Read Online Walking in Darkness by Charlotte Lamb - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Lamb
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course not,’ Steve had hurriedly agreed, his voice soothing, then went on, ‘But you’ve had to turn a blind eye to a lot of stuff you didn’t really approve of, Dad. We both know that.’ Then he had leaned over to pat his father’s shoulder. ‘Dad, don’t look that way. In the real world we all have to live with what we don’t like. I do, myself – there’s corruption and sleaze enough in TV, God knows. But at least nobody pretends to be perfect. It’s hypocrisy I can’t stand; all the sanctimonious humbug.’
From the doorway his mother had asked sharply, ‘What are you talking about? I thought I told you no politics? Your father mustn’t overdo things, he isn’t out of the wood yet. Time he took his nap now, anyway. I’ve just made some coffee and hot muffins, Steve. Come back downstairs.’
She came over and made a fuss of tucking a warm patchwork quilt around his father, as if he was a child, adjusting his pillows, pulling down the blind to shut out the noonday sun, stroking back his thinning grey hair and smiling down at him maternally.
‘Now, you get some sleep, you hear?’
‘She finally got what she wanted, son,’ his father had complained. ‘I’m at her mercy, helpless as a newborn babe. Talk about politicians wanting power! It’s women who’re power-hungry, they’re control freaks, every last one of them.’
‘You hush,’ Marcia Colbourne said indulgently, bending to kiss his forehead before she walked quietly back out of the room, taking Steve with her.
When she got him alone in the kitchen, she turned on him angrily. ‘I won’t tell you again, Steve! He may look as if he’s back to normal, but he’s still recovering, and I don’t want him upset. Keep off the subject of politics. Talk to him about books, or the garden, or music, but no politics! And don’t ever let me hear you lecturing your father again.’
Steve had been taken aback, his face flushing. His mother rarely raised her voice but when she did you knew you were really in the doghouse. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, and meant it. ‘I didn’t think. Stupid of me.’
‘Yes, it was,’ she had said, but, relenting, had poured him strong black coffee and put out a plate of blueberry muffins, his favourites, especially when his mother had made them. She was the best cook he knew; she didn’t cook fussy food, only went for simple dishes, usually traditional New England fare, with home-grown herbs and vegetables, cooked perfectly. Her chowder was something to dream about and her fish melted in your mouth.
Marcia Colbourne still had the looks that had made Fred Colbourne fall for her thirty-six years ago. Until you got close to her you would never believe she was fifty-five; her skin had a smooth texture that made her look half her age, and her dark hair showed just a little elegant grey here and there.
She was as traditional in the way she dressed as she was in her cooking: in winter she wore soft pastel lambswool sweaters with pearls, in the English style, with tweed skirts; in summer she wore Laura Ashley dresses that gave her a cool, understated elegance. Slim, hyperactive, she was always on the move, cooking, working in the house, gardening, swimming, walking the beach in all weathers to hunt for bare, silvery driftwood for her famous flower arrangements.
Her artistic streak came out in many ways: she embroidered tablecloths and traycloths, made tapestry firescreens, painted delicate watercolours, especially of the coast around their home, and when Steve and his sister, Sally, were kids the family often took their summer vacation at the Blackwater wildlife refuge, some twenty miles away, to sail and fish and watch birds, while their mother painted the flocks of water fowl you saw there. Steve associated those holidays with a sense of freedom, a smell of the sea, of fish they caught themselves, cooking over a makeshift barbecue on the sand while his mother threw together a salad with a dressing of lemon juice
From the doorway his mother had asked sharply, ‘What are you talking about? I thought I told you no politics? Your father mustn’t overdo things, he isn’t out of the wood yet. Time he took his nap now, anyway. I’ve just made some coffee and hot muffins, Steve. Come back downstairs.’
She came over and made a fuss of tucking a warm patchwork quilt around his father, as if he was a child, adjusting his pillows, pulling down the blind to shut out the noonday sun, stroking back his thinning grey hair and smiling down at him maternally.
‘Now, you get some sleep, you hear?’
‘She finally got what she wanted, son,’ his father had complained. ‘I’m at her mercy, helpless as a newborn babe. Talk about politicians wanting power! It’s women who’re power-hungry, they’re control freaks, every last one of them.’
‘You hush,’ Marcia Colbourne said indulgently, bending to kiss his forehead before she walked quietly back out of the room, taking Steve with her.
When she got him alone in the kitchen, she turned on him angrily. ‘I won’t tell you again, Steve! He may look as if he’s back to normal, but he’s still recovering, and I don’t want him upset. Keep off the subject of politics. Talk to him about books, or the garden, or music, but no politics! And don’t ever let me hear you lecturing your father again.’
Steve had been taken aback, his face flushing. His mother rarely raised her voice but when she did you knew you were really in the doghouse. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, and meant it. ‘I didn’t think. Stupid of me.’
‘Yes, it was,’ she had said, but, relenting, had poured him strong black coffee and put out a plate of blueberry muffins, his favourites, especially when his mother had made them. She was the best cook he knew; she didn’t cook fussy food, only went for simple dishes, usually traditional New England fare, with home-grown herbs and vegetables, cooked perfectly. Her chowder was something to dream about and her fish melted in your mouth.
Marcia Colbourne still had the looks that had made Fred Colbourne fall for her thirty-six years ago. Until you got close to her you would never believe she was fifty-five; her skin had a smooth texture that made her look half her age, and her dark hair showed just a little elegant grey here and there.
She was as traditional in the way she dressed as she was in her cooking: in winter she wore soft pastel lambswool sweaters with pearls, in the English style, with tweed skirts; in summer she wore Laura Ashley dresses that gave her a cool, understated elegance. Slim, hyperactive, she was always on the move, cooking, working in the house, gardening, swimming, walking the beach in all weathers to hunt for bare, silvery driftwood for her famous flower arrangements.
Her artistic streak came out in many ways: she embroidered tablecloths and traycloths, made tapestry firescreens, painted delicate watercolours, especially of the coast around their home, and when Steve and his sister, Sally, were kids the family often took their summer vacation at the Blackwater wildlife refuge, some twenty miles away, to sail and fish and watch birds, while their mother painted the flocks of water fowl you saw there. Steve associated those holidays with a sense of freedom, a smell of the sea, of fish they caught themselves, cooking over a makeshift barbecue on the sand while his mother threw together a salad with a dressing of lemon juice
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