Seven Days of Us

by Francesca Hornak

  They were eating in the rarely used dining room. It was such gloomy weather that Emma had switched on all the lamps, which somehow made the room look even darker. And she’d had Andrew light a fire, but some poor bird must have made its nest in the chimney, because an eye-watering mist hung over the table. Looking at the linen napkins and special wineglasses (given a hasty rinse and check for dead flies), she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to sit in the kitchen. The dining room was meant to feel festive, but now it looked unduly formal. She had spaced four chairs equally around the long, conker-colored table, but with the places so far apart and the joint of meat yards from either end, it reminded her of Beauty and the Beast. She shunted all four plates and chairs up to one end, so that they were just using one half of the table. That was better. They usually had more people here, since Emma liked a full house. Guests made everyone behave better. She knew Andrew resented this, especially when Nicola dominated dinner with her psychotherapy theories, but it diluted the silences that were apt to descend when it was just the four of them. She quickly dismissed this thought, and shouted again to the others.

  • • •

  The food, at least, was a success. Olivia had helped herself to more garlicky green beans, and the roast potatoes were a triumph (good old Delia Smith). Emma was just anxious that the beef had come out a bit dry. That was the trouble with doing roasts in Weyfield’s range, as Andrew never failed to point out. But the range, a revered AGA, was as much a part of the house as the paneling, or the smoky fireplaces, or the big oak staircase. All houses like Weyfield had AGAs. They couldn’t just rip it out and put in a shiny Smeg oven, like in Camden. She watched Andrew take a mouthful. He frowned slightly as he swallowed, but didn’t look up from his plate. Sometimes she wished he’d never got The World column—it made cooking for him nerve racking, when it hadn’t been before. She used to enjoy the whole process, the chopping and weighing, taking down her faithful orange Le Creuset, stirring comforting stews at the stove. When Andrew was young, returning from war zones, he used to say he dreamed of her chicken chasseur. Now that he had eaten at Michelin-starred places for years, it was different. Phoebe was meticulously cutting bits of fat off her beef, before putting a tiny piece in her mouth. She had refused even one Yorkshire pudding, saying that they reminded her of flannels, which made Andrew snort with laughter. Phoebe’s bons mots made up the bulk of his column these days. Olivia smiled at Emma and said, “This is delicious, Mum.” Emma realized she was sweating, with heat, or nerves, or relief to have Olivia back safely, she wasn’t sure. There was a silence that lasted slightly too long.

  “So, Olivia,” said Andrew. “High points?”

  Olivia looked at him, hands paused mid-cutting. “It wasn’t really that kind of trip,” she said.

  Andrew’s neck colored. “Well. There are always highs to any travel,” he said, taking a sip of wine. It was a special bordeaux, retrieved from the cellar after much deliberation between wine and champagne.

  “We so enjoyed your blog,” said Emma, before Olivia could answer him.

  “Thanks,” said Olivia. “It was helpful to write.”

  “It’s not easy to write about such horrid things and be entertaining,” said Emma. “Why did you make it anonymous, though? Wouldn’t it be nice for everyone to see what you’re doing?” Olivia looked terribly thin. She had Andrew’s rangy build, unlike Phoebe, who was small like Emma—and might have had Emma’s bosoms and hips, if she weren’t so disciplined about food. Emma had never managed to diet. Perhaps cancer would help, she thought grimly.

  “Blog . . .” said Andrew. “Such an ugly word.”

  “It’s blogs that people read now,” said Olivia.

  “I still like to hold a page,” said Phoebe.

  “Quite,” said Andrew. “That’s exactly it, Phoebe. Besides the fact that the majority of blogging is tripe. Most of these people can’t write for toffee. Not yours, of course,” he added. “I thought the one about Haag stigma in rural areas was particularly good.” This was the blog that Emma had forced under his nose yesterday, since he’d holed himself up in the smoking room. He had told her he didn’t want to hear what Olivia was doing, because it was “too hellish to contemplate.” She sympathized, of course. But considering his years in foreign correspondence, she’d expected him to take more interest. She’d even hoped the two of them might “bond” a bit over Olivia’s African adventure—this being the first time Olivia had come home immediately after a trip. Now, she didn’t feel this would happen.

