The Perfect Present

by Karen Swan

  ‘No. Not since Truffle.’

  ‘Oh. Does Cat?’

  ‘She did for a bit. Purely decoratively, though.’ The ghostly smile had been replaced by a sneer.

  ‘What do you mean, decoratively?’

  Olive shrugged. ‘She looked good in jodhpurs. I imagine she liked the image more than the actual horses.’

  ‘But she’d loved Truffle?’

  Olive nodded. ‘Yes. She loved him.’

  Laura cleared her throat. It seemed no topic was safe. ‘Can you think of any other fond memories?’

  Olive’s eyes swivelled back to the flames. Utter concentration was needed.

  ‘Cornwall. We took a holiday there the summer I turned nine. My mother took us down on the train and it was everything you might expect – rounders on the beach, ice-cream cornets, playing in the rock pools, beachcombing.’ She looked up suddenly, although only at Laura for a moment. ‘Beachcombing was a shared interest. I’d entirely forgotten.’

  ‘Tell me about that,’ Laura encouraged her, resisting the urge to shout for joy.

  ‘The guest house we were staying in overlooked the beach, and if the tide was going out, Mother would let us go down in our pyjamas and wellingtons before bed. There was one night when we found a conch shell, sitting there, just waiting to be plucked from the water. It was the biggest shell we’d ever seen, like those ones people have in their bathrooms nowadays as some type of ornament. We ran back to the guest house with it, but Mother wouldn’t let us bring it into the house. Something had died in it, I think, and the smell of rotting shellfish was . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘I can almost smell it now. It was ghastly. Cat was convinced that if we washed it through with some bleach or washing-up liquid or disinfectant, we would clear it. She’s nothing if not persistent, my sister. For days we tried, pouring one poison after another on it. But in the end we had to admit defeat. There was just no way we could travel home with that smell accompanying us.’

  ‘So what did you do with it? Throw it back into the sea?’

  ‘No. There was a small fishpond in the back garden of the guest house. We put it in there. Nobody knew about it. It was our secret. We always said we’d go back for it one day and could smuggle it home safely.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Olive stared at her. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It might still be there, then.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it. The owners probably threw it back in the sea a week after we left.’

  ‘Well, if they didn’t know about it . . .’ Laura shrugged.

  ‘Even if they didn’t find it then, there are now so many health and safety regulations for anyone wishing to open their house to the general public that I’m quite sure the pond would have been filled in years ago.’

  Olive was clearly determined to kill that dream. ‘Well, did you make any other wonderful discoveries?’

  ‘Yes. We also found a spider crab in a rock pool just behind our favourite lagoon that summer. It was enormous – the size of a dinner plate. I’m not exaggerating,’ she added sternly. ‘There was a café just up the beach, and someone said they were going to tell the owners about this crab for fresh sandwiches. So Cat and I stood on guard for the rest of the day. We were too scared to pick it up, but we took turns standing up to our knees in the freezing water, hiding it from people and protecting it until the tide came back in.’

  A slow satisfaction crept across her face, and her hands opened like flowers on the armrests. ‘That was a good day. It was the first time we had ever worked together on anything as a team. It was the first day that I really understood what it was to have a sister.’

  ‘So it brought you closer together, then,’ Laura commented, filled with hope that here was her story.

  But Laura’s voice appeared to interrupt her reverie and Olive drew her breath in sharply. ‘No, not really. It was just a freak day. Nothing changed.’ The shutters came straight back down.

  The fire made all the noise for a few moments as Laura tried to think of a new inroad into Olive’s memory bank. So far, she had a pony called Truffle, a stinky conch shell and an endangered crab to work with, which was great – far better than she’d dared to hope. All of those stories could be transposed into graphic charms. But was that really it – the only vestiges of the sisters’ childhood?

  ‘Can you think of any other stories like that which show your relationship with your sister? It would help enormously.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Olive replied unapologetically.

  They sat in silence for a minute or two. Laura sipped at her tea, which was so hot it was burning her lips.

  ‘Well, is that it? Are we done?’ Olive asked, encouraged by the protracted silence and gathering herself to stand.

  ‘Uh . . . yes, okay,’ Laura managed, switching off her digital recorder and following suit. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’

  ‘I was expecting that to be a lot worse,’ she said, her demeanour approaching a shade of cordial now that Laura was on her way out.

