by Livia Ellis
Olga starts pulling cloths off of the furniture. A spindly carved chair parked in front of a patience table is revealed. Perfect for the bored Victorian lady wanting to play a little solitaire. Why do I keep on saying I’m broke? Olga wants to know this as she’s visually tallying up the value of my furniture.
Because I am broke. Just because I have stuff doesn’t mean I have cash to pay the tax bill. Before she even suggests it, I would really rather not resort to selling the furniture unless I have to. But it will come to that before I let Betty Crusher have the place.
I open up a cabinet where the board games are stashed. There they are. A stack of rectangular boxes waiting patiently for someone to come along on a rainy afternoon and put them to use.
Do I want her to call her father and have Betty Crusher’s legs broken?
I look over my shoulder at Olga. I truly don’t know if she’s joking.
If she’d like to break a few legs for me, she can send her father after my Former Fiancée’s father.
She can do that. She pulls a cloth off of an s-curve chair that seats two facing in opposite directions. What is it? She sits down. Is it a chair? It’s a funny sort of chair. Why are the seats like they are?
So that two people, generally a young man and a young woman, could sit next to each other and whisper sweet nothings whilst pretending to be doing something else like reading.
She wants the chair.
She can’t have it.
She wants it.
I ignore her. I find what I’m looking for in the Cluedo box. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I mumble to myself something along the lines of if there were a Lady Harkslon she wouldn’t need a bloody lover.
I fan through the book, stopping when I come across the passages I had carefully annotated and underlined. I must have been grinning like a fool. Olga stopped stroking the wood of the s-chair and joined me.
What is it?
A book. My eyes scan the underlined passages. Is she absolutely certain her body is a temple I cannot enter? Because if she’d be willing to make an exception she very well could make the dreams of a lonely twelve-year old boy come true.
Don’t be gross.
Do I try to explain I mean me and not some actual twelve year old boy? Is it worth the energy? I flip through the book again and a slip of folded writing paper falls out. I know this paper. It’s heavy and creamy. It would have come from my grandfather. I open the note and read.
Dear Ollie – If you’d like to have a chat, just let me know. I know it may not always seem like it, but I am there for you if you need me. Maybe I can clear some things up for you. I’m not unaware that you’re getting older. Things are probably a little confusing and scary right now, but I promise it will pass. Talking might help. Love Dad.
Not granddad. Dad. My father. My distant father who never had a moment to spare for me because his life was devoted to making my selfish mother happy. Not that he wasn’t a selfish prick. They colluded. I wondered if he knew whether or not I existed that summer when I discovered Constance and Oliver. What do I remember of that summer? My mother was absent. They were having problems. He was home. He wanted to take me riding and pretend we had a relationship. I was surly – I was trying to punish my father for a thousand imagined slights – I was twelve. What a little prick I was. The note is proof he knew I was alive. He was paying attention. What would have happened if I had discovered the note? I don’t know. I probably would have been humiliated my father had caught me reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Maybe that conversation would have built a bridge. Who knows?
Olga takes the note from me. I don’t know if she reads it or not, but she has the decency not to say anything. Instead she just holds me tight with those freakishly strong arms of hers. A matching set to her freakishly strong thighs. I don’t know if her silence is intuitive or if she simply doesn’t know what to say to a grown man that is sobbing and rather snotty. I’m uncomfortable that there is a witness to my emotional release. I’d gone years without crying then in the space of six months thrice I’ve lost the proverbial plot. Fortunately Olga is the only witness to my unraveling. The other two times were allowed to occur in the dignity of solitude.
I sit on the ground and wonder why I bother. Why am I fighting for an anachronistic dinosaur of a life that no longer holds any meaning? Betty Crusher, may she rot in whatever hell is populated by those who live off the marrow of others, has a point. If I let her sell the house and the land, I could end up with enough money to live an excellent life. I can sell Wold Hall and I will still be me. Me that doesn’t have to fuck sexually confused singers or piss on fashion designers to make enough money to pay for the taxes on the beast. What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Why keep rising to the challenge of keeping the beast when I find myself on my ass at every turn trying so desperately to hold on to it? Why? I ask Olga to give me an answer and she doesn’t have one.
