As she fervently hopes she will be greeting her sister in a few hours. So much to tell her; so much to learn. About Stephen, Mark, Lionel. Last evening’s stilted phone conversation had spared them both detailed explanations of their respective encounters, each recognising the necessity of a proper heart to heart.
I’ll make her some biscuits as well as a cake, thinks Hester. To hell with my nagging. In fact, I will never nag her again about her weight. It’s all in the genes anyway. Just my good fortune to have got the thin ones. I should be grateful.
I’m starving, thinks Harriet, picking up a bitter coffee when she stops to fill the tank. She looks at the dispiriting pasties, glistening with fat in the heated display. Thinks of Hester. Opts for a banana instead.
Hester is just balancing the last chocolate-dipped biscuit on her improvised stand when she hears the unmistakable rattle of their old car pulling into the drive. She rinses her hands swiftly and hurries down the hallway, inexplicably and ridiculously nervous.
Harriet yanks on the handbrake and switches off the engine. Golly, she’s stiff. She wants coffee, a shower, a change of clothes, food and her sister. Not necessarily in that order. She looks up to see Hester standing in the doorway, a hand raised in greeting.
Home. Home at last.
‘You sure she meant me? This is Hester, the scary one?’
‘Defo. And she wants to see your play.’
‘No way! I thought she hated me.’
‘C’mon, no-one could hate you, Nats,’ says Ben before he can stop himself. He cringes: she’ll think he’s a right lame-arse. But he means it. Although he can see that Hedge and Brick might not share the sentiment.
‘Aw,’ says Nats with a wide grin. ‘You are so sweet, boyfriend. You want to meet after school to go over R and J again?’
Ben wants to meet after school, all right. But poring over the finer points of Romeo and Juliet is not exactly what he has in mind.
Hester, at the stove assembling a full English breakfast for her sister, listens with frank astonishment and mounting indignation to Harriet’s account of her detective work and the unearthing of a catalogue of long-buried secrets.
‘Good God, what is it with you and lesbians?! And this Mark creature! First time I’ve heard of him. Whatever possessed you? A hedge fund manager and a landed Tory? Lordy, you must have shredded him!’
‘We had an exchange of . . . views,’ says Harriet primly.
‘I bet you did! Wiped the floor with him, I should imagine. What a total and utter bastard!’
‘He was very young at the time,’ says Harriet in mitigation. ‘We all were.’ She feels the tiniest bit disloyal to her ex-boyfriend for such a mealy-mouthed apologia.
‘Stuff and nonsense. His behaviour sounds positively feudal. Droit du seigneur and all that.’
Harriet judiciously decides to halt her defence of Mark McFee at this juncture. Irresponsible as his conduct may have been all those years ago, she’s not sure it was quite on a par with Hester’s accusation. However, her sister is no fool and, should Harriet protest too much on his behalf, Hester might start asking more questions about him that Harriet would really rather not answer.
‘So,’ she says with some trepidation, ‘your turn now. Tell me all about Lionel.’ She reaches for the last slice of toast.
Hester, remembering her earlier vow just in time, bites back a comment, saying instead, ‘Yes, I will. But first, I’ve a bone to pick with you.’
‘Age guide?’ echoes Harriet, with a sudden loss of appetite, hand suspended over the marmalade jar. ‘You mean it shows . . .?’
‘Yes,’ says Hester grimly. ‘So if you’d bothered to look, you’d have seen that Ruth Parchment was a good twenty or so years older than Lionel!’
Harriet thinks fast. ‘Yes, but he could have married someone much older—’
‘Except he’d already told us his wife—Connie—had died!’
‘Oh God,’ says Harriet miserably, automatically resuming her interrupted task and spooning a large dollop of marmalade onto her toast. ‘I’m so sorry, Hetty. It was late, I was tired . . .’
How much marmalade does she need? And all that butter!
