she didn’t work she was often an unpaid childminder for her career-orientated friends, but this never fazed her; she never bitched or complained that she was being used. It was this generosity of spirit that made Christopher love her so much. He’d had no idea that the gloriously happy muddle she lived in could not be transplanted. She’d been uprooted – more unwillingly than she’d let on, he suspected – and now she was wilting before his very eyes.
Equally as worrying as his wife’s state of mind was his father’s. Christopher had to force himself to go and visit Hamilton in the home, because he found his condition so depressing. The doctors had insisted there was nothing physically wrong with him. But he rarely spoke, rarely ate, didn’t take part in any of the activities laid on by the home, wouldn’t have bothered washing or dressing if the nurses didn’t chivvy himruthlessly, day in, day out. Something, some light, some vital component, had gone out in him, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do. His life, to all intents and purposes, seemed to be over. And he was only sixty-seven.
Christopher had made the mistake of thinking the boys might bring him back to life, but Hamilton had merely given them the flicker of a benevolent smile, lifted his hand to touch each of them on the head and turned back to gaze at the wall. The experience had upset both of the children, who had fond memories of their grandpa taking them down to the river to tickle trout, or to pick raspberries or light a satisfying bonfire. And it had cut Christopher to the quick, making him realize he was powerless to help.
Lastly, there was his mother. Brave, uncomplaining, but deep-down bewildered Rosemary, who drifted unhappily about the house in the clothes that were starting to hang off her. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the home next to Hamilton. But then, when your husband of over forty years was cruelly snatched away from you, and you didn’t have the closure of death, but a cadaverous reminder you were duty-bound to visit every day – well, the most ebullient of personalities would be affected.
He did a quick straw poll of the members of his family. He himself was relatively happy, which of course only added to his guilt. It wasn’t until they were back at Lydbrook that he realized how much he had missed the country and how much he loathedLondon. Here, at lunchtime, he could wander out of his office, buy a crusty cob and stroll down to the river, rather than sit in some smoky hostelry chewing on a soggy, over-refrigerated baguette. And in retrospect Elmdon Road had been suffocating, so claustrophobic; you were under scrutiny twenty-four hours a day. Everyone knew your business – when you had a row, where you bought your groceries, if you were late for work, if you were home early. Everything was shared: babysitters, school runs, pints of milk, secrets, gossip – and, if the latter was to be believed, sometimes partners. Christopher, who was an intensely private person, found it liberating to be able to walk out into his own garden without people checking to see if you’d changed your boxer shorts.
The boys were in their element. They’d lost their city pallor, spending most of their time outdoors, whereas in London they’d spent most of it glued to the telly or the Play Station. At Lydbrook, they’d already built their own cycle track, with jumps, coming back triumphantly with muddy knees, bruises and tales of their achievements.
So he and the boys were content, while Hamilton, Rosemary and Zoe were not. Was it in his power to redress the balance? Did any one of them deserve happiness more than the other? Sebastian and Hugo were the most important, of course, but being five and seven respectively they would probably be happy anywhere.
Moving back to London would certainly makeZoe happy. Christopher had no doubt he would learn to live with it just as he had before. Rosemary would carry on wandering
Equally as worrying as his wife’s state of mind was his father’s. Christopher had to force himself to go and visit Hamilton in the home, because he found his condition so depressing. The doctors had insisted there was nothing physically wrong with him. But he rarely spoke, rarely ate, didn’t take part in any of the activities laid on by the home, wouldn’t have bothered washing or dressing if the nurses didn’t chivvy himruthlessly, day in, day out. Something, some light, some vital component, had gone out in him, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do. His life, to all intents and purposes, seemed to be over. And he was only sixty-seven.
Christopher had made the mistake of thinking the boys might bring him back to life, but Hamilton had merely given them the flicker of a benevolent smile, lifted his hand to touch each of them on the head and turned back to gaze at the wall. The experience had upset both of the children, who had fond memories of their grandpa taking them down to the river to tickle trout, or to pick raspberries or light a satisfying bonfire. And it had cut Christopher to the quick, making him realize he was powerless to help.
Lastly, there was his mother. Brave, uncomplaining, but deep-down bewildered Rosemary, who drifted unhappily about the house in the clothes that were starting to hang off her. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the home next to Hamilton. But then, when your husband of over forty years was cruelly snatched away from you, and you didn’t have the closure of death, but a cadaverous reminder you were duty-bound to visit every day – well, the most ebullient of personalities would be affected.
He did a quick straw poll of the members of his family. He himself was relatively happy, which of course only added to his guilt. It wasn’t until they were back at Lydbrook that he realized how much he had missed the country and how much he loathedLondon. Here, at lunchtime, he could wander out of his office, buy a crusty cob and stroll down to the river, rather than sit in some smoky hostelry chewing on a soggy, over-refrigerated baguette. And in retrospect Elmdon Road had been suffocating, so claustrophobic; you were under scrutiny twenty-four hours a day. Everyone knew your business – when you had a row, where you bought your groceries, if you were late for work, if you were home early. Everything was shared: babysitters, school runs, pints of milk, secrets, gossip – and, if the latter was to be believed, sometimes partners. Christopher, who was an intensely private person, found it liberating to be able to walk out into his own garden without people checking to see if you’d changed your boxer shorts.
The boys were in their element. They’d lost their city pallor, spending most of their time outdoors, whereas in London they’d spent most of it glued to the telly or the Play Station. At Lydbrook, they’d already built their own cycle track, with jumps, coming back triumphantly with muddy knees, bruises and tales of their achievements.
So he and the boys were content, while Hamilton, Rosemary and Zoe were not. Was it in his power to redress the balance? Did any one of them deserve happiness more than the other? Sebastian and Hugo were the most important, of course, but being five and seven respectively they would probably be happy anywhere.
Moving back to London would certainly makeZoe happy. Christopher had no doubt he would learn to live with it just as he had before. Rosemary would carry on wandering
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