The Way We Were Read Online Free PDF Page B

early years of marriage, almost smothering him with thankfulness for loving her. Her own lonely, loveless childhood hadn't prepared her for Archie's brand of generous affection. Even after their relationship had settled into the normal pattern of a naval marriage – periods of separation punctuated by leaves and the occasional shore job – the joy of loving and receiving love had been tinged with anxiety. She'd settled into the routine but, despite her natural self-reliance that carried her through the long periods of loneliness, she'd still looked to Archie to fill that aching need for family, especially when it became agonizingly clear that they would have no children of their own. She'd wailed eagerly for his retirement, when they would spend time together; the long, lonely hours would be filled with companionship, that tiny aching need would be satisfied and she'd be content at last.
    She'd learned, however, that contentment was not something that could be supplied by other people: it couldn't be grappled with and twisted to her need. On the contrary; she'd realized that it was achieved only by letting go; by accepting that she could not control Archie or force him into the pattern she wanted him to fit.
    It was when she and Archie had moved from Trescairn to the cottage that she'd taken up a long-abandoned hobby. She'd unearthed her painting equipment, made a space for herself in the small spare bedroom and, once she'd proved to herself that she was still able to produce an adequate watercolour, she'd joined the local art class. One of the members was a retired art master from Truro who was glad to share his experience with the group, and Em enjoyed these sessions and the painting expeditions to Padstow to sketch the fishing boats in the harbour or to the Jubilee Rock to attempt to capture the golden flowering furze. She'd bought a small rucksack to hold her paintbox and a few brushes, along with a bottle of water to clean them, and a pad of watercolour paper. On such mornings, she'd make sandwiches and a Thermos of tea, pack a waterproof jacket and set off for a happy day sketching and painting. Sometimes the group would pay for a professional artist to give them an inspiring demonstration and celebrate it with a small party to which they'd all contribute some delicious teatime treat and a little gift for a lucky dip. It was fun, and Em liked her fellow artists; it was her own special thing and Archie encouraged her in it.
    He'd been impressed by her work and had persuaded her to submit a painting for auction at a fund-raising event for the RNLI. When it was knocked down at forty-five pounds Em was shocked into silence whilst Archie was openly jubilant.
    â€˜It's simply because it's for charity,’ shed said on the drive home from Padstow. ‘Forty-five pounds . Madness!’
    â€˜Not a bit of it,’ crowed Archie delightedly. ‘You had those ponies off to a T. And the clouds massing just behind the Tor. It was excellent. I wish we'd kept it. And to think I never knew you had all this talent.’
    â€˜Nonsense.’ muttered Em.
    A few days later she'd been approached by a local architect who asked her to design a Christmas card for his company.
    â€˜It's just because he's one of your cronies,’ she'd said uncertainly to Archie. ‘I haven't got the nerve to design a Christmas card.’
    â€˜It's nothing to do with me,’ Archie had replied. ‘He loved your painting and he thinks you've got talent. Have a crack at it.’
    Nervously she'd made a sketch of Delford Bridge under snow, with a dipper perched on a boulder mid-stream, and washed it with soft colours of blue and grey. It was delicate, charming, and though she was privately pleased with it she was sick with anxiety lest it should be rejected. The architect had loved it, insisting on paying her for the original, which he'd had framed and hung in his office. She had felt a little thrill of pride; her small skill