London, England
March 2014
What salvation must be like
"I'm really very grateful that you're giving me this opportunity, Mrs Hillhouse," I tell the woman next to me in my most well-behaved voice.
"Call me Pamela," she replies with a smile. "No need for the formality if we are to work together."
Strictly speaking, I'm set to start working for her, but it's not like I'll protest a relaxed approach to work hierarchies.
"And no need for you to feel grateful," continues Pamela as she holds open an office door for me. "We're happy to have you. You'll be a great addition to the team."
She nods at a pair of armchairs in a corner of the office and I take a seat as directed. I'm feeling a little uncomfortable, to be honest. Not because of Pamela, who's super nice, but because I'm not quite sure what she expects of me.
I mean, when Steve mentioned that his mother-in-law had a small party planning business and would it be alright for him to give her my number, I barely allowed myself to feel the little flutter of hope rising within me. It just sounded too good to be true. Even now, having met Pamela and found her to be warm and open, I'm still waiting for the catch. (Maybe half a year of working for Marcia does that to you.)
"I don't…" I hesitate and take a deep breath. "I don't have a lot of experience in the party planning business, to be honest. I mean, in theory, I should have six months work experience, but…"
Pamela nods, a sympathetic look on her face. "Fiona mentioned that they mostly made you wait tables at your old job."
"Ye-es." I draw out the word. "I've certainly got lots of experience waitressing, but not so much when it comes to the planning part of it."
"But the waitressing means you know all about the catering side of the business and I imagine that along the way, you also picked up some knowledge about which dishes pair well and which food works well for which occasion," Pamela points out.
I frown, considering her words. After a moment, I nod slowly. "I suppose you're right."
"That's what I thought." Pamela looks pleased. "You also have an economics degree, so we can trust you with the numbers. And you have both style and an eye for colours." She indicates my outfit that combines mint and emerald to quite a lovely effect, if I may say so myself.
"At least I know not to pair burnt orange and hot pink," I acknowledge with a wry smile.
Pamela laughs. "That's a good start. We can teach you the rest."
Let's hope so.
"You should fit in nicely," Pamela adds, appraising me. "Steve only has good things to say about you and Fiona mentioned repeatedly how nice you've been to her."
Hard not to be, really. I've met Fiona a few times since her and Steve's wedding last summer and she's the quiet, polite kind that wants to please everyone. (No wonder the likes of Vera ate her for breakfast.) Being kind to Fiona should come naturally to any person who isn't outright nasty. (Anyone not named Vera, that is.)
"They're lovely," I reply, because they are. "And they make such a sweet couple."
"They do, don't they?" Pamela beams. "Personally, I can't wait for grandchildren, but I think any potential grandmother is impatient for them."
"That's true," I confirm. "My mother has two grandchildren, but Izzie, the younger one, will be seven years old in May and Mum's itching for a baby to join the family. My brother actually got married last year, but he and his wife are in Africa with Doctors Without Borders at the moment, so it's unlikely they'll produce a family addition soon."
Pamela nods thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. I read about your brother in –" She stops herself, suddenly looking uncomfortable, probably at having inadvertently admitted that she reads what is published about me and my family.
Still, it's not like she's the only one, so I just shrug it off. "Read about it in some newspaper or another? Yes, they wrote up quite a few articles when Jem and Faith's plans first got reported on."
It allowed the papers to compare my selfless brother healing poor African orphans to me gallivanting around London attending parties, which was a theme too good for them to pass up. On the plus side, in writing about Doctors Without Borders, they accidentally directed attention to a very worthy cause, so I suppose something good came out of it.
"Where in Africa are your brother and sister-in-law?" Pamela asks. "Not in Guinea, I hope?"
She's referencing a very recent report about Ebola cases being discovered in Guinea. I don't know much about Ebola (or, to be honest, Guinea) but from what I read, it sounds incredibly nasty. Also very, very dangerous.
"Luckily not," I answer Pamela's question. "They're in Uganda, which, if I have my geography correct, isn't anywhere close to Guinea."
And here's hoping they'll stay there!
"That's a relief," remarks Pamela and seems to mean it, too.
"It is," I agree.
There's nothing else to say to that, so for a moment or two, we both remain silent. Thankfully, Pamela doesn't let the silence stretch for too long. Instead, she gets up from her armchair and indicates for me to follow her example.
"Shall I introduce you to the others?" she asks, upbeat.