  “I liked the one about the locals calling your friend ‘Pekin doctor,’” said Phoebe. Emma could tell she was nervous.

  “Thanks,” said Olivia, helping herself to more gravy.

  “George used to get called ‘Mzungu’ when he was in Kenya,” said Phoebe.

  “And what was George doing there?” asked Andrew. “Defending the Empire?”

  He still said George’s name as if he was trying it out for the first time.

  “Building a primary school or something, I think. Some gap year cliché.”

  “Well, that sounds wonderful,” said Emma.

  “It’s what everyone does,” said Phoebe. “When they don’t know what else to do before Edinburgh.”

  “Kenya’s quite different to Liberia,” said Olivia.

  “I know, I just meant, it’s also in Africa,” said Phoebe.

  “It’s quite a big continent . . . ” said Olivia.

  Emma wished they were still young enough for her to say “Olivia, don’t be condescending,” but how could she, now they were grown-ups?

  “Remind me, why did it stop being Keen-ya?” she said, instead. For some reason, Olivia visibly clenched her jaw. Emma hoped she hadn’t inadvertently served her gristle.

  • • •

  The crumble had salvaged lunch—the hot, spiced fruit seeming to thaw Olivia, and tempt Phoebe to chance a few calories. Even Andrew, who disliked pudding on principle, complimented the star anise in the custard. Emma had thought they might all walk round the grounds before it got dark, the way she used to with her parents, but once she’d cleared the sticky plates, everyone had gone separate ways. Phoebe flopped on the sofa in the back sitting room, “too full to move.” Olivia had already vanished, iPad in hand, saying she needed to read the news. “Wouldn’t you like a break from it all?” Emma had asked, but Olivia had stared at her, as if she’d said: “Forget those dying people. You’re here now, with us.” Which was what she had meant, in a sense. It was like when Andrew used to come home from Lebanon and sit glued to the TV. At least in those days the news used to stop.

  Andrew had declined a stroll too, saying he must uproot the Christmas tree while it was still light. They used the same tree every year, dug up on December 23 and replanted on Epiphany, as Emma’s parents had done. It was rather sweet, how seriously he took this one masculine job. Besides, it was the only Hartley tradition he seemed to embrace, so she left him to it.

  Olivia

  THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:30 P.M.

  • • •

  Reaching for her phone to text Sean, Olivia remembered there was no signal at Weyfield. In some ways, Norfolk was more backward than Liberia. It already felt like they’d been apart for ages, that she’d stored up a hundred things to tell him. She’d got used to having him close, or just a WhatsApp message away. For the past fortnight he’d spent every night in her room, the two of them sleeping naked under her lightest sarong. She knew her bed was going to feel too cold, and too big, tonight. She started an e-mail to him instead.

  FROM: Olivia Birch

  TO: Sean Coughlan

  DATE: Fri, Dec 23, 2016 at 4:30 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Home Sweet Home . . .

  Hi Pekin,

  Missing you already! How was the rest of your journey? Hope you got back OK, and it’s good to be home. Wasn
’t quite planning for you to meet my mother like that . . . Pretty certain she didn’t twig about us, luckily. It’s really strange to be here (though I did have the best shower of my life—hot AND cold running water! That you can drink!). I think I’m in some kind of reverse culture shock. I’d got used to the chaos I guess, and now Norfolk seems too quiet. Having said that, the house here is pretty chaotic, too, but in a very British way. It’s all a bit Miss Havisham . . . my mother can’t bring herself to change anything because this is where she grew up. No point texting or calling, by the way, my phone doesn’t get signal. So it’s e-mails only, for now. Normal for Norfolk . . .

  Nothing to report so far, got home and then it was straight into family lunch. Do your folks get it in any way? Mine don’t . . . Or not so far. My mother is fussing over me constantly, but can’t bear to really hear about anything. And my sister is just completely wrapped up in her little universe. She doesn’t mean any harm, but I still want to shake her. My dad and I don’t really talk, like I said. As far as he’s concerned, a new sushi bar is headline news.

