The Sister Swap

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Why are you here then?’

  ‘I needed a break, a little recharge, you know …’ Meg couldn’t be bothered to go into the whole blood pressure thing.

  ‘Yes, must be a bit much,’ said Violet, looking thoughtful. ‘That kind of job. It’s a job where it’s all about everyone else.’

  ‘Really? Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ considered Meg.

  ‘Not a lot of personal satisfaction, for you.’

  ‘Well, I have found it satisfying. I—’

  ‘Sarah’s never mentioned your job. In fact, she’s never mentioned you at all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ laughed Meg. Blimey, Violet was so bullish. ‘We don’t really speak. We hadn’t for many years, until we got in touch about swapping. I left Tipperton Mallet under a cloud, so to speak, twenty years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Violet. She was filling up a third glassful.

  Now there was a question, thought Meg. ‘Erm, I was a bit of a handful; she was a condescending disciplinarian. We didn’t gel. I don’t mean when we were kids,’ she added quickly, the alcohol loosening her tongue, ‘we liked each other then. I mean when I was sixteen and she was twenty-six. Our parents were killed. She had to come home from her life in London and look after me. For two years.’

  ‘I didn’t know any of this. Sarah’s never talked about it at all. It must have been very difficult for both of you,’ said Violet carefully. Meg knew this, of course; but she’d only ever indulged in dwelling on how difficult it was for her. ‘And why the cloud?’

  ‘I’d had enough. I had to get away. I went to London and have been there ever since.’

  ‘Well, you’ve clearly done very well for yourself,’ said Violet, and she handed Meg another full-to-the-brim glassful. ‘Shame you and sister are estranged, though.’ Meg thought about the comments made about Sarah yesterday. That she was laid-back, not bossy. Strange comments. ‘Does this mean you had never met Connor and Olivia before? How are they finding you?’

  ‘They’re tolerating me.’ Meg smiled, taking the glass. ‘But I reckon they wish I wasn’t here.’ It was indifference from Connor, ill-disguised hostility from Olivia, to be frank. It was all rather awkward at times. This morning at breakfast all she’d got was a lot of shrugging from Connor and an out-and-out glare from Olivia when Meg had asked if she was seeing her boyfriend today. Meg sipped at the Cinzano. God, this stuff was good.

  ‘So, what are you interested in, in London?’ asked Violet. ‘Apart from your job.’

  ‘Shoes, fashion, nights out, boys …’ considered Meg. ‘Too many nights out, too many boys.’ The alcohol was making her more and more candid. Something about Violet was, too. Her direct questioning, her sympathetic gaze.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I like to start things I can’t possibly finish. I keep things super casual.’

  ‘Leave them before they can leave you?’ suggested Violet sagely.

  ‘Yup. My heart is cold,’ said Meg, mock-melodramatically.

  ‘I bet it’s not,’ said Violet. ‘Seen any boys you like here?’

  ‘No,’ said Meg. She sipped at her Cinzano and thought of Jamie – very, very briefly. There was no way she was going to tell Violet she could quite easily fancy her son, if he wasn’t so horrible.

  ‘You’ll be absolutely fine once you meet the right one.’

  ‘Will I? I don’t think there is one, for me. And if there is I’d probably ditch him after one date.’

  Violet laughed. ‘Drink up,’ she said.

  They had three more shot glasses each. Meg could feel herself sinking lower and lower into all those cushions; they were rising all around her like porridge in The Magic Porridge Pot. Violet suddenly sat up straight, causing three of them to topple to the floor. ‘Fashion!’ she declared. ‘You’re into fashion.’

  ‘I am,’ said Meg.

  ‘Then come and look at my dresses.’

  They climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs, across a small landing and over a ‘mind the step’ threshold into a bedroom furnished with low beams, a Victorian ironwork bed, a chest of drawers and a huge lattice-front wardrobe. The doors of it were half open and the contents – net and lace and shimmery-looking fabrics – were struggling to break free.

  Violet opened both doors fully and a riot of texture and colour burst forth: ball gowns, flapper dresses, long skirts with tulle petticoats, navy Forties New Look suits with full skirts and nipped-in jackets, glittering cocktail dresses … and, below them, a jumble of shoes and boots and stoles and diaphanous scarves and hats. It was like a multicoloured Narnia wardrobe, with all the surprise being on this side of the door.

