The Way We Were by Marcia Willett Page A

she came back into the kitchen.
    â€˜Everything OK?’ she asked brightly. She saw Pete's grin and bit her lip. ‘Pour Liv a drink,’ she said. And I'll get supper.’
    â€˜Thanks, Dad. Not too full; I'm driving, remember. Well.’ Liv took a deep breath. ‘Matt's got a new project and he'd like my help but it's a big secret at the moment so my lips are sealed.’
    â€˜Fine,’ said Julia with determined cheerfulness. ‘Did I tell you that we're planning a trip to Hampshire? We're wondering whether to take Frobes with us this time. What do you think?’
    Behind Liv's unsuspecting head Pete silently applauded Julia's restraint. Grinning broadly, he picked up his glass and toasted her. She burst out laughing and Liv raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜What's the joke?’ she asked.
    â€˜Nothing,’ replied Julia. ‘Just your father being a twit. We were remembering when Zack was younger and he used to call us Dumb and Mad just to annoy. We can hardly believe he's about to become dad himself.’
    â€˜Time is an illusion,’ said Pete. ‘Have a drink, Liv, and tell us about the latest goings-on in the Penharrow soap opera. But don't raise your voice. Frobes is feeling particularly sensitive this evening.’
    1976
    Spring comes to the peninsula once, twice, three times: each time, just when it seems that the winter is over at last, the warm sunshine and soft winds retreat before cold wet weather that races in from the west. The obliterating silvery-grey curtain can be seen approaching from a great distance, blotting out hills and valleys and familiar landmarks, swallowing up sunny sweeps of moorland and little fields, until, with an ominous rattle of the windows and the vicious spatter of rain against the window, the storm is upon them, sending Julia dashing out to bring in the washing, Tiggy to gather up Charlie and the dogs, whilst the twins collect their toys and carry them indoors.
    Then, between one day and the next, spring finally arrives. Deep drifts of bluebells scent the woods on the road to St Tudy, blackthorn hedges in full bridal blossom bank the small scrubby fields and, up on the moors where Tiggy walks, skylarks fly up from the wet grass before her feet and the clear air is filled with their song. High on Alex Tor, watching the dogs racing in and out of the rocks in their eternal quest for rabbits, Tiggy mentally composes and recomposes a letter to her grandmother. They speak from time to time on the telephone but, though she always likes to hear about Julia and the children, she refuses to accept Tiggy's thanks for the very generous presents of money that she sends regularly to her granddaughter.
    â€˜I haven't anything else to give,’ she says shortly, ‘and I don't need it. At least it's something I can give you. Just take care of yourself, darling, and give my love to dear Julia.’
    Each time, Tiggy screws herself up to the point when she might tell her grandmother the truth but each time her courage deserts her.
    â€˜She thinks I'm here because you need help with the children and that I needed a change after Tom,’ she tells Julia. ‘She lives so much out of the world that I don't imagine she thought about what would have actually been involved if I'd really just chucked up my job mid-term. She hasn't a clue, really. After all, she's in her eighties and she lives a very secluded life. Everything changed when Grandfather died, you see. He left the whole estate to my father and, since his marriage to Giselle, Grandmother rarely sees him. Grandmother simply doesn't get on with Giselle. She can't see why my father had to get married again, especially to a foreigner. And she tells me that Jean-Paul is a horrid little boy and she can't stand him, either. It's a disaster, really. My father can't turn her out but she feels she's there on sufferance and she hales it.’
    â€˜Couldn't she find a little place of her own?’ Julia