Paul answered the front door. ‘Yes?’
‘George Didburin.’ The man on the doorstep was plump and bald, but held himself with casual confidence. He was dressed immaculately and spoke with a drawling, educated accent, very English. He proffered a business card and waved one hand towards his companion. ‘My son and partner, Ned. We’re looking for Rosalind Stevenson. She’s expecting us.’
Paul took the card and examined it cursorily, not at all impressed by the accent or appearance of his visitor. ‘Ros! It’s that art fellow for you.’ He was annoyed at all this fuss over his wife’s hobby, felt betrayed by it. Who’d ever have thought people would get excited about bloody embroideries?
Still, if there was money to be made from them, he’d better make sure no one cheated her. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to push for the best bargain. He held the door wider. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
George stepped into the hall, taking in far more than was immediately apparent. Good-looking chap, Stevenson, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He wondered what the wife was like. He hadn’t had a chance to meet her after the fête. Ned said she was pleasant but with no sparkle.
Well, sparkle or not, George hoped she had some more pieces like the one of those children. Very touching scene, that. Brilliant needlework, too, with some unusual uses of materials. But it was the artistic style that made it valuable, the eye for a composition. He hoped the other pieces were of the same quality. It had been a while since he’d discovered a new talent.
Rosalind hurried down the stairs, wishing the art dealer had come after Paul had left. She advanced across the hall, with her right hand outstretched. ‘Mr Didburin? I’m so pleased to meet you.’
Why doesn’t she tell him how humbly grateful she is for his interest while she’s at it? Paul thought, watching her closely. Honestly, she was such a fool. Look at her body language. Even a blind man could read it. She was putting all the cards into her opponent’s hand before the game even began.
George presented Rosalind with a business card – you had to be careful nowadays when dealing with a husband and wife, treat them equally and all that, and anyway he was here to see her, not that cold fish beside her. He clasped her hand in both of his, holding on to it for a minute as he studied her. Well, at least her smile reached her eyes but what the hell was she nervous of? People didn’t usually find him intimidating. Then he saw her glance flicker uncertainly towards her husband and back again. Ah.
‘Shall we go and sit down, Ros?’ Paul prompted, his voice impatient.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Do come this way, Mr Didburin.’ She led the way into the sitting room and indicated a chair.
George didn’t even see her gesture because he’d noticed the pictures on the wall. ‘Do you mind?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but walked across to examine them. ‘Aaah!’ He wasn’t aware he’d made an approving noise, wasn’t aware of anything except the pieces. They were exquisite. Oh, yes! Abso-bloody-lutely exquisite.
Excitement filled him, rushing along his veins and bringing a slight flush to his fair complexion. There was nothing to beat the thrill of discovering a new talent, nothing. And such an unusual talent, too. Her pictures weren’t just pretty, they had guts. That was the only way he could phrase that indefinable something that meant an artist had captured some essence of life, some wonderful essence that would bring people of discernment flocking to buy their work.
‘What do you think?’ Paul asked as the silence dragged on and the guest made no attempt to take a seat.
George continued to ignore him. He stabbed a finger towards an Elizabethan lady in full costume with a miniature ruff, wondering how Mrs Stevenson had managed to do that so accurately on such a small scale. ‘This one is pretty and will sell, but this other,’ he stabbed a finger at an old lady sitting on a park bench, looking suspiciously at the world as she watched some children play, ‘is masterly. You should stay away from the pretty scenes and capture Life – with a capital L. It’ll sell better.’
Rosalind flushed. ‘Oh, well, I—’
‘Could you tell us a bit about yourself, Mr Didburin?’ Paul cut in smoothly. ‘We’re happy that you like the embroideries, of course, but what are your credentials for handling my wife’s work? Or for passing judgement on them?’
Rosalind stared at him in horror.
There was the sound of a phone ringing, footsteps, then Louise called, ‘Dad! It’s for you. The chairman.’
Paul froze in instant response to that magic word, murmured something which might have been an excuse and left swiftly, pausing to hiss at his wife, ‘Leave any negotiations about prices to me.’
Embarrassment reddened her cheeks. He had sounded like a schoolmaster ordering a pupil around – and a scornful schoolmaster dealing with a stupid pupil, at that.
‘I’m afraid I prefer to deal directly with the artist,’ George said mildly to Rosalind, feeling sorry for the poor downtrodden woman. ‘I like to develop a personal relationship with my clients. No intermediaries.’
