Hedleyâs schoolboy quiff into a Mohican for a punk party in the village hall.
The windows glisten with steam as the potatoes boil and Laura doesnât notice them burn at the bottom. She was so happy here in her teens, able to be herself, not pretending to be an academic like her parents and Hedley. It must be good for Tamsingrowing up here; on behalf of her own children, Laura envies her.
âCome on, letâs eat. Iâm starving.â Inigo marches in, swinging a bottle of wine. He opens it, pours glasses for himself, Hedley and Laura, then stands fidgeting and ostentatiously looking at his watch to draw more attention to the lateness of supper. Despite his passion for cooking, Inigo never interferes in the kitchen at Crumbly. Itâs too medieval for him; doing anything culinary in the cavernous space makes him feel like a vassal, not a chef.
Laura feels like that all the time, but doesnât think itâs worth mentioning. She drains the potatoes, ignoring the eager faces of Fred and Hedley hovering keenly like the Labrador Diver. She remembers her teenage culinary attempts at Crumbly. The meals were experimental and infrequent; at thirteen her cooking repertoire consisted largely of boiled eggs and cakes she liked to marble pink, purple and green with the small bottles of evil-looking food colouring the Crumbly village shop supplied. It has to be said, it hasnât increased much. The chicken pie she is placing on the table came out of Hedleyâs freezer ready cooked, and thatâs how Laura likes it. She calls Dolly and Tamsin through to supper, and everyone sits down at the long oak kitchen table.
âItâs so nice to be back here,â Laura says, raising herglass to Hedley. He smiles, relaxing now the arrival is over.
âCheers,â he says, slopping wine as he chinks his glass against Fredâs water tumbler, and then Dollyâs before reaching across the table to Inigo and Tamsin and his sister.
Home with their parents in Cambridge had seemed small, the rules petty and the city hard, grey and implacable after Laura and Hedleyâs summers in Norfolk, where the days were their own and the horizons stretched forever with no rules or boundaries to get in the way.
âDo you remember how awful it was going back to school after the summers here?â Laura asks Hedley, when everyone has got their food and is eating. âAnd how we begged Mum and Dad until they let us come for Christmas, and it was the year there was that incredible snow.â Lauraâs eyes shine; she has her elbows on the table, leaning towards Hedley, who is looking puzzled. âYou must remember,â she urges. âWe went on a tractor to see the Sex Pistols play in Cromer.â
Dolly and Tamsin are drooped over their plates, shoulders hunched, hair flopping forwards to make two curtains, one rusty red, the other matt brown like stout. Dolly toys with a pea, but not keenly enough to put it into her mouth. Like Tamsin, her bodylanguage indicates torpor and boredom. However, when the girls hear the word âsexâ, they both suddenly sit up, push their hair away from their faces and with pleased expressions begin to eat the chicken pie.
âCool,â says Fred. âDid they sing âGod save the Queenâ?â
âI saw them on
Rock Dinosaurs,â
says Dolly. âMum, did you get the dead oneâs autograph?â she asks, back to her usual animated self now.
Tamsin struggles to retain her sense of separation. âThe Sex Pistols are really rank,â she hisses. Hedley roars with laughter.
âThatâs exactly what they are, or rather were â youâre so right,â he beams. âAnd Uncle Peter thought so too. He had to wait through the whole evening inside the Town Hall where the gig was, because it would have taken too long to get home and then come back for us again.â
âI canât think why he didnât go to a
The windows glisten with steam as the potatoes boil and Laura doesnât notice them burn at the bottom. She was so happy here in her teens, able to be herself, not pretending to be an academic like her parents and Hedley. It must be good for Tamsingrowing up here; on behalf of her own children, Laura envies her.
âCome on, letâs eat. Iâm starving.â Inigo marches in, swinging a bottle of wine. He opens it, pours glasses for himself, Hedley and Laura, then stands fidgeting and ostentatiously looking at his watch to draw more attention to the lateness of supper. Despite his passion for cooking, Inigo never interferes in the kitchen at Crumbly. Itâs too medieval for him; doing anything culinary in the cavernous space makes him feel like a vassal, not a chef.
Laura feels like that all the time, but doesnât think itâs worth mentioning. She drains the potatoes, ignoring the eager faces of Fred and Hedley hovering keenly like the Labrador Diver. She remembers her teenage culinary attempts at Crumbly. The meals were experimental and infrequent; at thirteen her cooking repertoire consisted largely of boiled eggs and cakes she liked to marble pink, purple and green with the small bottles of evil-looking food colouring the Crumbly village shop supplied. It has to be said, it hasnât increased much. The chicken pie she is placing on the table came out of Hedleyâs freezer ready cooked, and thatâs how Laura likes it. She calls Dolly and Tamsin through to supper, and everyone sits down at the long oak kitchen table.
âItâs so nice to be back here,â Laura says, raising herglass to Hedley. He smiles, relaxing now the arrival is over.
âCheers,â he says, slopping wine as he chinks his glass against Fredâs water tumbler, and then Dollyâs before reaching across the table to Inigo and Tamsin and his sister.
Home with their parents in Cambridge had seemed small, the rules petty and the city hard, grey and implacable after Laura and Hedleyâs summers in Norfolk, where the days were their own and the horizons stretched forever with no rules or boundaries to get in the way.
âDo you remember how awful it was going back to school after the summers here?â Laura asks Hedley, when everyone has got their food and is eating. âAnd how we begged Mum and Dad until they let us come for Christmas, and it was the year there was that incredible snow.â Lauraâs eyes shine; she has her elbows on the table, leaning towards Hedley, who is looking puzzled. âYou must remember,â she urges. âWe went on a tractor to see the Sex Pistols play in Cromer.â
Dolly and Tamsin are drooped over their plates, shoulders hunched, hair flopping forwards to make two curtains, one rusty red, the other matt brown like stout. Dolly toys with a pea, but not keenly enough to put it into her mouth. Like Tamsin, her bodylanguage indicates torpor and boredom. However, when the girls hear the word âsexâ, they both suddenly sit up, push their hair away from their faces and with pleased expressions begin to eat the chicken pie.
âCool,â says Fred. âDid they sing âGod save the Queenâ?â
âI saw them on
Rock Dinosaurs,â
says Dolly. âMum, did you get the dead oneâs autograph?â she asks, back to her usual animated self now.
Tamsin struggles to retain her sense of separation. âThe Sex Pistols are really rank,â she hisses. Hedley roars with laughter.
âThatâs exactly what they are, or rather were â youâre so right,â he beams. âAnd Uncle Peter thought so too. He had to wait through the whole evening inside the Town Hall where the gig was, because it would have taken too long to get home and then come back for us again.â
âI canât think why he didnât go to a
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