Olga pets my hair, kisses my cheek, tells me that I am good, that she loves me (yes – she told me that she loves me – I made a choice to ignore this assuming it had something to do with her natural female instinct to comfort a wounded male – at least this is what I sincerely hope), and that she’ll make nice with her father. She promises me she’ll make nice with her father. I have to be patient because she refuses to just give in, but she will make nice with her father. As if this will somehow solve all of my problems.
I will give her credit. She does have a way with me that I don’t wholly understand. My tears are allowed to run their course. I don’t feel less because I’ve had this breakdown, but rather somehow more. Her claims that I’m now able to go and take on the world have a ring of truth to it. That we will do it together smacks of an aggrandized pep-talk only makes me smile. Olga is my cheerleader. I am hurting but I am not hurt. I have been wounded by the beast but not felled. Time for me to get my ass off the ground and come out swinging.
I stand up. The pity party is over. I could give up, but I won’t. I am many things, but I am no quitter.
CHAPTER SIX
The Greshams
As I flick the final cloth over the last remaining piece of furniture in the games room to be shrouded, Mrs. Gresham walks into the room. She’s carrying a shotgun. I’m pleased to know I’m not the only one that will defend my castle with arms.
What am I doing here?
I live here.
Don’t be a turd.
Didn’t they get the message? I texted.
She hasn’t spoken to Mr. Gresham since early that morning. When she saw the car in the drive she thought that vile Betty Crusher had returned.
She had returned. She has already been chased off.
Well done.
Any idea how that woman knows when no one is home?
Not even one. She and Mr. Gresham have searched the property for cameras or anything that looks out of place. Not a thing. That said, she always to go Exeter to visit her mother same time every week whilst Mr. Gresham golfs. Maybe they need to switch that up. Do I have any manners… she looks at Olga and smiles.
Right. Olga. Mrs. Gresham.
Olga sighs, extends a hand, and introduces herself. She works in public relations. Party planning mostly.
Lovely! How lovely! Party planning! What a fun job!
I snort, roll my eyes, mumble about being bored and generally make myself as incorrigible as I can.
Both women give me the stink eye.
Mrs. Gresham sighs. Do I know anything about the dead pheasants in the kitchen?
Lunch.
Am I cooking?
I’m showing Olga around.
Another big sigh. Next time I put dead birds in the kitchen we will be having a conversation. She clicks her tongue and the dogs that have been lounging about in front of the cold fireplace remembering better days, snap to her heels.
She’ll make lunch which will be cottage pie. The pheasants will make a nice dinner. Don’t wander too far. Listen for the gong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Social
Secretary
I take Olga’s hand and we make a complete circuit around the exterior of the house. She’s warm then waspish. Either way it’s directed at me. I didn't mean for my words in the car to bother her, but they have. That coupled with the fact I had to chase Betty Crusher and her team off of my property couldn’t have helped. It’s also very possible my emotional breakdown in the games room hasn’t helped matters. As a whole, the day started well then turned into a pile of shit.
The state of the rose garden is enough to get Olga out of her own head and back into the present. It is decided immediately that it is a good thing I am childless because if the state of the garden is any indication of how I care for precious living things, the poor things would be doomed to a life of neglect and want.
I wanted to get work in the garden done, but I considered taking her riding instead. I hate to see clouds in her eyes. If riding would make her happy, then that's what's really important. The roses can wait.
Or not. The garden is in full bloom and has a sort of feral quality. No one has properly attended to the garden since my grandmother died. My father gave it a good try and I think he made progress before stepping in front of a bus. Hard to say though. What I do know is that I know about as much as he did when it comes to rose gardening. My grandmother was the rose-whisperer.