She felt overwhelmed with embarrassment at Paul’s all-too-obvious assumption that she couldn’t handle things herself. ‘I’ll explain that to my husband, because I’d prefer to deal directly with you, as well. If you’re going to buy more of my work, that is.’
‘I hope I am. Do you have much completed?’
‘About fifty pieces. But most of them are back in Australia.’
He nodded, smiling gently, exhilaration still coursing through him. Fifty! Oh, yes! He had definitely made a find. ‘If they’re as good as this lot, I won’t guarantee to make you rich, but I will guarantee you recognition of your talent. And a fairly steady income.’
‘Oh.’ She went pink with pleasure. ‘Are you sure I’m – well, good enough?’
He looked at her incredulously. She really meant it. She was that uncertain of herself. ‘Yes, very sure. I’m a bit of an expert on embroideries, actually. And these are first-rate.’ It was about time for a revival of interest in this particular form of needlework.
‘Dad’s the top expert in Britain on raised stumpwork pieces, actually,’ Ned put in. ‘In Europe, even.’
George smiled deprecatingly at Rosalind. ‘Bit of a passion of mine, embroidery. And in my judgement, Mrs Stevenson, you have considerable talent.’ He paused, unable to think of a tactful phrase. ‘Do you really want your husband to negotiate prices in advance for you?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by that.’
‘Well, let me try to explain how I usually work before you decide. Prices are a delicate point until I’ve got you established as an artist. I’d much rather take a few of your embroideries – about twenty or so would give me enough for a good display – pay you a retainer and then arrange an exhibition. In the meantime I’ll show your pieces round and gauge reactions, though I’m pretty sure your stuff will take.’ He patted his chest. ‘I get a feeling here when I discover a new talent. I’ve got it now. Strongly.’
Delight flooded through her. ‘You make me feel very happy, Mr Didburin, with your expert appreciation. And I’d definitely like you to handle my work. I couldn’t work with someone I didn’t – well, trust and respect. The embroideries mean too much to me.’
‘Call me George. And,’ he remembered what her husband had called her, ‘you’re – Ros, is it?’
‘No. Only my husband calls me that. I prefer my full name, actually – Rosalind.’
‘Rosalind it is, then. Can you get the other embroideries sent over from Australia?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But there are a few I don’t want to sell. They mean too much to me.’
‘Would you consider showing them anyway? We could put a sold sticker on them. If they’re good, they’ll help draw people in.’
‘I – yes, why not?’
‘How soon can you have them here?’
‘Oh. Well, I can phone my mother. She’ll go round to the house and take them to the shipper. They’d be here within the week, I should think, air freight. They’re not framed or anything, though.’
He sighed in delight. ‘Great! I’d prefer my own framer to deal with them anyway. She’s one of the best in the country at preparing and framing embroideries! Give me a call when they arrive, then bring them over and have lunch with me in Dorchester. I’ll show you round my little gallery.’ His eyes twinkled and he lowered his voice. ‘On your own, perhaps?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ Paul was probably packing already. The chairman never rang just to say hello.
George got up and went to examine the pictures again, the framed ones on the wall, then the unframed ones on the dining-room table, the ones Jenny had brought. He was still standing near the latter when his host came back.
Paul consulted his watch. Was that fellow going to spend all day gaping at these bits of cloth? He needed to set off for London and would do so as soon as these two had left. That fellow was damned rude. Hadn’t even turned round to acknowledge his host’s return. He waited a moment, then prompted, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I like them very much.’
‘How much are they worth?’
Rosalind interrupted. ‘It’s too soon to tell that, Paul. I’m sending for some of the others from Australia before we settle anything with Mr Didburin.’ She was ashamed of how nervous she felt, how hard it was to stand up to Paul.
‘There will be no discount for quantity,’ Paul said severely.
George stared at him, absolutely gobsmacked, then said in a chill tone, ‘It’s not a question of quantity with works of art as wonderful as these, Mr Stevenson. When the others arrive, we’ll put on a display in my gallery, invite a few selected buyers from the trade and a few of the top collectors, and that’ll help us gauge the market.’
Paul snorted in disgust. ‘I prefer to talk prices before I begin a contract.’
George had had enough of this. He walked across and looked his host firmly in the eye. ‘But I shan’t be signing a contract with you, Mr Stevenson. I’ll be dealing with your wife. She’s the one with the talent.’