"Um, yes. Sure," I reply, feeling a little befuddled by the sudden offer.
(Does this mean I'm hired?)
If she notices my confusion, Pamela doesn't react to it. Instead, she waves me back out into the corridor and motions for me to follow her.
"As you'll see we're just a small company," she explains as we walk. "Our clients aren't as well-known or prestigious as they were at your last job. For the most part, we work for smaller charities or, well, normal people celebrating a big milestone occasion."
"Sounds good," I comment and fully mean it, too. I've found what she terms 'normal people' to be more respectful than the not normal kind. (Celebrities are the worst. If I had a pound for every time some third-rate reality TV actress tried to convince me to go to "that super rad new club" with her, I wouldn't need to work at all.)
"I'm in the lucky position that I can chose who we work for," continues Pamela and though she doesn't elaborate, I know this to mean that she doesn't need her company to make actual money. The exact logistics of it are unclear to me, but from what I gathered, Fiona's parents were perfectly middle class and not particularly well-off until her father made a serious amount of money with some clever investments in the 90s. Now, they're what is euphemistically called 'comfortable' but really means 'filthy rich'.
"Always a good thing," I remark, because really, what else is there to say?
Pamela nods agreement, before stopping in front of another door. Opening it, she reveals a board room with a big, oval table in the middle. Standing and sitting around it are about a dozen people, who look at us curiously when we enter. (They don't look surprised though, which leads me to believe my coming here today was communicated to them in advance.)
"Everyone, this is Rilla, the newest addition to our team," Pamela introduces. (So I guess this means I'm hired.)
The group reacts with murmurs of hello, before Pamela proceeds to introduce everyone to me. I don't manage to remember all of the names, but do retain a good chunk of them. The guy with the glasses is Paul, the girl with the blond ponytail is Felicity, the woman in the delectable knit pullover is Marion, the man with the checked bow tie is –
Pamela claps her hands, interrupting my mental recitation of names. "Have a seat everyone. What's on the agenda today?"
Since no-one tells me to go, I, too, tentatively take a few steps towards the table. Meggie, the one with the piercings, taps the chair next to her and smiles at me. Grateful, I sit down and smile back.
"Hi," she whispers.
"Hi," I whisper back.
That's it for introductions though, because apparently, we (we!) have a full agenda for today, which the man with the bow tie (André) immediately launches into. Apparently, they're in the middle of planning an evening event for a charity to which a few C-list celebrities and lowly nobles are expected. Judging from the undercurrent of excitement in the room, it seems to be quite a big deal to them.
While they go through plans and discuss their various stages of implementations, I am content just to sit back and observe. After all, no-one wants the new one to chime in with opinions right away and besides, it's not like I have strong opinions either way. I'm sure the venue is lovely and multi-coloured tulips sound like a very pretty idea for decorations.
I might have sat through the entire meeting without saying a word, had they not moved on to talking about the menu. Specifically, the menu in relation to their biggest celebrity, an actress well-known for several large-scale BBC productions of the historical variant.
"She told an interviewer some years ago that she loves Beef Stroganoff," reports Rina, the one with the head of wild curls.
Pamela nods. "We'll talk to the chef about preparing Beef Stroganoff as the main course. Any ideas for –"
"Excuse me?" I hear myself pipe up.
All heads swivel to look at me. I immediately regret speaking.
Still, nothing to do but to power on now.
"I was just thinking… well, someone told me that most people in the public eye are careful never to express a preference for any food, because from then on, they're sure to get served that food constantly," I explain, fidgeting a little in my seat. "I'm sure she's had to eat Beef Stroganoff all the time since doing that interview and would welcome a change."
Poor Owen certainly sounded like he rued the day he ever mentioned enjoying spitched eel. And Leslie, who I assume has to eat it when accompanying him, looked positively revolted at the mere reminder.
"That actually makes sense," remarks Rick, the tall one, thoughtfully. Around the table, several others nod their heads.
Thus encouraged, I add quickly, "And with regards to the seating plan… I know they're the only two aristocratic guests, but I wouldn't put Lady Berger and the Baroness Sanderson at the same table."
"Why not?" enquires Sophie, who has the absolute cutest yellow heels. (I must remember to ask her where she got them.)
"Apparently, there was a… situation some months ago" I answer carefully. To put it more bluntly, Baroness Sanderson had an affair with Lord Berger, about which Tatty told Katie and me with more glee than appropriate, given the subject.
