Seven Days of Us(48)

So just as you get better, I’ve had bad news. It turns out my mother was diagnosed with an NHL last week. I had no idea—my sister sprang it on me last night. Basically her boyfriend, George, gatecrashed our quarantine on Christmas Day, so he’s now staying here with us (not sure if the whole thing was planned, wouldn’t put it past them). Anyway, last night the two of them got pissed and decided to go out . . . I know . . . I saw them leave and followed them on my bike, and Phoebe and I ended up having a massive row, and she dropped this bombshell in the middle of it. Apparently my mum didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to “ruin Christmas,” which is typically mad of her. But, obviously it’s not ideal that she’s in the house with me, with her immunity, when I’m high risk. I don’t want to scare everyone by mentioning you and me, though, when there are only two days to go. Phoebe said my mum’s waiting for test results, so will probably start treatment ASAP. Hard to know whether to say anything, because she wants it kept secret and I feel like I should respect that. But since I only got my sister’s garbled version, I have no idea what stage she is, how fast it’s moving, etc. Often feels like I’m the last to know anything about my own family. As in, the fact that I have a life and don’t live at home with arrested development like my sister, means they don’t need to tell me stuff. OK rant over. Sorry to dump all this on you when you’re probably still drugged up. It’s just a relief to put it all down in words. Your parents must have been so worried. Are they in London, at least? I promise I’ll come and see you as soon as you’re out of your isolation tunnel, and I’m free from this madhouse. Can’t wait.


Get lots of rest. I love you.

Olivia XXXX

PS: Not quite sure how I’m going to break the news to my parents—remember Sean Coughlan off the news? We hooked up in Liberia. And I’m crazy about him. Hohoho.

She pressed send and turned the iPad over—the screen was burning her eyes. “Wiv,” her mother called from downstairs. “Are you up? We need to do the bonfire before it rains! Come down! I’ve done scrambled eggs.” Olivia’s stomach turned slightly at the thought of warm, lumpy egg. She couldn’t refuse Emma’s giant breakfasts now, though. Feeding the troops was probably all that was keeping her mother sane.

? ? ?

The bonfire was a Weyfield Christmas ritual. Olivia remembered hopping around it as a child with Phoebe, both in manic Rumpelstiltskin mode, but as a teenager she’d pleaded the need to study instead. She was surprised the others were persisting with it now. Still, it was good to be outside in the fresh air. She felt fine now that she was up, so it must have been low blood sugar earlier. Her father had built the fire in the usual spot at the bottom of the orchard. He was walking down the grassy slope from the house now, carrying a stack of boxes. Her mother was standing beside the heap of branches, looking through old magazines and schoolwork from the attic. Surprisingly little had been deemed disposable in the end. “Fabulous,” said Emma. “This is going to be really cathartic. Now, haven’t you got any Haagy bits and pieces you want to burn, sweetie?” Clearly her mother hadn’t quite grasped the concept of contamination. But she must have a lot on her mind, Olivia reminded herself. “Everything got burned or bleached while we were out there,” she said.

“Of course, of course. Silly me. Perhaps I should go and get Phoebs,” said Emma, half to herself. Olivia tried to observe her professionally. She didn’t appear to have the visible fatigue that typically affected cancer patients—or any discernible weight loss. Andrew staggered toward them, almost dropping his load. “Golly, you’ve done well!” said Emma. “I had no idea you had so much down here.”

“I was ruthless. It’s mostly work junk. And one appalling attempt at a novel. A thriller, I’m afraid. Christ knows why. Did I tell you at the time? Can’t remember now. Anyway, the less said about my foray into fiction, the better. Right then, pyrotechnics!” he said, beginning to arrange the branches into a wigwam shape. Olivia thought of him sneaking out for a walk on Christmas Eve. Sometimes she felt like she had no respect for her father. He was as bad as Phoebe—both worshipping the frivolous, making careers out of it, pleasing themselves above all else. The fact that he was apparently oblivious to his wife’s cancer only confirmed his grotesque ego. A small, bobble-hatted figure came limping over from the bungalow.

“George’s still in bed,” said Phoebe, when she got near enough to be heard.

“Good-oh,” said her mother, running over to take her arm. “Nobody need feel they have to do anything. We’re very relaxed. How’s your poor foot?”

So Phoebe had filled everyone in on her injury, thought Olivia. Just as well, since she hadn’t wanted to lie for her. Phoebe kept making agonized grimaces as she clung to Emma, and then moved onto Andrew. She was wearing sparkly mittens and avoiding Olivia’s eye. She probably hadn’t forgiven her for last night. Typically childish. Especially after Olivia had got her home, sorted out her foot, and agreed not to tell anyone. Andrew threw a match into the pile of dry wood and paper, and the fire launched with a greedy crackle. “Seems extraordinary that we had to make do with a magnifying glass in that camp,” he said. Her mother began tipping boxes onto the flames, with little whoops. Phoebe seemed to forget her foot in the thrill of igniting French textbooks, too. Olivia stood back, breathing through her mouth to avoid the acrid smell. It reminded her of the mass cremations the Liberian government had ordered in November. Was the whisper of nausea back? Don’t think about cremations, she ordered herself. Sean’s getting better, and you’re fine. Stop being silly.