At the sight of Stevenson’s outraged expression, Ned hastily converted a choke of laughter into a cough, hiding his face in his handkerchief and clearing his throat loudly before he dared take it away.
‘Nonetheless, I am the one with business understanding in this family and if I’m not satisfied with the terms, we’ll take them elsewhere.’
Shame stiffened Rosalind’s backbone. ‘Paul, I’m quite happy with what Mr Didburin wishes to do. How can he decide anything when he’s only seen a few of my pieces?’
The look he gave her was icy, then he glanced at his watch again and clicked his tongue in exasperation. ‘I have to leave right away. The chairman wants a full briefing, then we have a shut-up, lock-up planning session for a few days. Very well, then, Didburin, we’ll leave it at that for the moment. Nothing agreed to. Nothing to bind either of us. We’ll send for some more stock. Negotiate when that arrives.’
George closed his eyes in pain at that word. Stock! What a philistine this man was!
‘I’ll see Mr Didburin out while you start packing.’ Rosalind led the way hastily towards the front door. The men exchanged curt nods of farewell, then Paul ran up the stairs two at a time whistling under his breath, a busy, tuneless sound that meant he was already mentally far away.
As they walked into the hall Ned wondered how best to ask to see Jenny. Hearing footsteps, he glanced sideways and there she was. ‘Jenny, hi!’ he called, forgetting the others in his pleasure at meeting her again.
She had been deep in thought but smiled at the sight of him. ‘Ned! How nice to see you!’ He’d told her he might phone and she’d been hoping he would, because she was desperate to get out of the house and spend time with someone of her own age who was pleasant and uncomplicated. You could cut the atmosphere here with a knife since her father’s arrival.
Ned moved towards her, taking her hand, holding it in both his own. ‘I was going to phone you, then Father said he was coming over, so I tagged along. Your mother’s other embroideries are absolutely wonderful.’
Jenny beamed at him. ‘I hope you told Dad that.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated then whispered, ‘I don’t think he believed us, though. He started talking about “no discounts for quantity” and “not signing a contract” – that sort of thing.’
She began to look anxious, which was not what he’d intended.
‘But your mother stood up to him,’ Ned added hastily.
Her eyes were wide with what was surely disbelief. ‘She did?’
‘Well—’ He sighed. He didn’t want to lie to her. Not now, not ever. ‘Sort of. She slid sideways, so to speak, and managed to postpone a decision – on his part, not on hers or ours. We would definitely like to develop your mother as an artist and I think she’d like us to represent her.’
‘Dad won’t admit to himself how good she is.’
‘Well, luckily he got summoned to the phone and we were able to set the ground rules while he was out. My father has a top reputation in the trade. He’ll deal fairly with your mother, I promise you.’
She betrayed the same nervous embarrassment as her mother had. ‘Oh, I’m sure he will. It’s just – well, Dad might interfere.’
He saw his father and Mrs Stevenson watching them from the front door and got to the point. ‘Look, my father’s going to have lunch with Mrs Larcombe after this. He’s got a bit of a soft spot for her, values stuff for her every year for the fête, then has a post-mortem on prices afterwards. I wondered if you’d take pity on me and come out for a pub lunch or something while they’re nattering.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t know.’
‘Just to the pub and back,’ he urged gently. ‘You’ll be quite safe with me there.’
‘You – understand? It’s not you, it’s—’ Her voice trailed away and tears filled her soft blue eyes.
‘I can guess. A little.’ He laid one hand on his chest and put on a mock-solemn expression. ‘I promise you I’m trustworthy and reliable, Ms Stevenson. In fact, I can get references to that effect. In triplicate. Or centiplicate – if there is such a thing. I’ll take a lie detector test, too, if that helps.’
She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Now you’re being silly. All right. I’d love to come and have lunch with you. You go ahead and I’ll meet you there.’ She didn’t want her father interfering.
‘See you in half an hour, then, at the Destan Arms. Turn right when you come in from the car park.’
‘Lovely.’
She watched him stride along the drive. He seemed so nice and uncomplicated. Surely she wasn’t making a misjudgement this time?
‘What was all that about?’
Jenny jumped in shock and turned to see her mother smiling at her. She’d been miles away. ‘I’m going to have lunch with Ned at the pub.’
‘Good. He’s a nice boy. I like him.’