The autumn is cool, but the summer was warm. The roses are abundant and growing like weeds. The perfume fills the air. Olga gives me a dirty look. If her mother saw this, she'd cry. How could I let the rose garden get in such a state?
Where is the shed? Where are the tools? She'll get to work in the roses. If we work together, we can get the over growth cleared and the bushes trimmed back. Let's do the roses today. It's possible we might actually get through it if there's a proper hedge trimmer. Is there a proper hedge trimmer? Where is the nearest garden center?
In town. I need to go to town. There are things that need to be taken care of. Bills that need to be paid. But we can do these things after lunch. We should get our things from the car and settle in.
We return to the front entrance and to the car.
I leave her riding kit in the entrance and go back to the car. That can go in the mud room off the kitchen when we come back down. I take Olga's Louis Vuitton tote bag and her suitcase.
She takes her magazines.
Back into the house, then up the stairs I lead the way. I moved into the master bedroom when my father died. My mother had the nerve to try to argue with me about it after the funeral. I have no idea why she made an issue of my moving into my grandparents’ room. It’s not like my father had moved into the room before he walked in front of a bus. I can’t understand why she had to fight with me about that on that day of all days. I wonder what The Psychiatrist would have to say about that and the fact mother and son haven’t spoken since. Probably a lot. I suspect that sort of complicated grief and family trauma is her bread and butter. I wonder if she’d be willing to trade sexual favors for therapy.
The master bedroom isn't just a room. It's a series of rooms. Apartments. The first room is a reception room. Fireplace, couches, chairs, tables. If I received personal guests, I could do it here. If there was someone to bring me my breakfast, the papers, and the mail, it would be here. If I had a countess with correspondence to attend to, there is a nice desk which looks out over the back gardens as they roll into the cliffs then the sea. The radio was top of the line in 1970. I turn it on. It's still tuned to BBC Radio 4. The Archers Omnibus is underway.
Olga is silent. I don't know if she knows I like quiet when I first come in here after being away, or if she finally just has nothing to say. Either way I don't care.
We walk from the reception room into the office. There is mail stacked on the desk. I look through my bank statements. I've drawn three quarters worth of interest from what remains of my trust. It's been reinvested. I've made about £9,000 combined work and tips. Not bad at all. The Latin Pop Star has been my biggest source of income. I need to do whatever I can do to encourage that particular relationship. I still have a long way to go, but I'm making inroads.
Olga takes the bank statement from me. I'm not broke. Why do I keep saying I'm broke? I have plenty of money.
I don't have plenty of money. Does she have any idea how much it costs me to keep Wold Hall from falling into a heap? Besides, I need to be able to have enough in my primary to draw an income. I don't want to be a prostitute for the rest of my life.
I open a few invitations for weddings and parties that I won't attend. I either don't know these people, don't want to know these people, or have been invited out of courtesy and respect for the memory of my grandparents. I'm kept on everyone's list simply because I might bounce back one day. No one wants to run the risk of having snubbed me only to have me rise again from the ashes.
Most of the parties have passed anyhow. But not all of them.
Olga picks up the save the date cards and invitations as I discard them. Why don't I want to go to weddings and parties?
Because.
She wants to go to weddings and parties. Nobody ever invites her to weddings and parties. She loves weddings and parties. When she gets married she's going to have a huge wedding. We will go together. The decision is made.
No. No decision is made. I'm not going.
Why not?
Because.
Why not?
Because I'm not ready to show my face in public.
Chicken.
I'm not a chicken.
Chicken. Big yellow chicken. Who is Margaret Adair? Who is William McLaren The Younger? Why is he younger?
Margaret is my cousin. William is her fiancé. He's the heir to the Laird of Pengul.
Is he royalty?
Yes. He’ll be a laird one day.
Fancy. Fancy. Why am I not going to my cousins wedding? Don't I like my cousin?
