon was as sharp as a sickle.
‘Sometimes the work just screams out for me,’ Gareth said. ‘I can’t believe I was away from it for so long.’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t draw anything for over a year.’
‘You did some lovely diagrams.’
‘Yeah, and I painted walls and woodwork.’
‘You did it beautifully, though,’ she smiled up at him. ‘And you did say you wanted to get your hands dirty. And you enjoyed it in a way . . .’
‘Yep.’
‘It was awful for you sometimes, Gareth. I know that.’
‘I lost the plot.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I did.’
‘We all had our low moments. Remember, “Fuck it, let’s go and buy a nice Barratt Home”? If it hadn’t been for Andy . . .’
Gareth stared into the flames.
‘Without him, I don’t know what we would have done,’ Rose said, searching for her husband’s eyes. ‘You have a great brother.’
‘He’s OK,’ Gareth said.
Rose had to be careful about discussing Andy with Gareth. There were issues there. Of course, they had grown up believing they were real brothers. In fact, out of the two of them, Andy was the only birth son of Pam and John, who for political reasons had only had one child of their own – and they had waited until they were into their forties to do that. Their choice had been to adopt a second baby, in order to share their good fortune in life with someone who might otherwise not have been so lucky.
Rose had asked Andy about this on one of the many evenings they spent alone
‘I used to live on them,’ Polly said, holding the little pot that Rose had passed to her. ‘Them and Solpadeine.’
She put the crème caramel back in the fridge and went to the window.
‘Quite a view of the big house I’ll have here in the morning,’ she said.
Rose showed her how to draw the curtains, using the rope rather than just pulling them across.
‘Leave them open, though, Rose. I want to look at the sky for a bit.’
Rose took hold of Polly’s hand. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Of course,’ Polly said. ‘I’m a tough old bird.’
‘Don’t I just know it,’ Rose said, and drawing her close, she gave her a big hug. ‘Right. Time to leave you to your own devices. And you’ve got everything you need?’
‘The bed is there,’ Polly said.
‘And remember, just turf the boys out in the morning. Send them down to the house.’
‘I will. Never fear about that.’
On her way back to the house, Rose smelled woodsmoke. She wandered round to the back and found Gareth stoking the woodfired pizza oven that he had built on the terrace. It had been one of his pet projects. Rose hadn’t seen the point, but he had just gone ahead with it anyway. She was quietly boycotting it – she had her work cut out enough getting to grips with the Aga. And, as she did most of the food preparation, her inactivity had led to the pizza oven sitting there unchristened by food. But they had spent a couple of family evenings out there enjoying the heat it created when it was fired up with the doors open.
‘That’s nice,’ she whispered, slipping her arm into his. They stood, letting the flames warm their faces, watching the sparks rise and flicker towards the gaping mouth of the chimney.
‘Where did you get to back then?’ she asked, after a while.
‘There was something I needed to finish off in the studio. It wouldn’t keep. Polly said she was fine about me going.’
‘It just seemed a bit abrupt, you going off like that.’
‘She really didn’t mind. I behaved really well tonight.’
‘You did.’
‘I’m trying my best.’
They sat close together on the wooden bench, the light from the applewood flames flickering on their faces. The rain from earlier had stopped and the night was clear and cold. They could see every star up there, and the crescent of the moon was as sharp as a sickle.
‘Sometimes the work just screams out for me,’ Gareth said. ‘I can’t believe I was away from it for so long.’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t draw anything for over a year.’
‘You did some lovely diagrams.’
‘Yeah, and I painted walls and woodwork.’
‘You did it beautifully, though,’ she smiled up at him. ‘And you did say you wanted to get your hands dirty. And you enjoyed it in a way . . .’
‘Yep.’
‘It was awful for you sometimes, Gareth. I know that.’
‘I lost the plot.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I did.’
‘We all had our low moments. Remember, “Fuck it, let’s go and buy a nice Barratt Home”? If it hadn’t been for Andy . . .’
Gareth stared into the flames.
‘Without him, I don’t know what we would have done,’ Rose said, searching for her husband’s eyes. ‘You have a great brother.’
‘He’s OK,’ Gareth said.
Rose had to be careful about discussing Andy with Gareth. There were issues there. Of course, they had grown up believing they were real brothers. In fact, out of the two of them, Andy was the only birth son of Pam and John, who for political reasons had only had one child of their own – and they had waited until they were into their forties to do that. Their choice had been to adopt a second baby, in order to share their good fortune in life with someone who might otherwise not have been so lucky.
Rose had asked Andy about this on one of the many evenings they spent alone
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