Even without me elaborating, most of the others (my new colleagues!) seem to catch the implication, leading to smiles and chuckles.
Pamela taps her pen against the desk and when I look at her, I find her watching me. "Well, then", she prompts. "What would you suggest, Rilla?"
Right.
I can do this.
I mean, I really can do this. Because while I still try to retain more of a spectator position throughout the rest of the meeting, I dare to chime in with a few more ideas on occasion and while they aren't always adopted, they're all received kindly. By the time the meeting is over, Pamela formally welcomes me to the team and asks me to start on April 1st. (No joke, hopefully.)
As I leave the building with a new job in my figurative pocket, I can't help reflecting that, all in all, it went as well as it possibly could have.
Fishing my new, super-secure phone from my handbag (a very cute bag I got when I went flea market shopping with Lucy last weekend), I fire off quick texts to Mum and Dad (they're at work, but I know we will speak later). Starting to walk, I press a button in the phone and raise it to my ear. On the other end, Ken picks up so quickly that I know he must have been waiting by his phone. (And I'd be lying if I said this didn't please me.)
"Hello love. How did it go?" he asks.
"I have a new job come April 1st!" I answer, excitement lacing my words. Turns out I am very, very happy never to have to see Marcia again.
"That's great!" exclaims Ken. "I'm proud of you."
"It's not like I had to do much," I protest, but I'm smiling as I do. "It wasn't my great qualifications that convinced her. It's more a case of having the right connections."
"For one, I'm sure you're far better qualified than you admit. And for another, I think a lot of jobs are filled according to who knows who," Ken replies, sounding relaxed. "And if you got your job partly based on Steve and Fiona liking you, there are worse reasons for getting hired."
Can't argue with that, I guess.
"I got my new home through connections as well," I point out, because I still feel a little uneasy about that.
When Owen asked for permission to put out feelers about a new flat for me, I didn't think anything would come of it. Little did I know that Genie and Rolly Faversham have a spacious London home that comes with a smaller mews house behind it ('mews' is fancy speak for a stable or carriage house). Apparently, they renovated and furnished it for Tatty when they thought she was going to attend Queen Mary University here in London (named, as Teddy told me, for Mary of Teck, wife of King Victor). Since Tatty decided to up expectations and go to Durham instead, the mews house has stood empty expect for use by the occasional visitor. When they heard of my plight, Genie and Rolly were only too happy to offer it to me, at whatever rent I fancied paying. (Yes, really.)
I agonised over the offer for quite a while, not wanting to be seen to be accepting freebies, but in the end… I guess I was too desperate to say no. Hence why I didn't just land a job today, but am also moving into my new abode.
"You got that house because Genie and Rolly adore you," Ken amends. "I imagine Tatty is pretty pleased they now have you on their doorstep?"
"She said so," I confirm. "Apparently, she thinks that if they can take care of me, they will back up on the question of what she wants to do with her life."
"Two bird with a stone," Ken declares and I can hear him smiling.
"She said that as well," I deadpan.
He laughs and my smile comes instinctively. I love his laugh. (I love him, period.)
"Do you have enough help for the move?" Ken asks, changing subjects.
"I do," I answer. "I'm meeting Damian, Tony, Lucy and Dev at the old apartment. Mark went with Katie and Adam to get my stuff from KP."
Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "At risk of repeating myself, you could have stayed at Kensington Palace. It's not like the place isn't big enough for both of us."
That's an understatement if there ever was one. Wren House is an independent structure within the grounds of Kensington Palace and what they term a 'five bedroom, five reception room'-house that comes with its own walled garden. It's easily twice the size of our Oxford home and a lot fancier. Persis and Teddy live next door in what are termed 'cottages' (Ivy Cottage for her, Notthingham Cottage for him), but that are really houses the size of normal family homes. The royals, it turns out, don't do 'small'.
I've stayed at Wren House ever since February. My old apartment didn't feel safe enough and Ken's place stood unoccupied anyway. (Though truth to be told, half the time I slept over at Persis'. It just felt too weird to be rattling around the house on my own.) With me living at KP, everyone – from Owen to Persis to, most importantly, Ken – encouraged me to stay there (with the exception of Leslie who, I think, understood). I almost agreed, but…
"I know and I'm grateful you're asking," I tell Ken, somewhat hesitantly. "It's just… I think that right now, this is the best decision for me. If nothing else, I'll like not having someone record the time I leave home and come back every day." (Those guards at the KP gates are nothing if not meticulous.)