‘Boy? He’s not a boy. He’s—’ She broke off, realising how little she knew about him.
‘His father is a close friend of Harry’s, so I’m sure you’ll be safe with him.’
Jenny leant her head against her mother’s shoulder for a moment, in wordless acknowledgement of her understanding. Then she pulled away. ‘I’ve got to go and get ready. Come and help me choose something to wear.’
‘All right. But we’d better be quick. I have to do your father’s packing.’
The thought of Paul leaving filled Rosalind with relief. She’d never expected it to be so difficult to get on with him. He seemed much worse than usual. Had he changed so much in such a short time?
Or had she?
As she waved him off a short time later, worry and guilt sat heavily on her. But she didn’t intend to let him negotiate with George. Definitely not. She smiled faintly. And she hadn’t done too badly at standing up for herself – for a beginner. She would improve with practice. She was determined to.
And Paul would adjust too, learn that she wasn’t to be ordered around.
Surely he would?
Tim tried to phone his parents from a public phone in a large city, and the answerphone gave his grandmother’s number, so he phoned her instead. He was amazed when she told him his parents and sisters were in England, but delighted. It was so much closer and he could afford the air fare without having to beg help from his father.
When he got off the plane at Heathrow, he fretted his way through customs and then tried to vanish into the crowd as quickly as possible, because officials made him nervous. Not that he was carrying anything illegal. He wasn’t that stupid.
He had no luggage to collect, since he’d lost everything he’d taken to America except the passport and money he’d hidden in the cemetery. His hand luggage contained a change of underclothing, a couple of new T-shirts and basic toiletries.
He found his way to the coach station and bought a ticket to the nearest stop, then waited for the coach to leave, leaning against a wall, his head aching and that ever-present need for a fix gnawing at his belly.
I’m on the last stretch now, he told himself. I can hold out. Once I’m with Mum things will start to improve. He needed quite desperately to see her. And even if the old man was around, seeing him wouldn’t be a problem for long. It never was, because he rarely stayed for more than a day or two.
Rosalind dialled her mother’s number, delighted to hear Audrey’s voice. ‘Mum?’
‘Darling! I was just going to call you. How are you?’
‘I’m well. Mum, I’ve got such good news! An art dealer has bought one of my embroideries for over six hundred pounds. And it was quite a small one, too.’
‘Goodness!’
‘And – and he wants to see the rest of my work. He says he can sell them for me. He really likes them.’
‘Oh, Rosalind, I’m so happy for you! You have a real talent there and it deserves recognition.’
Rosalind beamed at the phone. ‘Could you go and get the rest of the finished embroideries from the attic for me and have them shipped out as soon as possible? You’ve got my credit card number. Use that to pay for them.’
‘Yes, of course I can. I’ll get John to help me.’ She took a quick decision. ‘Rosalind – I have some other news for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Tim did! Tim! Oh, Mum, is he all right? I’ve been so worried about him, absolutely frantic.’ Tears welled in her eyes. Paul refused point-blank to discuss their son, got angry if she so much as mentioned his name, but not mentioning Tim didn’t stop her worrying about him.
Audrey took a deep breath. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s in trouble.’
That didn’t surprise Rosalind. She’d felt for a while that something was wrong. She wondered sometimes if she was fooling herself when she got these premonitions, or if all mothers felt like that at times. ‘I wish I could see him.’
‘You can. He’s on his way to join you in England.’ She waited for an exclamation of pleasure, but there was nothing, no sound at all. Had they been cut off? ‘Rosalind? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, Mum. I just – I can’t help it. I – oh!’ She turned blindly to Louise, thrust the phone at her, then collapsed on the telephone seat, sobbing loudly. She’d been out of her mind with worry, but now she knew he was all right, it had all come bursting out. He was alive, her Tim was alive – and coming to join them in Burraford. Oh, it was the best news she’d had for a long time! The very best.
Louise held a short, excited conversation with her grandmother, then put the phone down and hovered beside her mother, who was still sobbing loudly. In the end, she couldn’t bear to see such pain, put one arm round the heaving shoulders and gave her mother a hug.
After a while, she coaxed her into the living room. ‘I’ll get you a cup of coffee, shall I?’
‘Tim will be all right now.’
‘Yes. I hope so. But it’s been so long. What has he been doing?’
When Louise set a mug down beside her mother, she, too, had suspiciously bright eyes. ‘I’ve missed him,’ she confessed, ‘and I’ve been worried about him, too.’