  ‘The whole lot is going to the charity shop – in Bridging Hampton,’ said Violet sadly. ‘I really need the space.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Meg. The ‘shame’ came out all slurry and Meg realized she was drunk. ‘You could get good money for these.’

  ‘Well, so will the charity shop,’ said Violet, releasing a claret collared dress with a full-length skirt. She held it up against her and did a little curtsy.

  ‘You could get a lot of money,’ said Meg, fingering the edge of a lacy slip. ‘Some of these are exquisite. Is there nothing you’ve been saving up for?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking of getting a little Victorian greenhouse, for the back garden. They’re quite expensive though.’

  ‘You probably could if you sold these dresses.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Violet, running her thumb down a silky, jet-black skirt. ‘I don’t do that eBay thing – I haven’t even got a computer – and there’s nowhere round here to sell them. The charity shop will have to have them. Jamie can take them down for me at the weekend.’ She pulled free a pale green dress with capped sleeves and a huge, Fifties skirt, complete with hoop. ‘Some of these still fit me,’ she said, ‘those with a little give.’ She grabbed the dress and disappeared through the door of her en suite with it. Meg sat down heavily on the bed.

  Violet re-appeared in the dress and gave an elaborate swish of the skirt.

  ‘Wow, you look beautiful,’ slurred Meg. She really did; the dress made Violet’s eyes look all bright and sparkly … from what Meg could see of them; her vision was currently somewhat blurred.

  ‘Do you want to try one on?’

  ‘Er … OK …’

  Why not? Meg thought. She rifled through the wardrobe and chose a pale-pink dress so heavily beaded and embellished it could be a bridal gown. She swayed into Violet’s tiny en suite with it.

  ‘Oh, you look wonderful!’ cried Violet, as Meg re-emerged with a sheepish grin. ‘Some man’s going to be very lucky one day.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Meg, looking down drunkenly at herself.

  ‘Come on, do a twirl! Look at the pair of us! We’re like Doris Day and daughter.’

  ‘Ha,’ laughed Meg, joining Violet in some enthusiastic twirling. Violet did look a bit like Doris Day. And she missed having a mum. Mother and daughter was a pairing she hadn’t experienced for a long time.

  ‘Let’s go down and have another cheeky drink.’

  ‘Dressed like this?’

  ‘Why not?’

  They polished off the rest of the bottle. Violet’s sitting room got increasingly fuzzy round the edges.

  ‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ said Violet, after a while, which Meg didn’t get, but she stood up and unsteadily followed her out. It was scorching in the cottage garden, and there were so many sounds: butterflies, bumble bees, things flying, things buzzing, a bi-plane going over … The hammock looked really enticing.

  ‘Do you want to lie in it?’ asked Violet.

  ‘Yes, please,’ slurred Meg sleepily. She could think of nothing she’d like more …

  *

  ‘Not you again,’ said a voice and Meg opened one eye. Everything felt hot. She had a feeling half of her face was very, very sunburnt. There was a person standing there. It was Jamie, in his vet’s uniform. His back was to the sun and his face was in shadow.r />
  ‘Hello?’ she enquired sleepily. Oh god. Why was this man always catching her in compromising positions? Trapped under an enormous dog, falling out of a bin, faking it as an art teacher and now pissed and wearing a giant wedding dress in a hammock. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Four o’clock,’ he said. ‘You look like you were having a nice sleep.’ Everything was too hazy to read the expression on his face – was he sarcastic, annoyed, or gentle? No, he wouldn’t be gentle. This was Jamie, remember?

  She tried to sit up, but the sun was in her eyes and she lay back down again. ‘I was just tired, I’m having a little lie down. I wasn’t snoring, was I?’ She didn’t think she’d ever snored in her life, but this would be just the day to start, wouldn’t it?

  ‘No, not snoring.’ Well, that was a relief. Just pissed in a wedding dress then. ‘You looked like Sleeping Beauty lying there,’ he said, which was a weird thing for him to say. The beauty, bit, for one. And, for two, Sleeping Beauty was woken by a kiss, wasn’t she? She was pretty sure if Jamie had arrived on a white charger he’d be rearing that thing up by the reins and galloping away to where more desirable and less calamity-prone maidens were waiting.