  Anyway. It feels wrong to be so far away from you! I’m not telling anyone about us, by the way—promise you’ll wait till the week is up, too? Write soon, I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long seven days . . .

  Kisses and more,

  O x

  Andrew

  THE SMOKING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:50 P.M.

  • • •

  Lunch had been interminable, thought Andrew, back at the smoking room desk. He’d pretended he was going to fetch the tree to get Emma off his back. He would do it later. He felt a twinge of guilt over the way he’d dismissed bloggers. Especially since Olivia’s blog had in fact been rather well written. What was it that stopped him just saying so, straightforwardly, the way Emma could? And why did reading it bother him so much? It wasn’t that he couldn’t stomach blood and guts. He’d seen as bad and worse in Beirut for years.

  He opened his draft to Jesse, and his mind set off on a habitual loop. He was curious to meet his son, of course. And if he cut him off now he would doubtless lose the chance. Besides, it was the decent thing to do. It must have taken courage, on Jesse’s part, to write at all. And Leila’s pathetic letter, with its “dying wishes,” was tugging at his conscience. But how would Emma react to Jesse? He could hardly expect the man’s birthdate to remain secret. Emma would count back nine months and realize, instantly, that Andrew had been unfaithful. The trouble was, she had so little tolerance for withheld information—for lying, as she saw it. And how would his daughters view this bastard son, fathered while Andrew was technically with their mother? Olivia already seemed to be looking for excuses to avoid him. And Phoebe, who worshipped him, would be so disappointed she’d probably cut him out, too. He couldn’t bear that. You did hear of it happening. Men in their sixties, living alone because of some idiotic misdemeanor. The thing to do was to be firm and absolutely transparent. The wine at lunch had given him conviction. He started a new message and tapped out:

  Dear Jesse,

  Thank you for your e-mail. While it would be a pleasure to meet you, I must ask you to accept that this is sadly impossible for me. I do not take this decision light—

  The door clicked behind him. He shoved Leila’s letter under a pile of books and minimized the e-mail. But the photo he’d been looking at was still open on his screen. It was a young man with dark curls, in black tie, captioned Jesse Robinson, Help for Syria Fund-raiser. Something told Andrew that this, out of the many Jesse Robinsons that Google Images offered up, was his son. He closed it, quickly.

  “Who’s that?” said Phoebe, coming in. “He looked hot.”

  Andrew’s stomach recoiled. “Uh, an actor I’ve got to interview.”

  “Who? Let’s see?”

  “Now, now, you’re a married woman—almost,” said Andrew.

  She looked at him and laughed. “Daddy!”

  “I e-mailed La Beard for you, by the way, but I doubt we’ll hear back until New Year.”

  She sat on the arm of his chair. He’d have preferred her not to—it was an expensive, ergonomic throne bought on Wigmore Street, at odds with the Hartley bureau and ancient sofa. Emma always looked pained by it, even though she rarely came into the smoking room. Still, she had the last say on any new object in her childhood domain.

  “OK,” sighed Phoebe. “It’ll have to be next year now anyway. When everyone will be doing Dry January.” She sat, picking at a run in her tights, the rock on her ring finger all wrong with her chipped, turquoise nails. “We could’ve had it tonight if we weren’t stuck here,” she added.

  She sounded faintly accusing, although what she wanted Andrew to do about their quarantine he couldn’t think. But that was the way with Phoebe. He always seemed to be conceding to her, or promising to meet some outlandish request. Ever since she’d been tiny, he’d wanted to make her happy—the way she made him happy. She had that effect on everybody, except, perhaps, for Olivia.

  “Bloody nuisance this quarantine, eh?” he said, giving her narrow back a perfunctory rub. “What about Claridge’s? I know the Maybourne Group pretty well.”

  “Maybe . . . I was thinking somewhere a bit newer . . . Could you try Sexy Fish? Claridge’s is a bit, like, Park Avenue pensioner.” She pulled her skin taut and pouted, miming a surprised Botoxed woman.

  “Ha! You’re wasted behind the camera, Phoebe. I might have to borrow that line.”