Then they both wept, putting their arms round one another and sobbing for ages. It didn’t occur to Rosalind until much later how close she’d felt to Louise at that moment. Or how much comfort her daughter had been to her, as if she were another adult, a friend.
She was deeply relieved Paul hadn’t been there to mock her foolishness – and that she would have Tim to herself for a while before her husband came back.
In the Destan Arms, Jenny and Ned chatted carefully, both feeling rather self-conscious. Neither paid much attention to the food, but each paid a lot of surreptitious attention to the other.
‘Would you like to come out with me one night?’ he asked. ‘For a meal or to the pictures – or they have some good shows at the theatre in Bournemouth sometimes? It’s not all that far to drive.’
‘I—’ The thought of going into Bournemouth at night with someone who was still a virtual stranger made her feel nervous, much as she liked Ned. ‘We could go out for a meal perhaps. Here? It’s a nice pub. Just – chat, get to know one another.’
‘Whatever you like, Jenny. Just as long as I can see you. How about tonight? In fact, let’s just stay here in this corner for the rest of the day.’
That made her chuckle and feel warm inside. ‘Are you sure about coming here? You’ll have to drive over from Dorchester again.’
‘It’ll be more than worth it to see you.’
She let him take her home, but didn’t invite him in.
And the news that was waiting for her inside made her feel even happier. Tim was safe! The three women opened a bottle of wine and drank to his health, not even waiting till the evening meal.
‘We’ll drink to your embroidery, too,’ Jenny said, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to my famous mother.’
‘To your embroidery, Mum!’ Louise echoed. She took only a small sip and put her hand across the top when Jenny tried to refill her glass. ‘Wine’s not good for the figure or for my fitness level.’ To her surprise, she was now enjoying the jogging.
‘We’re not going back to that dieting stuff again, are we?’ Rosalind asked with mock severity. ‘I don’t want a daughter who looks like a stick insect topped by a skull, thank you very much.’
The entente cordiale faded a little. Louise scowled at her mother. ‘What I want is—’
Rosalind stood up, her mood of euphoria evaporating suddenly and exhaustion setting in. She needed to be on her own now. ‘I don’t really care what you want, Louise. Other people have needs, even mothers, and it’s about time you noticed them. You don’t live in a vacuum, you know. You’re part of a family.’
Louise’s voice was aggressive. ‘Well, I don’t think—’
‘Your father’s left a long list of instructions about what you’re to do with yourself for the rest of the week. I’ve put it on your dressing table. I agree with him absolutely about the need to watch you carefully. I’ve been too soft with you in the past. I don’t feel quite as soft any more. You should understand that. Everyone should understand that.’
She saw them both staring at her in amazement, mouths gaping in shock. ‘I’m going up to my room now. I need a bit of peace and quiet. I don’t want disturbing unless it’s an emergency.’
The sisters exchanged glances as she walked out of the room.
‘He’s pretty rude to her sometimes,’ Jenny whispered, ‘but she’s learning how to fight back at last.’
‘He’s pretty rude to everyone. But that’s not my fault. And anyway, she should have stood up to him years ago.’
‘Oh, yes? Like you stood up to him when he found out about your cavorting?’
‘You just mind your own bloody business, Jenny Stevenson!’
Although the row was very loud indeed, their mother didn’t come down to stop the quarrelling, as she usually did.
And when the shouting had petered out and they’d both – separately – got themselves a cup of coffee, Louise looked upwards and asked, ‘Do you think she’s all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jenny remembered her mother kissing Jonathon Destan at the fête. They’d looked so right together, so tender. Suddenly she felt tired. Her mother wasn’t the only one who needed a bit of peace. ‘I think I’ll go up and get ready for Ned. He’ll be here soon.’
Louise was left with the television. And her own thoughts. Anger was still simmering inside her, but she didn’t dare poke her nose outside the house. Her father’s scribbled instructions had been very specific about that.
Here she was in England, but not where there was anything going on. No, she had to be stuck in the middle of nowhere being treated like a child. It wasn’t fair.
Then she brightened. But Tim was coming. Things would brighten up when he arrived. They always did. He’d work out a way to get round these stupid restrictions, though she might keep up with the running, persuade him to join in, even. Her body was getting firmer, developing quite a good shape, actually. She didn’t like to admit that her father was right about that, but he was, the bastard. She picked up the half-empty bottle of wine, pushed the cork in and put it in the fridge.
