Seven Days of Us(10)

As the roads got bumpier and twistier, some instinct told her that they were almost at Weyfield, and she half opened her eyes to see the yews and cobbled wall that circled the house. The car swung round through the gateposts and up the drive, and the sound of tires on gravel told her she was really back. One gate had come off its hinges and lay lamely against the gatepost—the whole thing overgrown with nettles and ivy. “Must sort out that gate,” said her mother. “It’s like Sleeping Beauty here! Did you have a nice snooze, sweetheart? You must be shattered. Now let me get Daddy to carry those bags, you run on in.” Olivia pushed open the front door, with its grinning lion knocker. It had been left ajar, as usual, because the latch always jammed. Still, the disregard for the environment grated. She wrenched the door firmly shut behind her and walked into the hall, where old Barbour jackets hung on one wall and an army of wellies flanked the skirting board. The Weyfield smell hit her—wood smoke, dusty carpets, and Lapsang souchong tea. She stood for a second, looking at the sepia photos of the 1953 flood, which hung below the cornice. They were the only pictures in the house she really liked, the rest being fussy Hartley portraits. After a moment Phoebe darted in. “You’re back! Yay!” she said. Her sister put out her arms in a careful, triangular hug so that she kept her feet and body as far from Olivia’s as possible. Whether it was fear of infection or the awkwardness that had dogged them since adolescence, Olivia wasn’t sure. “You’re so thin!” said Phoebe admiringly, though her eyes were dismayed—Olivia was meant to be the bigger sister.

“PPE in thirty-degree heat will do that,” she said.

“PPE?”

“Personal Protective Equipment. The hazard suits.”

“Oh right! Like Bikram?”

“Bikram?” said Andrew, appearing behind Phoebe.

“Hot yoga, Daddy,” said Phoebe. “The room’s boiling, so you sweat loads and lose loads of weight. That’s why Olivia’s so skinny.”

“Sounds ghastly,” he said, striding toward Olivia, gripping her shoulders and making “mwah” noises into the air, inches from either cheek.

“Probably not as ghastly as a Haag treatment center,” said Olivia.

“Quite,” said Andrew. “Now, where’s your luggage?” He looked at her legs, and for a moment she waited for him to make a wry comment about her trousers. She had bought them with Sean for Africana Friday, a weekly Liberian ritual where everyone dressed in joyous, printed textiles—even when the Haag crisis was at its height. But he just took a coat from the wall, swearing as he wrestled with the door and strode out.

It was disorienting to be back in the big, cluttered kitchen, the shelves groaning with pink lusterware and eighties Emma Bridgewater, alongside newer additions like the Dualit toaster (a tiny victory for her father, after lengthy debates about the merits of toast under the grill versus a toaster). Cocoa lay asleep under the table. Olivia had an odd feeling that only he could ever understand the weeks she had spent in Liberia.

“Cokey!” she said, crouching to tickle his chin and hear his Darth Vader purr.

“Careful!” said Phoebe.

“It’s OK. Haag isn’t spread by tickling.”

“But he’s twenty. He’s, like, a feline centenarian. He might have a doddery immune system.”

Olivia bit back the snap rising in her throat: “Who’s got a degree in infectious diseases?” and forced herself to say: “He’s tough, aren’t you, Cocoa?” Why was it easier to talk to a cat than her sister?

“Now, cup of tea?” said her mother, bustling in.

“I’m fine thanks, I had that one in the car.”

“Coffee? Might help with the jet lag? I always find it’s better to just stay up and try to get back on track.”

“Liberia is almost on the same meridian as Britain, I think you’ll find,” said Andrew.

“Golly, yes, silly me,” said her mother. “Now I’m doing roast beef for lunch, is that still all right? Two thirty-ish?”

“Great!” said Olivia. “I’m going to go and have a shower.”

“OK, darling, you’re in the Shell Bathroom. I’ve put out shampoo and towels and everything.” She said “shell bathroom” in the special loud, deliberate voice she used for foreigners.

Olivia was already in the doorway, so she kept moving to avoid saying: “It’s safe to share a bathroom with me.” How, after overseeing a Haag treatment center, could staying at Weyfield make her feel fourteen again? Why couldn’t she be the adult she was at work, with her family?

Her limbs felt leaden as she walked up the oak stairs and over the threadbare, olive-green carpet in the corridor—probably unchanged since those pictures of the flood. She turned left into her bedroom, which her mother called the Willow Room, as if they were in a period drama. Across the landing, she could see Phoebe’s much bigger room, which they used to share. It had been redone at Phoebe’s insistence a few years ago, and now had to be referred to as the Gray Room. The huge bed was piled with slate-colored throws and wreathed in fairy lights, the floorboards painted white. Olivia realized she had forgotten to say anything about her sister being engaged.

Her own room seemed to have been prepared for a guest. A sherry glass of hellebores sat on the dressing table, and by the bed was a carafe of water and stack of paperbacks. On top was a book called Love Nina. Phoebe and Emma had been obsessed with it a few years ago, and she had disappointed them by not reading it. They had kept pointing out that it was set in 1980s Camden, as if this was a mark in its favor. Why would she want to revisit her own blinkered childhood? Olivia liked books she could escape into, fantasies and thrillers. She looked at her reflection—never easy at Weyfield, where every mirror was spotted with age, like an overripe banana. Phoebe was right, she had got skinny. Too thin, in fact. Watching her undress last night, Sean had said she was wasting away. The medic in her knew he was right—her periods had stopped last month, just as they had when she’d lost fifteen pounds during finals. But she had secretly enjoyed the novelty of feeling fragile. Which was stupid, she knew. Why had she succumbed to some ideal of daintiness—of Phoebe-ness—when she had long ago made peace with being tall and strong? Anyway, she’d be back to normal within weeks, if Emma kept feeding her like a foie gras goose.