  She opened the front door and the blue December day rushed into the dark house like a wind. ‘Well, goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, just one last thing, if you don’t mind?’ Laura said, turning back on the step. ‘I wondered if you could sum up your sister in three words for me?’

  Olive’s eyes shone at her. ‘Easily,’ Olive replied after a short pause. ‘Dead. To. Me.’

  And with that, the door closed and there was a quiet, but resolute, click.

  ‘Door’s open!’ Kitty yelled from inside the house as Laura rapped the knocker. ‘Come through.’

  ‘It’s me, Kitty! Laura.’

  Laura pushed the front door off the latch and walked through the small, dark hallway. Compared with the vast proportions of the Parsonage, it felt like burrowing through an underground tunnel. Tucked in the far corner of the hall, by the staircase, was a modest Christmas tree covered in green and silver tinsel, with a 1970s fairy on top and the nibbled, rather forlorn gingerbread decorations Kitty had mentioned in Verbier that the children had made. Multicoloured paper chains were Blu-tacked to the ceiling in shallow swags and jugs full of holly were sitting on every surface. Christmas had come to Quinces.

  She walked into the kitchen, where Kitty was crouched in front of the Aga, her arms stretched deep into one of the ovens. She looked like she was being devoured by it.

  ‘Damned thing!’ she cried as she caught sight of Laura. ‘Went cold this morning and I think there’s a block in the control-valve filter. If I can just . . .’ She puffed, twiddling with something out of sight before dropping her arms and head in defeat. ‘No. It’s too stiff. Joe will have to do it when he gets back.’

  She extracted her arms from the cavernous cold oven and wiped her hands on her apron as she came over to Laura with her arms opened wide. ‘How excellent that you’re here!’

  Laura felt herself droop as Kitty embraced her, biting her lip to stop the physical contact from making her emotional.

  ‘Well, I was just over seeing Olive, and after I got your message . . . I mean, I hope it’s not inconvenient,’ she said awkwardly.

  Strictly speaking she should have hightailed it back to Suffolk the second she’d finished at Olive’s. The sky had darkened ominously and London’s dithering sleet was falling as crisp, plump snow across the North Downs. It was going to take hours to get back; she had to get on with making these final charms to free up some time to make some new pieces for Cat’s party too, but the knowledge that Kitty and some tea and sympathy were only three miles away had been too much to resist. Just an hour. Then she’d be gone.

  ‘As if!’ Kitty bellowed with a laugh. ‘Especially as I made a plum cake yesterday. Trust me, it’s amazing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Laura agreed quickly, even though she’d had all the appetite of a chair since Monday. ‘You’re an incredible cook.’

  ‘Thanks! But I can’t take credit for the recipe. I got it off my allotment growers’ website.’

&n
bsp; ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you grow anything?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ Laura grimaced. ‘I’ve only got two settings when it comes to growing stuff – flood it or starve it to death.’

  Kitty burst out laughing as she switched on an electric kettle and rooted in a cupboard for a cafetière. ‘So. Olive.’ Kitty pulled a face. ‘Was she civil?’

  ‘Just about, although if she’d had a choice between that and water-boarding . . .’ Laura watched Kitty shovelling heaped spoonfuls of coffee into the glass container. ‘Do you get on with her?’

  ‘I didn’t ever know her that well.’

  ‘Well now, I don’t believe that,’ Laura argued. ‘You and Cat were practically one person growing up. You couldn’t have avoided her.’

  ‘We did, actually. It was perfectly easy. What with being at different schools and living apart, we hardly ever saw her.’

  ‘What do you mean, different schools?’

  ‘You know – Cat went to the local primary with me, whilst Olive got sent to the private girls’ school at Bridgestock. Lady Olive we used to call her.’ She looked at Laura’s shocked face. ‘Surely she told you that?’

  Laura shook her head. ‘No. She never mentioned it. Why would her parents have done that – sent one daughter but not the other?’

  ‘They couldn’t afford it. They were financially devastated after the divorce. They had to sell everything – the house, the car, the—’

  ‘The house?’ Laura interrupted. ‘You mean the Parsonage?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s bought it back now, but it was the first thing to go back then.’ Kitty wrinkled her nose. ‘Cat said she never liked it there anyway. It reminded her of when her parents were always fighting. Things got pretty hairy, I think. Vases thrown, that kind of thing . . .’

