clothes. As she moved to the scullery door a moment later she thought of Esther’s words:
It’ll be nice for you to be all together again
. Would Ollie think the same? she wondered.
Pushing open the scullery door she went inside, pulled the perambulator after her and set it near the wall. Ollie, as she had left him, was sitting at his easel. He turned and smiled at her. She returned the smile and then bent to the baby. Blanche was lying quietly for the moment. She would leave her there for now while she got the dinner.
‘Is Ernest still out in the fields?’ she asked Ollie as she took off her shawl and moved towards him.
‘Yes.’ He nodded briefly then turned and gave his attention back to the painting before him. The canvas depicted a number of men burning the stubble after the harvest had been gathered in. The scene was one of quiet drama. In a lowering, stormy sky clouds streamed out like grey, shot-riddled banners above a field in which the stubble burned in long lines of brilliant flame. The men, tension evident in every line of their muscular bodies, concentrated on containing the fire, while the smoke swirled about them before being carried up towards the clouds above.
Sarah stood at his shoulder for some moments, looking at the canvas, then she said, ‘Ollie, it’s magnificent.’
He turned to her, pleased. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes.
Yes
.’
‘It’s not quite finished yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m hoping to get it finished today – if I get the time before the light goes.’
Since the spring Ollie had become much calmer, far more at peace. And it wasn’t only because the two of them had grown closer again, Sarah knew. It was also partly because of his painting. It was a similar pattern every year. During the short days of the winter the hours he could spend at his easel were limited, and there were always so many other things, more important things, to be done. With the lengthening days, though, he was able to find more opportunity to work at his painting, and any odd hour that he could squeeze in between his other responsibilities found him either at his easel or working on sketches in preparation for the painting that would follow. At such times, doing what he loved best, so much of his frustration seemed to vanish. He was clearly so much happier.
The picture now before him he had begun several weeks ago, working at it every Sunday, his one day off in the week. Today he had been sitting at his easel since eight o’clock that morning. When he was painting, Sarah kept the children out of his way as much as she could – easy on fine days but more difficult when they were confined to the house. This afternoon, she decided, after the children had got back from Sunday school, she would take them out for a walk if the weather stayed dry. That would give Ollie a little more time on his own.
Into her contentment a thought nagged faintly. She hadn’t yet told him that Blanche was home to
stay
. The thought stayed with her; Ollie’s relationship with the baby was a constant source of quiet melancholy in the back of her mind. She felt that he had still never trulyaccepted the child, and that he was relieved that she spent most of the time up at the house. He rarely showed any interest in her, or referred to her when she was absent. It was almost as if during the time when she was away she ceased to exist for him. It was true that on those Sundays when Sarah brought Blanche back to spend some hours with the family he made token gestures to show a kind of affection, but, Sarah felt, they were only gestures; nothing more.
As she entered the kitchen to begin preparing dinner she suddenly thought of her meeting with Mr Savill in the stable yard. From the shelf above the range she took down an old broken teapot. It held a brooch that had belonged to her grandmother, and her mother’s wedding ring. Taking the sovereign from her pocket she placed it along with the other treasures.
When Ernest returned
It’ll be nice for you to be all together again
. Would Ollie think the same? she wondered.
Pushing open the scullery door she went inside, pulled the perambulator after her and set it near the wall. Ollie, as she had left him, was sitting at his easel. He turned and smiled at her. She returned the smile and then bent to the baby. Blanche was lying quietly for the moment. She would leave her there for now while she got the dinner.
‘Is Ernest still out in the fields?’ she asked Ollie as she took off her shawl and moved towards him.
‘Yes.’ He nodded briefly then turned and gave his attention back to the painting before him. The canvas depicted a number of men burning the stubble after the harvest had been gathered in. The scene was one of quiet drama. In a lowering, stormy sky clouds streamed out like grey, shot-riddled banners above a field in which the stubble burned in long lines of brilliant flame. The men, tension evident in every line of their muscular bodies, concentrated on containing the fire, while the smoke swirled about them before being carried up towards the clouds above.
Sarah stood at his shoulder for some moments, looking at the canvas, then she said, ‘Ollie, it’s magnificent.’
He turned to her, pleased. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, yes.
Yes
.’
‘It’s not quite finished yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m hoping to get it finished today – if I get the time before the light goes.’
Since the spring Ollie had become much calmer, far more at peace. And it wasn’t only because the two of them had grown closer again, Sarah knew. It was also partly because of his painting. It was a similar pattern every year. During the short days of the winter the hours he could spend at his easel were limited, and there were always so many other things, more important things, to be done. With the lengthening days, though, he was able to find more opportunity to work at his painting, and any odd hour that he could squeeze in between his other responsibilities found him either at his easel or working on sketches in preparation for the painting that would follow. At such times, doing what he loved best, so much of his frustration seemed to vanish. He was clearly so much happier.
The picture now before him he had begun several weeks ago, working at it every Sunday, his one day off in the week. Today he had been sitting at his easel since eight o’clock that morning. When he was painting, Sarah kept the children out of his way as much as she could – easy on fine days but more difficult when they were confined to the house. This afternoon, she decided, after the children had got back from Sunday school, she would take them out for a walk if the weather stayed dry. That would give Ollie a little more time on his own.
Into her contentment a thought nagged faintly. She hadn’t yet told him that Blanche was home to
stay
. The thought stayed with her; Ollie’s relationship with the baby was a constant source of quiet melancholy in the back of her mind. She felt that he had still never trulyaccepted the child, and that he was relieved that she spent most of the time up at the house. He rarely showed any interest in her, or referred to her when she was absent. It was almost as if during the time when she was away she ceased to exist for him. It was true that on those Sundays when Sarah brought Blanche back to spend some hours with the family he made token gestures to show a kind of affection, but, Sarah felt, they were only gestures; nothing more.
As she entered the kitchen to begin preparing dinner she suddenly thought of her meeting with Mr Savill in the stable yard. From the shelf above the range she took down an old broken teapot. It held a brooch that had belonged to her grandmother, and her mother’s wedding ring. Taking the sovereign from her pocket she placed it along with the other treasures.
When Ernest returned
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