Free A Song of Sixpence by A. J. Cronin Page A

What a triumph for the Carrolls.
    â€˜Oh, we mustn’t, Con,’ Mother said suddenly. ‘Think of poor Maggie. You know, all the time I was playing, somehow at the back of my mind I felt I was doing it for her.’
    We walked back together under the shining moon, Mother and Father arm in arm, talking, talking as though they would never stop, but I did not feel jealous or that I was at all excluded, for Mother with her free hand had found mine and snuggled it into the pocket of her coat. There she held it cosily, all the way home.
    How bright the moon was, how clear and high. And our star, the Carroll lucky star, was rising too, yes, rising again, clear and high, to join the galaxy above.

Chapter Seven
    The next day was Sunday and, perhaps in a spirit of thanks-giving, we went to Mass at Drinton, coming home to a late and rather special lunch of roast duck followed by the trifle, with crystallized cherries and whipped cream, that Mother made so well. In the dwindling winter afternoon, after Father had had a nap, Mother suggested a stroll along the shore. The golden aura of yesterday still lingered about her and, in addition, a kind of happy languor which, from the dreamy reminiscent glances she directed towards him, I somehow associated with the attentions of Father. Already I had begun to sense the strong physical attraction that existed between my parents which in the beginning, overcoming every conceivable obstacle, had brought them together almost from different worlds and which now endured in a close responsive union. In later years, when I came to read the records of other childhoods so often marred by constant parental strife, by conjugal incompatibility and mutual hatred, I became more fully aware that in their marriage my mother and father were uniquely fortunate. Although there were sudden minor storms, provoked by Father’s quick temper, they never lasted more than a few hours and ended in spontaneous reconciliation. And always between them, even in their silences, there existed a mutual understanding that made my home a safe, warm place in an often threatening world.
    This feeling was palpably in the air as, having been to Geddes Point, in the direction opposite to Rosebank, which for reasons I dimly glimpsed Mother always shunned, we were returning slowly through a soft mist gathering on the dead, deserted estuary. The air was so still that the sob of the tide came like the faint echo from some distant sea-shell. Mother idled in front, accompanied by Darkie, the Snodgrass farm cat, which often attached itself to her on these excursions. Father and I had fallen some paces behind, competing in a game of ‘skiffers’ and being cautioned, though indulgently, by Mother for our shouts as we counted the skiffs when the flat stones, smoothly polished by endless tides, went skimming and leaping over the calm grey water.
    Suddenly, as he threw, Father gave a short wincing cough, straightened, and put his handkerchief to his face. I looked up in surprise, then, with the air of making an announcement, called out importantly:
    â€˜Father’s nose is bleeding!’
    Mother turned round. I saw her expression change. I saw too that the handkerchief was covering Father’s mouth. Mother came near.
    â€˜Conor, it’s your cough.’
    â€˜It’s nothing.’ He had moved the handkerchief and was staring almost stupidly at a small scarlet stain. ‘ Only a spot. I must just have strained myself.’
    â€˜But you coughed,’ she persisted, in concern. ‘You must sit down and rest.’
    â€˜It’s nothing. Just a stitch in my side.’ By way of evidence he produced a very slight artificial cough. ‘See, it’s all gone.’
    Mother made no answer. Her lips came together in a manner more determined than submissive, and as we resumed our way, though she glanced at Father from time to time, there was no languor in her eyes, and her silence persisted until we