Reg snorted. ‘Don’t talk daft. I need someone who can go out and get me stories.’
‘Tony can write those pieces, but there’s plenty I could do. Half of what goes in the mag is from desk research alone. Charlie can fetch me books from the library when I get too big to go. It would help supplement his wage, and I’d love to stay involved.’
‘You think like that now, when you’ve not got a bairn demanding your constant attention. I’m sorry, Bobby, but you won’t be able to have everything. That’s just the way things are.’
‘I don’t want everything. I just want…’ She sighed. ‘I just want a bit of what you have – what men have. Something to do with my brain between changing the baby and cooking the dinner. The ability to earn by doing what I’m good at. Is that really too much to expect?’
‘Should’ve thought about what you had the right to expect before you were expecting,’ Reg told her shortly. ‘You really think that when you’ve been up five or six times in the night, cooking and cleaning all day on a few hours’ sleep, you’ll want to sit down and write me a piece on drystone walling?’
‘You might at least try me. If I produce shoddy work, I promise there’ll be no hard feelings about terminating the arrangement. But I’m sure I could find a way to make it work – I’m sure of it, Reg.’ She met his eyes. ‘Just think about it.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Bobby. You can work next week to get everything finished off, then that’s an end on it.’
‘Why not, though? You used to think a woman couldn’t make it as a reporter out here, until I proved you wrong. You said yourself it had forced you to change your ideas. Why can’t you change your ideas about this? I just want to do something that matters with my life, the same as you did when you started the mag.’
Reg lifted an eyebrow. ‘Raising the next generation don’t matter?’
‘I mean something that matters to me, as a person in my own right.’ Bobby pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound impatient. It’s just frustrating that something has to be done a particular way solely because that’s how it always has been done.’
‘Oh, shoo, dog,’ Reg said, rebuffing Winnie as she attempted to snuffle in his pockets. ‘What worries me isn’t doing things the way they’ve always been done. What worries me, lass, is you.’
Bobby blinked. ‘Me?’
‘Aye. So eager to be always working, working, working. You’ll never be a mam first and foremost while your mind’s half on your job. A wife and mother has her own work to do and it’s not writing ruddy articles.’
‘Yes, but—’
He patted her arm. ‘Look, I’m not saying I aren’t sorry to lose you. You’re a damn good writer. Happen in fifteen year or so, when your bairns can fend for themselves, you might put your hand to summat. But I’m sorry: it’s time now to think of your family.’
Chapter 23
Bobby felt solemn after her conversation with Reg. She had known what answer he would give, but still she had harboured a hope she might change his mind. Now she had to accept that her association with the magazine she loved was really, finally coming to an end.
There was a loud hum of chatter from the kitchen when she and Reg emerged into the hall. It sounded as though the Parry-Scott-Atherton clan had at last absorbed the happy news that their ranks were about to swell by two brides and a baby. Bobby could make out the excited voices of Jess and Florrie, subjecting Charlie to a barrage of questions.
‘And will the baby like drawings?’ Florrie was asking.
‘I should think so,’ Charlie answered.
‘And hens?’ Jess demanded.
‘Tell you what, Jess. Make me a list and I’ll wire the stork asking him to make sure we get one that meets all your requirements, all right?’ Charlie said with a laugh. Bobby smiled.
Reg pressed her arm kindly. ‘Try not to take it too hard, lass. You’ve got better things in your life now than my daft old magazine. Come and celebrate with your family. I’ll send Scott to the pub for a jug or two of summat for us.’
‘Yes.’ Bobby roused herself. ‘In a moment. I told my dad I’d meet him over the way.’
‘Don’t be long, eh? And bring Rob back with you. Hard to celebrate when we’re missing a groom.’
In the cow house, Bobby found her father sitting by the unlit fire with a duster, polishing something. He slipped it into his pocket when she came in and looked up to smile at her.
‘Pull up a chair, if you can battle your way through t’ babby’s bits,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose your sister will miss me once she’s got an extra room to dry her washing in.’
Bobby moved one of the clothes horses aside and sat on the settee by him.
‘It’ll certainly be a big change.’ She paused. ‘I suppose… you have talked to Mrs Hobbes?’
‘Better get used to calling her summat else. She’ll be Mrs Bancroft in three week.’
