Homework by Margot Livesey

slunk in at his heels and was immediately ejected by Stephen.
    â€œCheers,” Edward said, when we each had a drink. The whiskey made my throat catch, and I struggled not to cough. Stephen smiled. “I should have warned you how strong a drink my father pours.”

    â€œIs it too strong?” Edward began to get to his feet.
    â€œNo, no, it’s just what I need to warm me up.” Edward settled back in his seat, and Stephen gave me a wink.
    Â 
    Next morning after breakfast, Stephen and his father disappeared up the garden to the old stone building, once a stable, which Edward used as a workshop. I found Joyce bustling around the kitchen.
    â€œDo you want some coffee?” she asked.
    â€œYes, please. Is there something I can do to help?”
    â€œKeep me company.”
    I sat down at the far end of the table and watched while she measured flour into a bowl, threw in a pinch of salt, and poured in the foaming yeast. I was reminded of the many occasions when I had sat watching my aunt Ruth; she too was an energetic cook. “Are you making bread?” I asked.
    â€œYes. There is a bakery in the village, but when I’ve time I like to make my own. I’m sorry that Jenny couldn’t come with you. I suppose it didn’t suit Helen.” She was looking down into the bowl, slowly stirring the ingredients together, and I could only guess at her expression.
    â€œI don’t think it was really Helen’s decision. Jenny already had various plans for the weekend. I never knew how many social engagements a nine-year-old could have. She was very disappointed.”
    â€œOh, well,” said Joyce, sounding brisk again. “Next time we’ll manage things better.”
    The kettle came to the boil. She made us two cups of Nescafé and began to beat the dough with a large wooden spoon. “I don’t know if Stephen’s told you, but when Jenny was a baby she spent a lot of time with us. Helen didn’t want to leave her with strangers, and she and Stephen were both working. Now we hardly ever see her. I used to telephone once a week, but Helen made me feel as if I was intruding.”
She gave the dough a final stir and scraped the spoon. “She doesn’t seem to understand that we’re still Jenny’s grandparents.”
    A movement outside the window caught my eye. On the bird table a female blackbird was pecking at a heel of bread. Joyce emptied the bowl onto a floured board. With her short, rather broad fingers, she began to knead the dough, flattening it out and folding it up again, gradually rendering the mixture more and more elastic, as she waited for a sign that the magic expansion of the yeast was safely under way.
    â€œI worry,” she said, “that if Helen decided to move away, we might never see Jenny again. Sometimes I lie awake, I feel so helpless. Edward says that the situation will get easier as Jenny gets older, and I’m sure that’s true, if she still wants to see us.” Joyce sighed.
    I did not know what to say, but I could not help feeling a flicker of pleasure, both at Joyce’s criticisms of Helen and at the approval of me that voicing them implied. She punched the dough a few more times and rolled it into a ball, which she nestled carefully in a large china bowl. Her actions covered my silence. As she placed the bowl on the stove and draped a blue tea towel over it, there was a gentle knocking.
    â€œHere’s Raven,” Joyce said. Wiping her hands on her apron, she went to answer the door and returned followed by a small boy, who padded behind her in his stocking feet. “Raven, this is Celia. She’s a friend of Stephen’s.”
    â€œHello, Raven.”
    â€œHello. I live next door.” To my surprise he came over and held out his hand for me to shake. “Is Jenny here?” he asked. He remained standing, as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.
    â€œI’m afraid she