Read Online Cuckoo by Julia Crouch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Crouch
Tags: Fiction
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would move his pictures into the living room to mingle their fumes with those of the paraffin stove that heated the place.
The smallness of the room also limited the size of his work, which further defined his style. The luck of it was that what he had hit upon out of necessity turned out to be very marketable and this had hauled them out of the grim rental market and on to the Hackney flat-owning step of the artist’s progress in London.
It had helped that Rose had been earning a regular salary. Without that, the mortgage for Hackney would have been impossible. Her teaching job had also qualified them for a key-worker’s loan for the deposit. These days, however, her role in their rise tended to be overlooked: both she and Gareth had a tendency to see their progress as being solely connected to his efforts. Over the years she had changed role from that of principal breadwinner to wife of the successful artist, and mother of his lovely children. While she knew she should probably feel bitter, or at least a little wistful about this, she was in fact genuinely happy with her lot.
Gareth snored softly. Rose sighed and turned over, aware that she had just a couple of hours before Flossie woke up for her feed, and that she must sleep.
After half an hour of lying there trying to empty her mind, she gave up. She knew it just wasn’t going to happen. Taking care not to wake Gareth, she got up and slipped on her dressing gown – a dusky pink antique kimono that Gareth had brought back from an opening in Japan – and padded down the stairs in her sheepskin slippers.
She stopped on the half-landing and looked out of the arched window towards the Annexe. The boy’s room was all darkness, but Polly’s light was still burning, and the curtains were still open. Rose stood still, to one side, and saw Polly pacing back and forth in front of the window, smoking, her hair following her like a dirty fox tail. Rose wondered whether she should go up there and see if she was all right.
But then Flossie started whimpering and rustling in her cot, two hours earlier than usual. Rose cursed under her breath. Floss had slept too long on the airport journey and that, along with the alcoholic milk and missing her usual bedtime routine, had messed her up.
Rose bounded back up the stairs to catch Flossie before Gareth woke up. She was rewarded by the vision of her daughter gurgling in her cot, holding out her arms, delighted to see her mother arrive so quickly. Rose scooped her up and took her downstairs to sit in their favourite feeding chair. She drew a blanket around them both and settling in, she slowly drifted off to the rhythmic sucking of the baby, the tingling of the letting down of her milk.
When she woke, she and Flossie were enclosed in the bubble of their own body heat. Flossie was fast asleep, a trickle of milk drying on her cool, soft cheek. Rose carried her back up the stairs, being careful not to wake her. On the way up to the second floor, she stood at the arched window again, looking at the Annexe. The main lights had been turned off, but there was still a glow in the room. Probably Polly had put the bedside light on. She was reading, perhaps. Or writing – Rose knew she liked to work in bed. Or was she just lying there, thinking of a beach, a house, a man, a life that had been taken from her and her boys?
Poor Polly .
Rose continued up the stairs and laid Flossie down in her cot, tucking her under the little duvet. She tiptoed across the landing to her bedroom, took off her kimono and slippers and put them in their proper places. She pulled back her crisp, clean, lavender-scented bedding and climbed in beside her handsome, capable, alive husband. Her sturdy baby slept solidly just yards from her, and her healthy and bright older daughter was dreaming good things on the floor below in her freshly painted, beautifully large bedroom.
How lucky was she?
Rose lay back and, like
The smallness of the room also limited the size of his work, which further defined his style. The luck of it was that what he had hit upon out of necessity turned out to be very marketable and this had hauled them out of the grim rental market and on to the Hackney flat-owning step of the artist’s progress in London.
It had helped that Rose had been earning a regular salary. Without that, the mortgage for Hackney would have been impossible. Her teaching job had also qualified them for a key-worker’s loan for the deposit. These days, however, her role in their rise tended to be overlooked: both she and Gareth had a tendency to see their progress as being solely connected to his efforts. Over the years she had changed role from that of principal breadwinner to wife of the successful artist, and mother of his lovely children. While she knew she should probably feel bitter, or at least a little wistful about this, she was in fact genuinely happy with her lot.
Gareth snored softly. Rose sighed and turned over, aware that she had just a couple of hours before Flossie woke up for her feed, and that she must sleep.
After half an hour of lying there trying to empty her mind, she gave up. She knew it just wasn’t going to happen. Taking care not to wake Gareth, she got up and slipped on her dressing gown – a dusky pink antique kimono that Gareth had brought back from an opening in Japan – and padded down the stairs in her sheepskin slippers.
She stopped on the half-landing and looked out of the arched window towards the Annexe. The boy’s room was all darkness, but Polly’s light was still burning, and the curtains were still open. Rose stood still, to one side, and saw Polly pacing back and forth in front of the window, smoking, her hair following her like a dirty fox tail. Rose wondered whether she should go up there and see if she was all right.
But then Flossie started whimpering and rustling in her cot, two hours earlier than usual. Rose cursed under her breath. Floss had slept too long on the airport journey and that, along with the alcoholic milk and missing her usual bedtime routine, had messed her up.
Rose bounded back up the stairs to catch Flossie before Gareth woke up. She was rewarded by the vision of her daughter gurgling in her cot, holding out her arms, delighted to see her mother arrive so quickly. Rose scooped her up and took her downstairs to sit in their favourite feeding chair. She drew a blanket around them both and settling in, she slowly drifted off to the rhythmic sucking of the baby, the tingling of the letting down of her milk.
When she woke, she and Flossie were enclosed in the bubble of their own body heat. Flossie was fast asleep, a trickle of milk drying on her cool, soft cheek. Rose carried her back up the stairs, being careful not to wake her. On the way up to the second floor, she stood at the arched window again, looking at the Annexe. The main lights had been turned off, but there was still a glow in the room. Probably Polly had put the bedside light on. She was reading, perhaps. Or writing – Rose knew she liked to work in bed. Or was she just lying there, thinking of a beach, a house, a man, a life that had been taken from her and her boys?
Poor Polly .
Rose continued up the stairs and laid Flossie down in her cot, tucking her under the little duvet. She tiptoed across the landing to her bedroom, took off her kimono and slippers and put them in their proper places. She pulled back her crisp, clean, lavender-scented bedding and climbed in beside her handsome, capable, alive husband. Her sturdy baby slept solidly just yards from her, and her healthy and bright older daughter was dreaming good things on the floor below in her freshly painted, beautifully large bedroom.
How lucky was she?
Rose lay back and, like
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