In her room, Rosalind shut her ears to the noise from below. To help her resist the urge to go down and tell them both off – which had never done any good in the past and wasn’t likely to do any good now – she went and got out her embroidery.
She sat for a moment or two staring at the pretty art nouveau scene, not really seeing anything, still trying to control the confusion inside her head. When she felt calmer, she put that piece away and took out the family portrait.
Concentrate on Life with a capital L, George Didburin had said. Well, this family portrait was no pretty scene. Her own figure with its wishy-washy pastels upset her – but it was true to life – or at least, true to what she had been for so long. Paul’s figure continued to disturb her.
She would never exhibit or sell this piece. It was for her and her alone, and it was going to reflect her whole life, which was turning out to be a failure in so many ways. When she saw it all more clearly, surely she’d know what to do about it.
Jenny, she thought. I’ll make a start on her figure today. She got out her family photos and the sketching materials, but ruined several drafts. The happy smiling girl in the photo wasn’t the Jenny of today or the younger Jenny of her memories. She closed her eyes, trying to visualise the figure she needed and suddenly realised how nervous her elder daughter often was. In fact, Jenny had always been slightly nervous of life.
Rosalind took out a fresh piece of paper and this time the sketch grew beneath her fingers like a thing alive in its own right. When she put her pencil down, she stared at it, knowing it was good, really good. Or it could be. But would she be able to translate the drawing into an embroidered figure? Well, she could only try. Carefully she cut the sketch out.
Now, where to put Jenny? As if of its own volition, the figure settled at the back of the scene, standing by itself. Only it was the wrong size to go there, so she took another piece of paper to sketch it smaller. Yes. That was right. Poor Jenny. As alone as her mother.
No, Rosalind frowned, Jenny hadn’t been quite alone. There had been the dog. Zip had been more Jenny’s than anyone’s, spending a lot of time cuddled up to her. She’d taken him for walks, fed him and looked after him very responsibly, even when she was quite small. And when Zip had died at the age of thirteen – why did dogs live for such a short time when they could be such a comfort to people? – there had been a cat because Paul had refused to have another dog. Sasha, the cat had been called. A nice creature, again devoted to Jenny.
Then Sasha had been killed by a car and Jenny had begged and pleaded for another dog. Paul had refused point-blank, even though it would hardly have affected him.
Guilt shot through Rosalind. I should have let Jenny have her dog, she thought, I really should. I was wrong. Paul wasn’t around half the time, even then. If we’d got a dog while he was away and presented him with a fait accompli, he’d not have been able to do anything about it.
Or would he? You never knew with Paul. He could be ruthless at times, not against her of course, but against other people. She frowned. No, she was fooling herself. He was ruthless with her, too – though he meant it for her own good. At least, she’d always believed he did. Now she was no longer sure of that.
Under her fingers – such clever fingers tonight – Zip took shape, almost as big as Jenny because that was how he came out, and then the cat, slightly smaller than the other two, but certainly not cat size. They’d been such a comfort to Jenny, those animals. It was right to show them larger than life. And all three of them were looking away from Paul. Funny, that.
But Rosalind had come to believe lately that her needle didn’t lie, so she didn’t attempt to change the figures.
She knew it would upset Jenny if she saw this portrait – well, it hurt Rosalind to do it – but she continued working. She heard Jenny call farewell and go out with Ned. She heard the television blaring from downstairs. When Louise came up to bed, calling out goodnight, she answered, but didn’t go out to see her.
Later Jenny came home, humming as she ran upstairs. She hesitated outside her mother’s workroom, but went to bed without coming in. Which suited Rosalind at the moment.
The house fell silent. She didn’t go downstairs, because she wasn’t hungry. For some reason she was consumed by impatience to get the figure done. At one point she got herself a drink of water from the bathroom, but continued sewing until her eyes grew too tired to focus. And by that time, the essence of Jenny had been captured.
Only then did she go to bed, feeling drained and sad. Her last stray threads of conscious thought were of her son. She hoped Tim would turn up soon. Even if it did add to the discord in the house. He’d never been easy to deal with but she had to see for herself that he was all right. Not until then would she be able to do his picture.
And if necessary she’d find a way to keep Paul off their son’s back. She must learn to stand up for her children, as well as herself.