Harriet cringes. How could she have been so stupid? ‘I’m such a fool. Still, in the grand scheme of things . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Hester shortly with a sigh. ‘What’s done is done. And it would still have meant I was taking on two people, not one. Not,’ she continues, as Harriet relaxes and lifts her toast, ‘that I blame Lionel. Not at all.’ She dares her sister to argue. ‘Why shouldn’t he look for comfort in his old age? Not everyone’s as lucky as we are. We’ve got each other.’
Harriet is up and around the table in a trice. She grabs her sister fiercely and hugs her tight. Hester does likewise. And peace finally breaks out at The Laurels.
‘Are we expecting visitors?’ says Harriet.
They are in the kitchen. Hester, having replenished their supplies at the supermarket—where she had flown around throwing all manner of comestibles into their trolley as if she feared rationing were about to be imposed—is now restocking the larder.
Harriet knows better than to offer to help, given her sister’s idiosyncratic storage system. Flicking through the calendar on the wall she finds only bridge afternoons pencilled in at regular intervals, a dentist’s appointment for Hester in a week’s time and Play written in for three weeks ahead. ‘Or a siege?’
Hester stops rearranging the tinned tomatoes in date order. ‘Well . . .’ she says tentatively, ‘I was wondering how you felt about us having a little party?’
‘A party? Us?’ says Harriet, nonplussed. Parties are things they generally leave to the likes of George and Isabelle, whose gatherings they attend with marked ill grace, largely on account of Isabelle’s execrable cooking.
‘Why not?’ Hester sits at the kitchen table.
Harriet hands her a mug of coffee and joins her.
‘I thought it could be a sort of celebration. For Daria. You know, getting her leave to remain.’
‘What about Artem?’
‘Oh, he won’t begrudge his sister having a little do, will he? He’s so thrilled for her. And it would be a way to thank them. For looking after the house while we were away. Plus, it gives me the chance to try out my new Italian recipes—teach them to Ben.’
‘He’s up to his eyes in exams at the moment.’
‘Yes, but he’s finished in a fortnight’s time. He’s very keen.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ Harriet’s delighted to see Hester so enthused by her plan.
‘Well,’ says Hester, twisting her wedding band, ‘I thought . . . well, it would be a sort of celebration for us, too. You know, after all that’s . . .’
‘Yes,’ says Harriet, her heart full. ‘Oh yes.’
Later, in the sitting room after one of Hester’s steak and kidney pies for supper and several glasses of a fine Merlot, she hands Harriet a list. It reads:
Ben & Nats
Artem
Daria/Milo (?Barry)
Isabelle & George
Peter & Elizabeth
Peggy & Ron
Cynthia & Roland
?Finbar
‘Roland? Cynthia and Roland?’
‘Well, I thought we ought to ask her, and I know he’s a bit of a dry old—’
‘Rupert, Hetty. Her husband’s Rupert. The dog’s Roland. Roland and Rufus.’
They both erupt. It’s a minute or so before either of them can speak again.
‘And Finbar? Seriously?’
‘I know,’ says Hester, still bubbling with laughter, ‘But I thought if it was a nice evening, he could always sit in the garden . . .’
‘And if it’s raining?’
Hester takes a pen and scores through Finbar’s name. ‘He’ll get all the leftovers, anyway. He does very well out of us, the old devil.’
Harriet looks at the list again. ‘Barry? This is Daria’s . . .?’
‘Friend,’ says Hester firmly. ‘A good friend, that’s what Artem says. But you saw how she blushed when his name was mentioned. I just thought we should give her the option.’
‘He’s a carpenter, isn’t he, or something? Useful contact.’
‘Harry! I was thinking of Daria’s love life. Although now you mention it . . .’ She looks around the sitting room. ‘I wondered if it wasn’t time for us to redecorate. The place is looking awfully shabby. That paper’s been up for God knows how long: look how faded it is. And those curtains came from Mother. They must be a good forty years old. I’ve only just noticed they aren’t really long enough.’
Harriet peers over at the offending curtains, then around at the piles of detritus that litter the room. Hetty’s right: the room, indeed the entire cottage, is decidedly dingy. No wonder Peggy is always so sniffy when she visits.
