floor after He'd sloshed its contents into the stew with excessive flamboyance. Instead, with jazz playing softly, he tidied and swept and took lengthy breaks to sip a little whisky.
He had loved babysitting Cosima. She was an angel who hadn't woken once but still He'd taken his responsibility gravely and hadn't dared tidy or sweep or search for lost crosswords lest she should wake and he not hear her. Sipping whisky any earlier had been quite out of the question. He'd spent most of the evening intermittently creeping up the stairs to the point where he knew the treads would creak. He couldsense the baby in the silence and He'd had a lovely evening, halfway up the stairs. He was pleased Cosima hadn't woken because he wanted to be able to reassure Fen on her return. He hoped the fact would bolster her, encourage her to breathe a little more deeply in fresh space of her own, or even breathe a little more lightly in other spaces.
I can reason it out. I can see why. Couldn't anybody? Her mother buggers off with a cowboy so Fen has decided she won't be leaving her baby at all. That's OK. That's OK. It's still relatively early days. But I hope all is well with Matt. I'll invite them for a weekend soon. I'll take him to the Rag. Or perhaps I'll babysit and send the two of them there for a little them-time.
How lovely to have our Cat back in the bag. A relief that her accent is unmodified by her time abroad. She's grown, She's bloomed, She's chopped off her hair and She's home. I must have her and Ben up for a weekend too. He's a good chap. I'll try and find an opportune moment to slip in my little query. I'm sure It's nothing but if he could just pop his doctor's hat on for a minute or two I could ask him a couple of questions and be done with it. I don't want to worry the girls, or waste my own GP's time. It's probably nothing. I'm probably daft for even noticing it. After all, I am growing old – I can hardly expect the rude health I used to enjoy.
Pip looks well. Whoever would have thought that the wilful girl who denounced any merit in love and money, found both in the good form of Zac? And a ready-made son too! Tom may officially be a stepson but that doesn't place him on any lower rung in my affection. He's my grandson-thing-or-other. And I'm most certainly his Gramps. I haven't seen him for far too long, though I wrote him a letter in rhyme last week which I'll try and remember to post when I'm in Bakewell next Tuesday.
Funny thing, blood ties. I don't think of Tom as any less my grandchild than Cosima. Some pompous old genealogist wouldn't even consider me a grandfather. I'd be stuck out on a limb on a sub-branch of some silly conventional family tree. But the girls do and the children do and That's what counts. My nit-pickin' chicks, back together in the embrace of our funny family.
Penny Ericsson
On the other side of the Atlantic, it is still the day before and Penny Ericsson is wondering how to handle the hollow stretch of another evening alone. This is her twenty-fourth since Bob, her husband of thirty years, died. And though friends have ensured that she does not often spend long tracts of time on her own, Penny has felt utterly alone whether she has company or not.
Her house is immaculate. She is not hungry. She doesn't care for television. There's nothing to do but grieve. In some ways, it makes sense of her life. You love, you lose, you grieve for ever more.
Even the staircase feels longer and steeper now Bob's gone.
‘Life's gonna be one long drag,’ Penny murmurs as she ventures downstairs because She's been doing nothing upstairs for ages. She rotates all the scatter cushions from resting like squares on the two large sofas to perching like rhombs. She changes the angle of the many framed photographs on the mantelpiece so that they all seem to be standing in line to the right. She chooses two large art books from the shelves to replace the current photography books on the coffee table. She sits beside
He had loved babysitting Cosima. She was an angel who hadn't woken once but still He'd taken his responsibility gravely and hadn't dared tidy or sweep or search for lost crosswords lest she should wake and he not hear her. Sipping whisky any earlier had been quite out of the question. He'd spent most of the evening intermittently creeping up the stairs to the point where he knew the treads would creak. He couldsense the baby in the silence and He'd had a lovely evening, halfway up the stairs. He was pleased Cosima hadn't woken because he wanted to be able to reassure Fen on her return. He hoped the fact would bolster her, encourage her to breathe a little more deeply in fresh space of her own, or even breathe a little more lightly in other spaces.
I can reason it out. I can see why. Couldn't anybody? Her mother buggers off with a cowboy so Fen has decided she won't be leaving her baby at all. That's OK. That's OK. It's still relatively early days. But I hope all is well with Matt. I'll invite them for a weekend soon. I'll take him to the Rag. Or perhaps I'll babysit and send the two of them there for a little them-time.
How lovely to have our Cat back in the bag. A relief that her accent is unmodified by her time abroad. She's grown, She's bloomed, She's chopped off her hair and She's home. I must have her and Ben up for a weekend too. He's a good chap. I'll try and find an opportune moment to slip in my little query. I'm sure It's nothing but if he could just pop his doctor's hat on for a minute or two I could ask him a couple of questions and be done with it. I don't want to worry the girls, or waste my own GP's time. It's probably nothing. I'm probably daft for even noticing it. After all, I am growing old – I can hardly expect the rude health I used to enjoy.
Pip looks well. Whoever would have thought that the wilful girl who denounced any merit in love and money, found both in the good form of Zac? And a ready-made son too! Tom may officially be a stepson but that doesn't place him on any lower rung in my affection. He's my grandson-thing-or-other. And I'm most certainly his Gramps. I haven't seen him for far too long, though I wrote him a letter in rhyme last week which I'll try and remember to post when I'm in Bakewell next Tuesday.
Funny thing, blood ties. I don't think of Tom as any less my grandchild than Cosima. Some pompous old genealogist wouldn't even consider me a grandfather. I'd be stuck out on a limb on a sub-branch of some silly conventional family tree. But the girls do and the children do and That's what counts. My nit-pickin' chicks, back together in the embrace of our funny family.
Penny Ericsson
On the other side of the Atlantic, it is still the day before and Penny Ericsson is wondering how to handle the hollow stretch of another evening alone. This is her twenty-fourth since Bob, her husband of thirty years, died. And though friends have ensured that she does not often spend long tracts of time on her own, Penny has felt utterly alone whether she has company or not.
Her house is immaculate. She is not hungry. She doesn't care for television. There's nothing to do but grieve. In some ways, it makes sense of her life. You love, you lose, you grieve for ever more.
Even the staircase feels longer and steeper now Bob's gone.
‘Life's gonna be one long drag,’ Penny murmurs as she ventures downstairs because She's been doing nothing upstairs for ages. She rotates all the scatter cushions from resting like squares on the two large sofas to perching like rhombs. She changes the angle of the many framed photographs on the mantelpiece so that they all seem to be standing in line to the right. She chooses two large art books from the shelves to replace the current photography books on the coffee table. She sits beside
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