The Prodigal Wife

The Prodigal Wife Read Free

Book: The Prodigal Wife Read Free
Author: Marcia Willett
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which was covered with computer printouts, articles snipped from newspapers and journals, reference books. Wandering between the kitchen and the study, mug of coffee in hand, she was just getting the first sentence of her piece into her head: ‘Charteris Soke in Frampton Parva is the only house of its kind known to exist this far south.’ Pause there. Was she absolutely certain that this was true? Well, that could be thoroughly checked later. Now. Should it be ‘ delightful Charteris Soke’? Or ‘ charming Charteris Soke’? Either adjective seemed overused; dull. Anyway, follow that with a bit about what a soke actually is. Cordelia riffled about for a relevant piece of paper, checked the dictionary definition of soke or soc : the right to hold a local court; or the territory under the jurisdiction of a particular court. She studied the photographs of the little ancient manor house – the shape of the piece was gradually forming – and then her mobile phone shrieked again in the bowels of the kitchen and she put down the coffee mug and ran out into the passage, finally snatching the phone up from beneath the pile of newspapers on the kitchen table.
    â€˜Hi,’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Hello? Are you still there? Oh, Henrietta. Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was too late and you’d hung up. Did you get my text to say that I was back? How’s it going? Are you settling in?’
    â€˜I’m fine, Mum. Yes, I got your text. Everything’s fine. Look, I just thought I’d check with you. I’ve had this message on the answerphone from someone called Joe who wants to drop in later and who obviously knows Roger and Maggie very well, so I’m wondering if there might be a naval connection. I feel I recognize the voice. Do we know someone called Joe? My generation, not yours. Does it ring any bells?’
    â€˜Jo.’ Cordelia cast about amongst her large circle of naval friends and acquaintances. ‘Jo. That’s short for Joanna, I suppose, or Josephine…’
    â€˜No, no. Sorry. This is a man not a girl.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Cordelia revised her ideas. ‘Joe. Right. Joseph. No, I can’t think of a Joe offhand.’
    â€˜Me neither. Only the voice sounds familiar. Never mind. Are you OK?’
    â€˜Fine. Wrestling with that piece for Country Illustrated . Sure you don’t want some company? It must be so odd to be suddenly set down in the middle of rural Somerset with nothing but Maggie’s menagerie for company after the house in London with Susan and…with Susan and the children. I could come over if you’re feeling lonely. Or we could meet in Taunton for a spot of retail therapy.’
    â€˜Honestly, I’m fine. Really. And anyway, you’re obviously in the middle of your article. I’ll let you know who Joe is later on. ’Bye.’
    Cordelia went back to her study, her mind all over the place, completely distracted. Had there been a veiled criticism there? You’re obviously in the middle of your article . Love for her daughter filled her, along with anxiety and compassion and guilt, especially guilt: all the emotions guaranteed to quench any creative flow. She fiddled about, tidying papers, closing books and putting them back on shelves, sipping at the lukewarm coffee whilst a question she’d heard recently on a radio programme nibbled at her thoughts.
    Are we the first generation to need to be friends with our children?
    Well, are we? She thought about her own parents: caring but detached. None of this emotional soul-baring for them; no in-depth discussions of their offsprings’ feelings or needs. She could well remember her father’s reaction to her own separation and subsequent divorce, his expression of shock fading into distaste when she told him that Simon was leaving her.
    â€˜Another woman, I suppose. No, I don’t want the sordid details. I can only say that I’m glad

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