Free Holding On by Marcia Willett

finished at school. Things’ll be changing now and no mistake.’
    â€˜It won’t be much of a change,’ said Caroline soothingly, slicing the first picking of runner beans as she sat at the table. ‘Going to college in Bristol isn’t too different from being at school, you know. The term times and holidays will be much the same. There will be cases to pack and all the problems of getting her to and fro. And Mole won’t be going to sea for another two years. He’ll have fourth-year courses after Dartmouth. It’s only Fliss, really.’
    Ellen put a tray of scones in the oven and sat down in the rocking chair. ‘I’m getting old and foolish,’ she admitted. ‘That’s what. I don’t know what’s come over me and that’s a fact.’
    Caroline was silent. Slicing the beans neatly into a colander she reflected that some sort of change had certainly affected Ellen. Hitherto it had been she who was the strong one: acerbic, sharp, keeping them on their toes. Negativity had never been one of Ellen’s faults.
    Caroline thought: It is as if she has a kind of premonition which is depressing her spirits.
    â€˜It gets me here,’ cried Ellen miserably, striking her breast, unconsciously corroborating Caroline’s thoughts. ‘Like a heavy weight it is. Painful. And don’t tell me it’s indigestion.’
    Caroline was unable to control a little smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she said gently. ‘Who said it might be?’
    â€˜That Fox,’ said Ellen grimly. ‘Should’ve known better than to tell him. Never get no sympathy from a man, that’s my experience. Like babies they are, when they have a twinge of something but as to anyone else having something wrong . . .’ she sniffed expressively.
    â€˜He’s worried about you,’ explained Caroline. ‘He was hoping to cheer you up, I expect.’
    Ellen rocked glumly. She wasn’t accustomed to analysing her thoughts. In her view thinking or talking about yourself too much was simply self-indulgence and should not be encouraged, but just lately she seemed quite incapable of rising above this terrible depression. It occurred to her that she might simply be feeling the lowness of knowing that she was beginning to be useless. Caroline had taken over so much of the burden of her work that she was hardly needed, and now, with the children leaving home, there would be even fewer calls on her energy. Fox, she knew, had already come to terms with this. She remembered how restless and unhappy he had been at first, yet he had been able to accept it with a kind of grace which she was beginning truly to appreciate. He pottered about, finding small jobs and making himself as useful as his knotted hands and painful joints would allow, and for the rest of it he took his ease calmly, refusing to make a martyr of himself, which would have irritated those around him.
    â€˜At least I have my health,’ she said – and realised that she had spoken aloud.
    â€˜And a great many other things, too,’ agreed Caroline. ‘No one makes scones and sponges like you do, Ellen, or bramble jelly. And you’ve a much lighter hand with the pastry than I have. Just because the children won’t be around quite so much doesn’t mean that the rest of us have to go hungry. You’ll still have five people to feed.’
    â€˜Talking of which,’ said Ellen more cheerfully, ‘that sponge will be ready to ice. Now where did I put the sieve . . .’
    â€˜Baker’s here.’ Fox put his head round the door. ‘Wants to know if you need extra.’
    â€˜Money,’ said Ellen, distracted from the sponge. ‘Where’s the tin? How much is it? And that’s another thing. All these silly bits of money. Decimalisation indeed. Whatever next, I wonder. Here, let me have a word with him . . .’
    â€˜She do be looking a bit