‘And I thought,’ continues Hester enthusiastically, spurred on by Harriet’s lack of objection, ‘we might consider doing something different. Pale emulsion, say, instead of wallpaper, do away with the dado rail, hang all the pictures on just one wall.’
‘Like the bedrooms in Italy.’
‘Exactly. Replace the carpets, obviously: something neutral, oatmeal perhaps. Chuck out these old rugs. There’s a brilliant website—’
‘Steady on!’
‘Oh, Harry! Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Life’s too short. Let’s splash out for once. We could see if that chap Peggy uses is available. Or we could do it ourselves—why not? I’m sure Artem would gladly lend a hand. You never know, we might be able to get it done in time for the party . . .’
Harriet frowns, dreading all the upheaval and thoroughly sceptical about Hester’s newfound appetite for change. ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to decorate after the party? In case anyone has an accident? You know, drops food or wine on the new carpet.’
‘We’re organising a party, not a riot! For heaven’s sake, no-one’s going to wreck the place. Besides, you’re always saying we need to have a good sort-out. Throw out all the rubbish. I mean, look—’ Hester grabs a brochure at random ‘—trekking in Vietnam! Can you see either of us ever doing any trekking anywhere?’ She tosses it into the wastepaper basket. ‘Think what a difference getting rid of most of this stuff would make. Piles of papers and books we’ll never read again and all these ghastly little knickknacks that belonged to Mother: we’re always moaning about what a pain they are to dust.’
‘Dust?’ says Harriet. ‘Don’t make me laugh. When was the last time you wielded a duster?’
‘My point exactly. Let’s chuck the lot of them, be really ruthless and start afresh. What do you say?’
‘I say the day you can be persuaded to throw anything away without a fight will be a first.’
Harriet looks across at Hester, rejoices to see the excitement in her eyes, the hunger for some hard physical work to fill her days, a shared task to bind them close once more, and surrenders. Maybe it would be cathartic—even fun, once they get started—to clear out all the rubbish (really dispose of it, not just move it somewhere else), streamline their lives and start a new chapter. Hester is watching her intently.
Thank God, thinks Harriet, I’ve got her back. But she won’t make it too easy. ‘There’s just one condition. And it’s not negotiable.’
Hester thinks exultantly, I’ve got her back. She can afford to be magnanimous. ‘Name it.’
Harriet points into the corner. ‘The first thing to go is that godawful shepherdess.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever, love and thanks to Ann Stutz, tireless in her support and encouragement. The many friends and readers who urged me to send Hester and Harriet off on a new adventure. My agent Jane Gregory and Stephanie Glencross at Gregory & Co, Annette Barlow and Genevieve Buzo at Allen & Unwin in Australia and Clare Drysdale and Sam Brown at the London office, for their enthusiasm and wise advice. My brilliant copy editor Ali Lavau whose eagle eyes spot every infelicity and the wonderful Sarina Rowell, proofreader extraordinaire. Once again, huge thanks to Galina Caldin, Translator, Russian Translation Service, United Nations, for vetting Daria’s Belarusian and Yvonne Coen QC, not only for legal advice but also for visiting every bookshop in New Zealand to check they were stocking Hester & Harriet. Any misinterpretations of their advice must be laid squarely at my door. Andrea Silvestri and Nicoletta Crawford-Silvestri for their advice on Italian cuisine and language. Will Hayes for putting me right on the lingo and behaviour of today’s teenagers. Tony Ranzetta, my Latin teacher a hundred years ago, for bringing that language to life for me (and Finbar). Finally, my husband, not only for scrutinising the many and various wines Hester and Harriet manage to imbibe in the course of a week or so, but also for his love and support, along with that of my sons.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hilary Spiers writes plays, novels and short stories. She enjoys giving a voice to ordinary women in sometimes extraordinary circumstances. Hilary’s first novel, Hester & Harriet, published in 2015, is a delightful introduction to these two remarkable sisters.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 38