Carrie had almost wept when Dad woke her with a gentle touch to her shoulder and the murmur of her name. Jim did cry, of course, furious at being woken next but Carrie had the knack of stilling him, jiggling him quickly on her hip while Dad found him clothes from the chest of drawers. Dad and Mum had argued, in that quiet, insistent way they had, about his wanting to bring Jim on the march. ‘It’s such a long day. If he doesn’t get his sleep, he’ll grizzle. You’ll not be popular.’ ‘He’ll be good as gold. It’s an historical occasion.’ And so on. She knew her mother was actually worrying about practicalities – nappy changing, regular meals, drinks, and had found a moment at bedtime to reassure her. ‘I’ll look after him,’ she said. ‘I know what he needs.’ ‘But you shouldn’t have to.’ Mum started fretting anew. ‘It’s fine. It’s easy. Don’t worry,’ Carrie said, willing away the furrows on her mother’s brow and kissing them quickly to speed the process.
