'Don't apologise,' she said. 'I'm glad to see you do have some affection for them.'
'Scold!' he said mockingly.
Within minutes of climbing into bed she was asleep.
She was awoken by the arrival of Robin and Donna on her stomach. Giving a suffocating cry, she heaved them off and sat up, gathering them into her arms. Donna came eagerly, Robin with reluctance.
'Tracy's cooking breakfast,' said Robin. 'Get up.'
'Tracy?' She looked in alarm at her alarm clock. It showed the ghastly hour of seven. She had set it for seven-thirty. That had seemed an unearthly hour the night before. At this moment she longed for another hour of sleep. 'What about your uncle?'
'He's gone,' Robin said cheerfully. 'To see a sick cow. He wouldn't take me with him.'
'Up,' said Donna, patting Emma's cheek with her hand.
'You two go down to breakfast. I'll follow.' Emma crawled out of bed and surveyed the morning with a jaundiced eye, then went into the bathroom. She felt much better after she had splashed her face with cold water and cleaned her teeth. Dressed, she surveyed the view from her window, and was very impressed.
The house lay in a leafy hollow below a hilly wood. The garden was entirely surrounded by hedges more than six foot high. Within this irregular boundary lay lawns, apple trees, vegetable garden, flower beds and a couple of casually placed garden seats. The arrangement was informal, flowing. It almost appeared as if the garden had just grown haphazardly, without previous planning—a flower bed here, a tree there—little narrow mossy paths running between them all, winding in and out, round and round. Shrubs and low stone walls made little secret places in and out of which hopped garden birds; sparrows in demure grey and beige, bluetits, bright and darting, robins whose red waist-coats attracted the eye, chaffinch, starling, thrush and blackbird. An enormous marmalade cat sunned itself on a low shed roof, keeping an interested eye on the bird life but without the energy, apparently, to do anything about it.
'Come on!' Tracy yelled up the stairs.
Emma laughed and ran down to join the children. Tracy had cooked porridge, stickily bubbling in a big copper pan. Robin was busily making lakes and islands in his bowl. Donna was looking mutinous.
'She hates porridge,' said Tracy. 'But it's good for her.' She said it with a prim little glance which made Emma grin.
'What you dislike is never good for you,' she said, removing Donna's bowl. 'How about a boiled egg, Donna?'
'Yeth, pleathe.'
'Yes, please,' Tracy reminded her bossily.
Donna ignored her. 'Negg,' she said. 'Nice negg…'
Tracy sat down sulkily. 'Mummy makes porridge,' she said.
'She doesn't make Donna eat it,' said Robin disinterestedly.
Tracy stuck her tongue out at him. 'My porridge was lovely,' she said. 'Eat it…' poking him in the ribs.
Emma tasted the porridge with a bright smile. It was rather like wet cement. She smiled at Tracy. 'You're a very good cook, Tracy, for a seven-year-old. Wait until I tell your mummy how helpful you've been.'
'She made us get up,' said Robin. 'Am I getting an egg? This porridge is sticking my teeth together.'
'All right,' Tracy shouted. 'Don't eat it. I don't care!'
When the eggs were ready Emma gave Tracy a thoughtful look. The little girl was valiantly attempting to finish her own large bowl of porridge, but the effort was clearly reflected in her face. A grim expression, gritted teeth, a clenched jaw…
'Good heavens, you mustn't eat as much porridge as that,' Emma said lightly. 'You won't have room for an egg.' She whisked the half-full bowl away and replaced it by a brown egg in a yellow egg-cup. Tracy gave an involuntary sigh of relief, then pretended hurriedly to be reluctant to make the exchange. She was, Emma saw, a child with whom losing face could spell disaster.
When they had all finished breakfast, Emma sent them out to play in the garden while she washed up. Tracy's offer of help was gently refused. Tactfully, Emma explained, 'I need you to keep an eye on the two little ones.'
Tracy self-importantly nodded and shepherded them out. Robin gave Emma a sidelong, almost adult wink. Emma stifled a giggle. Robin was a very unusual little boy, she thought—oddly clearheaded for a four-year-old. He had a habit of putting his finger on a situation in a few crisp words. She wondered what sort of man he would grow up into.
Later, she joined them, wearing a pleated tartan skirt, light woollen sweater in a pale lemon shade and a pair of sturdy leather walking shoes. 'We'll make a tour of exploration, shall we?' she asked the children.
They shouted with glee and began to run ahead towards the gate. The grass was already littered with windfalls from the mossy apple trees. Robin bent, picked up one of them; a large russet, encrusted with greeny-grey mould on the side which had rested nearest the wet grass, chuckled and flung it haphazardly over the hedge.
Idly, they all watched it disappear. Then, to Emma's horror, an enraged cry arose from behind the hedge. Robin, giving her an alarmed glance, scuttled behind her skirt.