  ‘Oh right, sorry,’ she said randomly. God, she was hot. She really hoped she hadn’t done irreparable damage to the side of her face; she pressed it with two fingers and it was burning to the touch.

  ‘Has my mother had you on the booze?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid she has.’ Meg sat up now, blinking, and shaded her eyes from the sun with her fingers. ‘Where is Violet?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Jamie. ‘I let myself in through the back gate.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘Shall we go and find her?’ He stretched his hand out further and Meg took it. Her hand was on top of his. Her fingers were touching his palm. She felt much hotter and weaker than before, and all giddy. Jamie also had a rather strange look on his face.

  As soon as both of her feet were on the ground, Jamie let go of her hand, cleared his throat and said, ‘After you,’ and they went into the house. Violet was not, as Meg might have imagined, lying on the sofa comatose, one hand flung up in the air behind her head, but back in her normal clothes and standing in the kitchen with an apron on, rustling up what could well be a Victoria sponge.

  ‘Ah, Meg, did you have a nice kip?’ she said, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  ‘Yes, no thanks to you.’ Meg smiled. ‘You’re a very bad influence. Do you do this with all new neighbours? Invite them round and get them drunk, before leaving them to pass out on your hammock?’

  ‘No,’ said Violet. ‘In the winter they’re welcome to use the sofa.’

  ‘Why did you want me, Mother?’ asked Jamie. ‘I’m due back at the surgery in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘My dishwasher needs looking at,’ said Violet, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘I can’t shut the door.’

  Jamie bent down to the half-closed door of the dishwasher and shoved it shut with his right hand.

  ‘Can’t see a problem,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you know how hopeless I am with white goods, son,’ simpered Violet unconvincingly. Thanks for coming.’ She stirred her cake batter happily with a wooden spoon. ‘Meg here tells me she’s lonely and wants someone to show her round the village properly.’

  ‘What? I never said that!’ protested Meg. The left side of her face blushed to match the right.

  ‘Does she now?’ said Jamie, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Meg. ‘I’m not lonely at all. I don’t need anyone to show me around. And I bet Jamie’s got far better things to do … like putting down gerbils or something.’

  ‘Only when he’s at work,’ said Violet. ‘He’s free most evenings at the moment, aren’t you, Jamie?’

  Jamie looked like he wanted to throttle her with her apron strings. Instead he grabbed a teaspoon and dunked it in the cake mix. ‘Needs a pinch of salt,’ he said, tasting it, ‘like most things you say, Mum. I don’t believe you said that for a minute, Meg,’ he continued, and because it was the first time he’d ever used her name, Meg went frustratingly wibbly, ‘but I am free some evenings,’ he said, pointedly, ‘and I’d be willing to take you to the pub one night, if you wanted to go.’

  Meg felt like it was a trick statement. If she wanted to go … As much as she thought he looked infuriatingly handsome at this precise moment in time, those brown eyes like spotlights on her, what she didn’t want was anyone doing her any favours.

  ‘No thank you, I don’t want to go to the pub,’ she said. ‘Thank you for sort of asking me though.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Violet. She was scraping the cake mixture into two shallow cake tins. ‘I’m sure you’ll find someone else to take you out at some point,’ she added, looking directly at Jamie. ‘You’re a very attractive girl.’

  ‘Oh, well, thanks,’ stammered Meg. She daren’t look at Jamie – she thought if she did he’d have a mocking smile and a face that just said, Really? ‘So, well, I need to go now, actually,’ she said. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’ demanded Violet. ‘I thought we could have cake. And actual tea, this time.’

  ‘Sorting … of things.’ Meg was thirsty and wanted to go home. ‘Thank you, Violet, for the biscuits and the Cinzano. Goodbye. Bye, Jamie.’ And she grabbed her bag which was at the bottom of the stairs and fled for the front door.

  It was only when she got outside that she realized she still had the wedding dress on.

  *

  ‘Hi there!’