I like my cousin Margaret very much.
Then why am I being so selfish? Not everything is about me. Margaret’s wedding is about Margaret and who she wants to be present to share in her happiness. Not about me and my discomfort. Stop being so egotistical. I annoy her.
I don't want to go. A sigh wheezes out of me. I sound like a petulant child. Everyone will be there. My Uncle Albert. My Aunt Maisie. I groan. Everyone that thinks I'm a profound disappointment. Worse than that – my Former Fiancée will be there. I’m certain of it. She’s Margaret’s friend. Please don't make me go. I’ve already agreed to go to her sister’s wedding. Isn’t that enough?
We're going to the wedding. We’re especially going if that woman who is so determined to make me miserable is going to be there. I’m going to her sister’s wedding. The least she can do is go to my cousin’s wedding. Stop being such a baby. I can drive the car. She'll book a place for us in Glasgow. We'll go up the night before. She's never been to Scotland. She'll call Margaret. Find out about accommodations the night of. She wonders if she'll have time to have a hat made special. She'll sort out the gift. Something special. Maybe something from Fabergé.
I guess I'm going to my cousin Margaret's wedding. Good. I wanted to go. Margaret is one of the few people that hasn't snubbed me. Olga will be my human shield.
Do I have classic morning dress? Or does she need to get an appointment with a tailor?
I have classic morning dress.
She'll sort out my waistcoat and tie. We're not going to be matchy-matchy, which she despises, but we will look like we belong together. She continues to pick up invitations. Her planner is out. She's marking down dates. She's organizing. I'm quizzed about each invitation. Some are discarded. Some are added to the calendar. There is a pattern emerging. Any event that involves the potential to wear expensive clothing and end up in the pages of Hello are picked. I've had enough of being in magazines, but she's too happy for me to tell her no.
I'm being forced out of my seclusion. I honestly can't complain. The only way I'm going to make my way back into polite society is by showing up. These are the things I need
to do if I’m going to convince anyone that I’ve changed my stripes.
I kiss Olga on the cheek. Have I told her recently how much I appreciate her?
I haven't. But that's okay. She knows I need her. Am I done with the mail? We need to get to the garden center.
I'm done. There's nothing else that I need to look at.
I leave the office with Olga behind me. We cross the reception room; the theme music for The Archers is playing. We go into the bedroom. There is already wood stacked up next to the fireplace and a fire is built in the hearth, waiting to be lit. Mr. Gresham did get my message. He knows I’m coming. I truly appreciate this. The bed has been made up and a small space heater warms the room. Olga walks to one of the two alcoves and looks out the window at the sea.
Between the two alcoves is the couch she can sleep on. Heavy mahogany leather. I'm fairly certain it was a gift from Queen Victoria.
Did Queen Victoria sleep on it?
I sincerely doubt that Queen Victoria ever slept on a couch.
Then she's not going to sleep on it. We can share the bed. She's going to change into jeans. Where is the bathroom?
I walk to the door to the bathroom. The round tower room is frigid when the massive fire isn't going. But when it is going, and the teacup shaped copper bath is filled with hot water, it's like a steam bath. The fire has been laid in the hearth. Hanging on an arm waiting to be used, is the giant kettle used to boil water for the bath.
Olga nearly screams when she sees the bathtub. She will be taking a bath. A very long, very hot, very perfect bath.
There's no hot water for a bath. Unless she wants to fill the kettle on a hook over the fire and wait for it to boil.
Why is there no hot water? The look she gives me could separate paint.
The hot water boiler was yanked out along with the majority of the plumbing when my Former Fiancée decided we were getting married in Wold Hall.
Why hasn’t it been fixed?
I nearly got it fixed, but I've already sunk enough money into repairs I can't afford just to make the place habitable again. There's cold water and the shower is hot. On the plus side, the roof no longer leaks. That's a bonus.