"Can't argue with that," replies Ken, sounding like he understands, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
I'm glad he's not prying and I'm super glad he's not hurt. It would have been nice – more than nice – to live with him again when he returns from Scotland. But even though part of me desperately wanted it, there was another part, a stronger one, that was reluctant. Not because of Ken, but because… it's a lot, living in a palace. The security is great, of course, as is the comfort, but… somehow, I have a feeling there will be moments when I'll feel grateful to be able to return to my normal, un-palace-y home. (Though to what extend a fully-renovated mews house in South Kensington can truly be considered normal is another matter.)
"Besides," I tell Ken, making sure for my voice to sound upbeat, "Beckett had a look at my new house and was satisfied to let you stay there. And Reed updated my security credentials, so I can come keep you company at your palace any time as well. One way or another, I expect we will see a lot of each other from May on."
"I can't wait," he replies, his voice warm.
"No," I agree, smiling. "Me either."
Looking up, I see the familiar red circle of the London Underground hovering above my head. "I'm at the tube," I inform Ken. "Which means I'll let you get back to your all-important work now. Reception down there is crappy more times than not."
"I'll take your word for it," he remarks, reminding me again that he has never ridden the tube in his life. (It's the little things about him being, well, him, that still strike me, even after so many years.) "Call me when you're settled at the new place?"
"I will," I promise. "Might be late though."
"No matter," he assures me. (See? Even in the military, there are perks if you're a royal. I doubt the other soldiers just get to take calls from their girlfriends in the middle of the night.) I can hear him smiling when he adds, "I love you."
"Me, too." There's an automatic smile on my own lips as I say it. You just never tire of hearing some things, do you?
Ending the call, I submerge into the deep abyss that is the London Underground, to re-emerge in Croydon almost an hour later. (Dratted delays!)
Seeing as I haven't been to Croydon in weeks, it's mercifully free of photographers, which is such an unusual occurrence that it almost feels odd. Though in fairness, I have to admit that they are a lot less intrusive in general. Apparently, if the right people warn them off, they understand that.
Just days after I was rescued from that blasted fitting room, Buckingham Palace and Kensington Palace (or, more formally, The Office of their Majesties The King and The Queen and The Office of His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales) sent out a joint communique, protesting the press's treatment of me and publicly asking them to back off and be more respectful. (They used a lot more fancy words for it though.) Of course, that communique itself lead to a lot of headlines (many of them speculating about an upcoming engagement, which is just… ugh), but the press people got the message.
Of course, I'm still getting photographed, but there's much less harassment. Additionally, Tony's lawyer colleague send out a nice letter in my name, reminding them that it's not exactly legal to photograph someone who is on private grounds (or, you know, in their own sodding kitchen), which apparently is also a language they understand.
In short, they're giving me a much easier time and as I walk through Croydon without a photographer in sight, I feel I can breathe easier than I did all autumn.
I actually enjoy my little stroll, which is more than I ever could have said about walking through Croydon, and when I arrive at my old home, the others are already waiting for me outside the building. Lucy is talking to Damian, a look of deep scepticism on her face. (I should probably have warned him that if there ever was a woman he couldn't charm, Lucy is it.) Dev is chatting animatedly with a somewhat befuddled-looking Tony.
As I reach them, I can hear what Dev is saying.
"– you wouldn't think it, given how far up north they are, but St Andrews has a marvellous ice cream parlour! I got chatting with the owner and he was very open to creating new flavours. We experimented a bit and came up with the most amazing Cullin skink ice cream. It's a Scottish fish soup and it works wonderfully well as an ice cream. If you're ever up in St Andrews, you must go there and try it! Tell them Dev sent you."
Tony blinks.
I hide a smile and send a thought of commiseration to the unfortunate owner of that ice cream parlour. Since Dev was up in St Andrews to visit Josh, it's likely they went there together and steamrolled the poor owner into letting them try their hand at creating new ice creams. (Though it's likely Dev did the steamrolling all on his own. He needs no support in doing that. It's his very best party trick.) I don't even want to imagine the so-called 'flavours' those two come up with when left to experiment.
"Disgusting, isn't it?" asks Lucy, deadpan, and wraps an arm around me in greeting.