  Meg approached Orchard Cottage. There was a figure on the back doorstep. The figure stood up. It was dressed like a Sixties rake: skinny jeans, a red paisley shirt, a battered, tan leather jacket and a jaunty white neckerchief thing. It also had shaggy hair that curled onto its collar, Austin Powers-style. The whole look shouted cod, Mick Jagger-esque roguishness and the man’s cheeky squint in the lowering sun also rendered him reminiscent of Robin Asquith of Confessions of a Window Cleaner fame. Then again, Meg was in a wedding dress.

  ‘Harry?’ queried Meg.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Harry said. His hands were in his pockets, his stance cocky. Definitely Harry. ‘And you’re Meg, aren’t you? Sarah’s sister.’ He took a few steps towards her. ‘We met at that bloody awful funeral. What in the blazes are you doing here? And where’s Sarah? I’ve been knocking for ages.’ He was staring at her, looking her up and down. She was conscious of the cleavage stuffed into the top of that dress.

  ‘Sarah’s in London,’ she said. ‘Doing her old job.’

  ‘What do you mean, “her old job”?’ Harry freed his hands from his jeans’ pockets and raked them through the remains of his faux-sandy hair. ‘Not events organizing?’

  ‘Yep!’ Meg rummaged past her dress for the key in the bottom of her bag. ‘For the same company, actually.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’m amazed.’ Harry tucked his red paisley shirt into the top of his grey skinny jeans and adjusted his belt buckle. ‘Smashing at the old glass ceiling with her Marigolds, eh?’

  Meg opened the front door. She was dying for a large glass of water. She also felt a little indignant for her sister. ‘That’s a bit condescending,’ she said. ‘But I guess she was amazed, too, to be offered it.’

  ‘Wow, well, I’m so surprised!’ exclaimed Harry, stepping into the cottage after her. He took off his jacket and nonchalantly hung it on one of the pegs by the front door as though he still lived here. ‘Are the kids here?’

  ‘I expect not,’ said Meg. ‘Olivia’s probably at Jude’s and Connor’s bike’s not here so he must be at work.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Connor’s still working at Larkins, that sandwich place!’ muttered Harry, striding into the sitting room. Meg realized he had made no mention of the fact she was in a wedding dress. ‘After all those A levels!’

  ‘He likes it.’ Meg shrugged.

  ‘And Olivia told me about that boyfriend of hers the other day, when I texted her. A terrible boy pretending to b
e a playwright, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, I’ve not met him, so I …’

  Harry picked up a picture frame, a photo of Monty, and put it back down in the wrong place. ‘They need sorting out, they do, those kids!’

  ‘When did you last see them?’ asked Meg sweetly. She didn’t much care for his didactic tone and headed into the kitchen. Harry followed her and plonked himself down on a chair, spreading his knees wide. Another Man Spreader, great!

  ‘Not sure,’ gruffed Harry. ‘Six, seven months ago. Kids, eh, Meggy? I need to have words with Olivia, and I’m going to kick that boy up the arse!’ He laughed, a loud infiltrating laugh, a laugh men like him love inflicting on people, mused Meg. And Meggy? She remembered he’d tried similar overfamiliarity at Uncle Compton’s funeral, fifteen years ago. It had annoyed her then, and so had his face, all ruddy and leering over a huge glass of whisky as he’d trotted after her when she was trying to find a quiet corner to continue her phone call.

  ‘I think Sarah’s tried,’ said Meg, realizing she was defending her sister for the second time. Weird. ‘But I think it’s difficult with those low-slung jeans? Hard to know where to aim.’

  Harry roared with laughter. ‘I haven’t been here for a long time,’ he said, looking around him with his pale-blue eyes. ‘These days the kids come to me. What’s there to drink?’

  Sarah didn’t have a drinks cabinet. There was merely a cupboard under the sink with a few barely touched bottles in it, next to the olive oil and the pepper grinder. Meg’s older sister had never been a great drinker. Those two years they lived together Meg did enough drinking for the two of them and Sarah had to stay permanently sober, of course, so she was always available to pick Meg up.

  ‘Gin, vodka, some kind of Spanish plonk?’ offered Meg.

  ‘Let’s go for the Spanish plonk, Meggy,’ said Harry. ‘Should keep the wolf from the door.’

  Meg suspected the wolf had already crossed the threshold a long time ago, but she could handle wolves. ‘Would you like to sit in the garden?’ she asked chirpily, filling a pint glass with tap water for herself.