As a baby his favourite thing to do was to sit on his Granddad’s lap and bang away at the piano in their sitting room. Edmond had tried to force both of his sons to play, which they had shown no interest and even less talent for. He was thrilled that out of all the grandchildren, one finally had some concern for his beloved piano.

“Pay beano?” Warren would ask the minute we’d come in the house.

“Play my piano?” Edmond beamed, “Of course! Come on!”

It was always a noisy visit.

“Oliver, Silvia, a moment please,” Edmond stopped us one evening on our way out the door, “I’d like to ask you if I may do something for Warren. I’ve been playing with him at the piano and he catches on quite quickly. I think he could play. I’d like to ask you if I might set him up with lessons.”

“You’d do that to someone else?” Oliver asked seriously, shivering at the memory of his own piano instruction. “That’s just mean, Old Man!”

“Oh, I think that’d be lovely,” I told Edmond, shifting Warren on my hip, “He’s about the right age to start isn’t he?”

“Bloody hell, he’s only three!” Oliver saw the look on his father’s face and shut his mouth immediately. Instead he picked up Gryffin as if to protect him.

“He might be a little young, but if he isn’t ready we can just try him again later,” Edmond gave me a rare smile, ignoring his son completely, “I’d like to see how he does.”

Warren took to it immediately. We had no room for a piano in the cabin, but we bought him a keyboard and not long after a set of headphones for him to use along with it. When he was five he begged for a guitar, which his Granddad supplied for him. By the time he was eight Edmond had him giving concerts in the village on both instruments. Warren didn’t take to the violin very well and he despised the cello, but Edmond didn’t care. He had his little prodigy. When Warren got to school he took up the clarinet, which led to oboe, bassoon and saxophone. Oliver bought him a trumpet for his thirteenth birthday. He’d stand out in the garden and play Vivaldi for the elves, as he would when he took up French horn. I found the flute lovely floating in the windows from the garden, but it was the piccolo I enjoyed the most. Warren could sing as well, but for whatever reason he would choke when it came to using his own voice in public. That was until he landed the lead role in a musical at school and came out of his shell. From then on, it was a different story.

“Mum! Warren’s in his room with his cans on, crooning in French! Grandad, you never should have told him about Maurice Chevalier!”

“Caro, did it ever cross your mind to knock on his door and ask him to stop?” I asked.

“Ugh!” She turned and stomped up the stairs.

“He’s unstoppable!” I told Edmond, who had dropped by for tea. “He breathes music! There’s hardly any space for him to sleep in his room! It’s filled with instruments and music leaves scattered everywhere!”

“He’s got my name in the middle of his!” Edmond bragged with a grin that rivalled either of his sons, “Warren Edmond Dickinson! There’s a reason it’s in there! I love them all, though, you know! All my grandchildren are brilliant! Just brilliant! All of them! But that Warren…”

Ah, Edmond and Warren. It would be my guess that Edmond had often wondered if his own sons had somehow mutated from the gene pool, but he’d found his soul mate in Warren. For all the years they had together, the two were nearly inseparable.

If you count from the time that Nigel was born to the day the last child left the wood, you would have yourself twenty-four years. It’s incredible to think about. I spent almost a quarter of a century wiping bogeys from noses and tears off cheeks, sticking plasters to injuries and having to be sympathetic to problems the kids were having in their lives that seemed so inconsequential to me. I mean, being serious, at thirteen, who cares if a boy doesn’t like you? At sixteen, who cares if you failed your driver’s test on the first try? And at seventeen, who cares if you get accepted to three universities like Annie did and have to choose which one you want to attend the most? It was difficult for me to keep in perspective how harrowing these things were for the children. Honestly, at seventeen, I was married!

“You’re stressing too much! Your whole life is just beginning! Just see where the winds take you…just fly!” That’s what I told them. I said to Nigel and to Carolena. To Natalie and to Gryffin. I told it to Annie. I told it to Bess too. And to Warren. I said it to each of them as they struggled with their fears and insecurities, “You were born with wings! Your heart is free! It’s a beautiful world out there with everything imaginable waiting for you to find! Don’t be afraid! Fly away!”

It seemed that they must have listened because one night I went to bed and the next day when I woke up, all of them were leaving me.

Nigel and Caro, of course were first. Nigel headed down to Graytown and got a flat the summer he graduated high school with some mates of his. He worked at a pub and went to uni where he studied Welsh and History. Caro, as promised, headed off to London where she enrolled in a school for Veterinary Science, and worked in a department store to support herself in a flat in Chelsea. Two years later, our little Natalie left off for school in Paris, where she was to study Art. She was still so small. She looked just like a little kid as she hugged her daddy and mum at the rail stop. “Goodbye for now, Auntie Sil! Uncle Ollie!” She hung out the door of the train and waved as it pulled away, “See you soon! I love you all! Cheers! Bye!”

We all stood there until the train was out of sight. “Three gone,” Alexander said with an obvious lump in his throat, “Four to go.”

“I hope she’ll be all right,” Lucy’s voice broke. “Paris is so far away.”

“She’ll be fine,” Oliver put his arm around my sister, “As long as she doesn’t call and say she’s house sitting or camping over spring break, we’ve no worries!”

“Oh mercy, Oliver! What we did to our parents!” I put a hand over my mouth so Lucy wouldn’t see me smile.

“I’d kill her!” Alexander muttered.

“Don’t say such things!” Lucy insisted. “She’d never!”

Oliver and I laughed. Shameless, we were. We had no remorse for what we’d put our parents through. When we’d married we felt it was our life to choose. Not one day after did we ever do a blasted thing that anyone told us we should. We gave each other permission not to. We didn’t listen to a word of decent advice. We were young. Love had a way of making us fearless because we knew that no matter what happened, if we fell on our face as we entered the ring or conquered the world in battle, in the end it would just be us, together. Everyone else would have buggered off before the day was through. He and I were just the way it was supposed to be. It was brilliant.

There was a two year separation between Nattie leaving us and Gryffin finishing his studies at comp. Gryffin decided that university was not for him. Instead he took a job writing for a journal and the autumn after he finished school he packed his bags and moved straight to Edinburgh to put pen to paper and make a living at it.

“If there was more opportunity in Wales, I’d stay,” He told me the morning he drove away, “I’m going to miss you, Mum. And this place. Lord Copse and Lady Folia, too. I told them I’ll be back one day and asked them to look after you. You’ll be OK, yeah?”

I smiled. “Gryff, I have a husband to look after me.”

My son laughed, “I know, but I love you, Mum. I worry.”

“I love you, too, Muffin, and don’t worry. Your dad is very good at looking after me, plus I’m pretty sturdy myself. Just go and make your dreams all come true. That’s all I want from you. Be happy.”

It’s true. It is all I ever wanted for him or for any of the children for that matter. I wanted them to go off and chase their dreams and make happy lives for themselves. But it didn’t ease the discomfort or the loneliness or the worry that followed having them go.