In some ways, Leanne supposed,
she would have had a childhood that was better than the ones her children would
ever have. They would never have want for food and shelter, betterment of the
mind, or the balanced sensibility that came with careful culture. They had the
luxuries they needed, and whatever ones her husband could provide for them
beside. Indeed, their gowns, and toys and books were gifts given only in
stories in her childhood. All the same, she could not wonder, but for all the
hunger, and cold winters, and thirsting summers, if it was worth giving up all
the little wonders too. One of her favourite memories, often visited in times
of grief or homesickness, was of the county fair that once had run late, into
the wet month of August. The ground had been a squelchy sop of brown leaf
litter, manure and mud instead of its usual sawdust. The sky had been a steely
grey, pregnant with storm clouds. The usually bright cobblestones of the town
square had been washed to a dull brown. But even so, the rain was not like the
rain they had now, sheeting waves of it flattening grass and tree, washing
clear the fields and drowning out the landscape.
After the rains, grasses that had
dried in the summer heat and withered with the first frosts of autumn had once
again peaked green shoots through the cracks of the stones underfoot. It was
like spring come again, and even in the rain, the village had danced in the
square, splashing in time to the tinkering of bells and toot of trumpets. The
air had smelt earthy, the rain refreshing, and the hot bowls of soup around the
bonfire at the end of the night so much warmer than the brightest blazing
ingle. When the sun finally cracked through the clouds on the last day, the
evening light slanting through the western woods had set the glimmering,
quivering dew that showered the fair on fire. It was decades since Leanne had last seen a
fair, and she wondered if she would ever see one again. Everyone had told her
that her children would be much happier now in this new world of theirs, strangers
to poverty, strangers to envy, enemies of exuberant excess. However, a part of
her mourned for the fact that her girls would never know to clasp that first jewelled
brooch from a lover just above the heart or that her boys would never know the
nervousness of that first gift giving. They had told her it was better this way,
but she had never been convinced. The orderly parade of small children clad in
grey woollen stockings trudging wetly through the streets only added to her
doubts. Leanne bustled towards the linen cupboards- time to lay down some
pre-emptive towels before childish boot-prints covered her newly varnished
floors.
The children came in dripping and
muddy from ankle down, and one by one were ushered directly to baths. Despites their
best efforts, no amount of oilskin cloaks could keep out the rain, and so, many
people had abandoned the effort entirely. Everywhere, the smell of wet wool.
Leanne had tried everything from scented sandalwood to orange flower, with no
luck, and in the end, had simply resorted to confining wool to the back of the
house, a little more firewood, and layers of linen and furs inside the house
instead. God, she really hoped Adam could bring back some soft leather, or
cotton this time. The smell of sheep had begun to ingrain itself into her skin,
until even veal had begun to taste like mutton. When each child had been
rinsed, scrubbed, dried and dressed, she had set the table with Harriet, the
cook, who loaded a huge steaming bowl of beef stew into the centre. No one took
note of the empty chair at the head of the table, and the symphonic clatter of
cutlery against tableware began. Even now, Leanne marvelled at the ability of
such a simple affair as supper to descend into an utter cacophony in a matter
of moments, should her attention ever lapse. The children were so engrossed in
attacking the stew, that at first, not one noticed that someone new was
muddying the rug in front of their door.
‘Father!’
It was Mia, as always, who
spotted him first, dripping in an oiled overcoat, face wound in a scarf and
shaded by a broad hat. But there was no mistaking the hunch of the broad
shoulders, the set of the deep blue eyes or the wild wave of blue-black hair of
Leanne’s husband. In a few frenzied seconds, the table had been abandoned and
the family clamoured around him. Only Jun hovered at a respectable distance,
regarding his father with keen observation. The two twins, Polly and Cass, had
attached themselves, with their white smocks, to their father’s knees. Mia was
dragging him by the arm to the table, while helping him pull off the hat and
cloak. Cook Harriet had pulled off his boots and set them by the fire to dry
while old grandmother Kat tottered towards her usual place by the fire to
folder her son into her frail arms.
For Leanne, she was content just
to watch their table be completed for the first time in months.
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