"Perfectly disgusting," I agree cheerfully.
Behind her, I see Damian looking at us. Or no, I think he's looking at Lucy, specifically. His expression is a mixture of perfect confusion and reluctant fascination. He very much looks like he can't wrap around the fact that there's a woman unimpressed by him and frankly, it's hilarious.
"Looks like you got a fan," I tell Lucy quietly, not even trying to hide my grin.
She rolls her eyes most spectacularly. "He really does think he's God's gift to womankind, doesn't he?" she murmurs back.
"He is good-looking," I point out, my grin growing wider.
Lucy gives me a patented Lucy-look that manages to convey exactly what she thinks about Damian. I just laugh at her and, though she tries to maintain her glare, I see a smile creeping through at the edges. Following an impulse, I reach out to squeeze her hand. It's good to have her back.
Her internship in Ireland ended in late February. Her two prestigious Oxford degrees, years of volunteering at local museums and several internships were apparently just enough to land her a job at the Foundling Museum here in London. From what I gathered, it's a lowly position that pays pittance (in fact, pay is so bad she had to move back in with her parents in Surrey and commute in every day), but she says the work is fascinating and I suppose that makes up for a lot.
For his part, Dev returned to London last month as well. I'm unclear what he plans to do for a living, but it's not like his family is short of money, so I suppose it's not a pressing matter. When Lucy asked him about it, he claimed his job required him to know every ice cream parlour between here and Timbuktu. If that's true, it's the best person-to-job fit I ever encountered.
Case in point:
"– recommend haggis and chili ice cream," Dev is currently telling an increasingly horrified Tony. "If that's not your poison, Josh combined gammon and pineapple to great effect. And we even did a Christmas special! It's turkey with cranberry and it's just fabulous! And the Jamaican Christmas Special takes your classic rum and raisin, trebles the rum, adds candied cherries and orange peel and then some more rum for good measure. We also wanted to do something with Mince pie, but then Lucy called and said it was sacrilegious and that she had to intervene in behalf of the mince, so we made sage and onion stuffing flavour instead. Oh, and I have to tell you about the curry flavours –"
Tony looks like he might be sick and I take that as my cue to intervene. I don't think his stomach would react kindly to the thought of Tika Masala ice cream.
"Boys? Shall we get moving?" I ask them, trying to hide a smile.
Tony looks utterly relieved. Dev looks not a bit disappointed.
"But I haven't even told Toby about the paprika chicken salad ice cream!" he protests. "Nor about pig ear ice cream!"
Tony turns slightly green at the thought. (I just dearly hope the name for pig ear ice cream is used metaphorically.)
"You can tell me about it," I reply, looping my arm through Dev's and pulling him forward towards the door of the apartment building. As I unlock it, I suddenly realise that this is the last time I will ever have to enter it and by God, it feels good.
Honestly, after the utter despair of the last few months, it's still a little hard to believe how quickly and decisively things have turned for the better. I was so convinced to be stuck in a hellish situation I couldn't get out of that I didn't realise it was in truth a hellish situation I couldn't get out of by myself. And while that doesn't sound like much of a difference, it really changed everything around.
The one thing it needed was for me to open my mouth and ask for help. I guess there's a moral if there ever was one, right?
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966).
A/N: I'm back! And I don't have another vacation planned for the next twelve or so weeks, so we should get some ground covered before then. I hope you enjoy the next chapters and am, as ever, looking forward to your comments!
To JoAnna:
I wrote the last chapter back in November, so whenever I had reviews coming in, imploring Rilla to finally talk, I was basically bouncing up and down and thinking, "Soon! Soon!" It's part of what made it so satisfying to post that chapter ;). I mean, it's not like everything is suddenly resolved, but I think she learned some important lessons. For one, it's the fact that you have to ask for help if you want help to be given and for another, it's the realisation that she has to talk about what weighs on her. As you said, she felt she had no proper cause to complain, but it got to a point where her silence became unhealthy and she needed to say what she said, if only to finally acknowledge to herself that the way she was being treated was not okay.
Of course, when it comes to unhealthy silence, Ken is miles and leaps ahead of her - and not in a good way! As you said, he's in dire need of help to work through what was a very real and damaging childhood trauma, but I don't think he's arrived at that conclusion yet. He can't acknowledge how much it still affects him because that would make his fragile construct of "being alright" crumble around him. He needs to address that and at some point, he will, but that's still a while off yet. He also took a big step forward in opening up to Rilla, but that didn't miraculously resolve everything.