  “Anytime, Papa,” she said, sliding off the arm and walking out. “Or maybe try Dean Street Townhouse?” she shouted from the passage. “They have a private room.”

  Andrew unclenched his entire body. That had been close. He would have to be more careful. He cleared his screen and erased his browser history. He would send the reply later. Phoebe had interrupted his concentration—he didn’t trust himself to say the right thing to Jesse now. Besides, the urgent thing was to get rid of Leila’s letter. It was madness to have it lying around. But the rubbish or recycling was too risky—the binmen seemed to come once a year in the country—and the fire in the dining room had expired faster than the conversation. The chimney was probably filthy—they all were at Weyfield. After a moment’s thought, Andrew climbed the stairs to the attics. It was freezing up there, the single lightbulb over the main room reminding him of a TV interrogation scene. He soon located a 1980s briefcase in a pile of his obsolete belongings (flak jacket, bulky camera, hard hat, notepads) that Emma had retired to Weyfield. His fingers flicked through the combination lock, his birthdate and their Camden alarm code. One nine five zero. He stuffed Leila’s letter into the secret pocket in the lining and relocked the case. That was safe for the time being. He knew Emma would demand a post-Christmas bonfire—a Hartley tradition—and that he could burn the letter then. Slipped between other innocuous papers and thrown on the pyre, it would furl into secret ashes. Nobody need ever know of its existence. There was an old-fashioned finality to the act that appealed. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs made him freeze. Bugger. He nipped into one of the garret bedrooms and held his breath.

  Emma

  THE ATTICS, WEYFIELD HALL, 5:30 P.M.

  • • •

  Emma knelt in the main attic, holding the box of Christmas decorations. Originally it had held a gingerbread house kit, bought one Christmas when the girls were small. On the lid was a photograph of two children in wonderfully retro jumpers, marveling at their perfect gingerbread house. She remembered trying to copy it with her daughters, and their attempt looking nothing like the box. The roof had kept slowly sliding off, making the girls shriek with gleeful dismay, until Andrew ingeniously secured it with bamboo skewers. Both girls had been thrilled by Christmas then. Phoebe still enjoyed it (she welcomed any excuse to shop), but at some point Olivia had outgrown the excitement. Emma missed seeing them revel in something together. It didn’t seem that long since they were counting down the doors on the Advent calendar, glo
ssy heads pressed close—Olivia’s blond, Phoebe’s dark. She remembered assuming they were going to be the kind of sisters who were close as adults. A noise in the little bedroom next door made her jump. She did hope they didn’t have rats again. Or that Father Buxton, the priest said to haunt the house, wasn’t back. Feeling rather spooked, she clattered downstairs, vowing to give the attics a spring clean after Christmas.

  Still, it was comforting to be back at Weyfield. Walking into the drawing room, she greeted her mother’s portrait, as she always did. It showed Alice Hartley as a young mother, not much older than Olivia, and although it was a rather bad likeness, it always made Emma feel Mama was still here. Two days ago she’d stood looking at it for ages, silently telling her mother about the lump. Yesterday, seeing all the things that needed fixing in the house, she’d found herself apologizing to it instead. Just last night she’d spotted an ominous dripping in the servants’ passage—now the utility room—as she tried to dry out extra blankets for Olivia’s bed. She knew her mother would forgive her the lack of funds to redecorate. But she feared Mama would be sad that neither of her granddaughters seemed to feel much attachment to the house. Phoebe liked showing Weyfield off to friends, but that was slightly different. She made no secret of the fact that she’d have preferred it kitted out with en suite bathrooms and reliable heating. Emma guessed that the house’s faded grandeur made Olivia uncomfortable, just as it did Andrew. He never said so, but it was obvious by the way he hid in the smoking room. When they were a young couple, she had hoped that one day Andrew would stop looking out of place at Weyfield. But he never had, even after her parents died, so she’d trained herself to ignore it. That way she could indulge in private nostalgia when she was here. Perhaps that was why she didn’t really want to do the house up, she thought, looking fondly at the worn cushions and rug. She liked things as they were. She just wished the others did, too.