Separate Beds by Elizabeth Buchan

Author:Elizabeth Buchan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Adult
Published: 2010-08-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Hermione did not settle into the family easily. The night wakings were frequent and she quickly developed a habit of ringing the hand-bell and demanding of whoever answered it a cup of coffee, a book, help with some task or other.

Added to which the weather remained cool and resolutely unsunny, and the days slid towards July without respite from the dullness. Annie wore a jacket to work and there had been several pleas at number twenty-two for the central heating to be switched on in the evenings. ‘No,’ said budget-conscious Annie. Tom had looked at her quizzically but said nothing.

He didn’t appear to understand the panic, approaching desperation, that had crept into Annie’s almost daily tallying of the accounts. Of course, they were not destitute – like so many – but they were stretched. One day, it might be to breaking point. She would have liked to talk over her worries with Tom and for him to say, ‘You’re overreacting,’ but their habit of reserve was too entrenched.

It was raining determinedly when a dripping Annie returned from work one evening. ‘What an awful June it’s been.’ She dumped her briefcase on a kitchen chair, peeled off her damp outer things and brushed down her plain cotton skirt.

Untidy it might be, but the kitchen was warm, the table laid – albeit in a manner that suggested haste rather than thought – and something was cooking. Annie brightened.

Tom wheeled round from the stove. ‘Surprise,’ he said. He moved over to the counter and began to chop cabbage with enthusiastic slashes.

Still in her office clothes, a cheerful-looking Emily searched in the cupboard by the back door, which served as a general dumping ground. ‘Aha.’ She extracted a carrier bag filled with old toys and games. ‘Got it.’

Jake lounged against the dresser, the tell-tale anguish in his eye that indicated a bad day. Annie averted her gaze. If only she could help his suffering and take it on herself. But the time when it was possible to mend a child’s broken heart with a cupcake, a hug, or a well-aimed swipe of her mother tiger’s paw at an enemy had gone.

She shook out her hair and sprayed raindrops. ‘What surprise?’

Whipping open the smaller of the two ovens, Tom produced a maiolica plate (much loved and bought in Siena) piled high with mash into which he had stuck sausages.

‘Wonderful.’ Annie instructed herself to concentrate on the surprise, and not on the treasured maiolica that might, at any second, crack from the heat of the oven.

Instead she kissed Jake, relishing the faintest whiff of the cedars of Lebanon, apple wood, olive wood, all the poetry and romance of wood that she fancied hung over him. ‘Maisie OK?’

Jake pressed down affectionately on her shoulders. ‘Sleeping like … well, she’s sleeping like a baby.’

Smiling, Annie turned to Emily and kissed her. ‘What are you doing with all that stuff?’

Emily submitted to the embrace. ‘Wait and see.’ Then she said, ‘Mum, are you going to leave your hair like that?’

‘Oh, God.

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