In that vein, I loved how you said "I want to hug him and I want to scold him", because that's precisely what I was going for. He had a difficult and traumatic childhood (which you sum up perfectly in your review) and he is due sympathy and understanding for that, but that doesn't excuse any and all behaviour. He still failed Rilla and his past trauma doesn't negate that fact. She can understand him better and that's important, but it's not catch all-excuse for how he treated her in the past months. I think Rilla realises that, too, which is why she is comforting him at the end of the chapter, but not absolving him of everything she told him previously. That still stands. Her truth isn't negated by his truth, they both stand alongside each other, and I think that's important.
As for Leslie, yes, I think she's doomed to have a tragic life in every iteration. In contrast to Ken though, she got help and she got better, which is why she can talk to Rilla relatively calmly. ("Call me Leslie," is mostly because she's opening up her deepest secrets to this woman, so it would feel awkward to be addressed as "Your Majesty", which is a title Leslie doesn't like anyway.) She's not completely well and I think she never will be, but she understood the need to get help, which is a realisation both Rilla and Ken are only just making, each in their own way.
To Insertnamehere:
Yes, Jerry really did cheat on Nan. No misunderstanding there, I'm sorry to say. I do promise that it happened for a reason that will turn out to be relevant to the plot and not just for needless drama. Unusually for me, I haven't completely decided how I want to proceed with Jerry and Nan, so I'm not ruling out a reconciliation, but I'm also not promising one. I can, however, say that there won't be a permanent rift between the families. Things might be a bit awkward for a while and Jerry won't be everyone's favourite person, but everyone is adult enough not to let it tear the families apart. If nothing else, there's still Jem and Faith to connect them!
To AnneShirley:
I shall pick a Dylan title more often if that's enough to summon you ;). In fact, I believe this very chapter has one! (No, I kid. I always love hearing from you, but I understand life is a busy thing. No pressure.)
I had a rough outline for that Leslie chapter in my head from the very beginning, so I've been carrying this with me for about 1.5 years. It was so satisfying to finally write and then post it, but also a bit nerve-wrecking. With these big, important chapters, you never know whether they will be received as you mean them to. I think this one didn't fail me though, so that's definitely a relief :).
I had Leslie's entire backstory planned pretty much from the beginning, too. I tried to take her canon story and adjust it to fit the circumstances of this story. For one, I didn't want to gloss over Dick Moore the way canon did, because we all know he abused her in every possible way. And while canon Leslie has an inner core strength, she "only" had to suffer Dick for a year (not seven) and after meeting Owen, she presumably got a quiet and happy life, which allowed her to recover from her past. In my story, I didn't give her that. She's in a frail state of mind after her marriage, but here, meeting Owen isn't her salvation, it's her final downfall. She's thrust into a kind of public life she detests and has pressure put on her until she buckles. Owen loved her (and loves her still) and wanted her as his wife, not considering that she's unsuited to the role. His mother might have been cruel in trying to prise them apart, but she had a point - Leslie was never going to be a good queen. I think that's the main take away from their story: "Love is important, but love isn't enough."
I think it's too early for Rilla to realise that fully, but it will come back later. She's already realised that the fairy tale isn't real and that her prince won't protect her. She has to have a network of support and she has to face up to her struggles herself. It's part of what makes her different from Leslie, I think, alongside her background and her disposition. She's beginning to see that Ken has weaknesses, but also slowly starting to realise that she can be strong if she has to be. That strength will be called upon in the future and she will see just what she's capable of.
I'm very sorry to hear about your Dad. It's really tough for children when the parents aren't well (and for the parents, too, because there's a lot of guilt involved, even though no-one is ever at fault when it comes to illness). As you said, talking is so very important, because while the situation my persist, it's so important for everyone, children especially, to understand what is happening and to know they're not alone. I think one of the most crippling effects of mental illness is loneliness, both in those suffering and in their loved ones. While talking is no instant cure, it helps drive away the feeling of loneliness and in my experience, that counts for a lot.
To Mammu:
No matter! This will be a short reply, too, as I want to get this chapter posted ;). I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and I'm glad Leslie's story worked for you. I've been sitting on it for a while, and on Ken's trauma as well. I do believe they learned a bit about the importance of communication and can, hopefully, build on that. And yes, vacation was lovely :).