  ‘Poor kids.’

  ‘She and Olive used to spend all their time hiding in the garden or in their bedrooms. Sometimes they didn’t see their parents from one end of the day to the next. They were looked after by a nanny.’ The kettle boiled and Kitty filled the cafetière with tumbling water.

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she shrugged, watching the coffee swirl with the water. ‘Anyway, you can imagine why Cat loved it so much when she and her mum came and lived in the cottage up here.’

  Laura remembered. Kitty had told her that the first time she’d come here. ‘So if Cat and her mum came to live here after the divorce, where did Olive live? With their father?’

  ‘God, no! He was a raging alcoholic. There was no way she could have gone with him. She went to board at Bridgestock instead.’

  ‘Bridgestock was a boarding school?’ Laura shook her head. ‘But I just don’t understand that. How on earth could they have justified sending one daughter away and keeping the other at home with them? Why didn’t they keep them both at home?’

  Kitty looked at her. ‘You’re making it sound like Olive got the poor end of the stick, being sent to boarding school. What about poor Cat? She missed out on a first-class education and all the privilege that brings.’

  Laura ran this scenario through her head. Seen from that perspective, Kitty was right to see Cat as the victim. ‘I guess you’re right. Why was Cat overlooked in favour of her sister, then?’

  Kitty leaned forwards. ‘Well, I’ve always had a theory – although Cat would never accept it, and I sincerely doubt you’d have got an adult to admit to it either – but I reckon it was because Cat possessed something her sister didn’t.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Looks. Cat got them all.’ With enormous satisfaction, Kitty pressed down on the plunger.

  ‘But Olive’s attractive.’

  ‘Yes, but compared to Cat?’ Kitty shrugged. ‘Everyone always knew that Cat had that fallback. What did she need a fabulous education for when she was clearly going to marry a rich man who’d worship and look after her? Olive, on the other hand, needed every advantage she could get.’

  ‘But that’s just awful,’ Laura cried. ‘It victimizes them both.’

  Kitty shook her head and sighed, pouring out the coffee. ‘I know. And it definitely affected Cat more as she got older. I think she felt she had to prove that there was more to her than just her looks.’ Laura thought back to Cat’s excitement when she was relating her idea for the launch party. More than just a rich woman’s whim? ‘But Olive was the one who lost out ultimately,’ Kitty said sadly.

  ‘How? You just said she was the one to get all the privileges.’

  ‘I think she suspected what I did – that her parents judged her against her sister and she came up short. It’s such a shame. By trying to compensate for her, they confirmed her worst fears.’

  ‘Oh God! No wonder she hates her,’ Laura said, slumping against the back of a chair as Kitty handed over her mug. ‘And I’ve just forced her to recount that not-so-happy childhood, all for some over-the-top romantic gesture by Cat’s—’

  ‘Rich, handsome, besotted husband? Yes, it’s hardly surprising she didn’t want to be part of it, really. Anyway, it’s done now. And I’m sure she would much rather have been included in the project than not. Her pride would have demanded she be counted in her sister’s life story if nothing else. What stories did she tell you? There can’t have been many,’ Kitty asked, slurping her coffee loudly.

  ‘She told me about their pony.’

  Kitty tutted sympathetically. ‘Oh, poor Truffle. They were both broken-hearted when he went.’

  ‘Was he sold after the divorce too?’

  ‘No. Well, not directly. The girls managed to persuade their father to let them keep him. He hadn’t been gelded, so we stabled him on the farm here and he was put to stud a few times. That brought a bit of money in. But then he fell lame with sinking laminitis – it’s curable, but time-consuming and expensive, and their father refused to pay the vet’s bills to save him. Instead, he . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Oh, it’s an awful story.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Kitty sighed reluctantly as she heaved an enormous square cake out of a tin. ‘He sold him to the knacker’s yard. That way he got some money back on him.’

  Laura couldn’t respond. Olive and Cat’s father had sent his daughters’ beloved pony to its death to make back some money? No wonder Olive hadn’t been on a horse since.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t I know any of this going into the interview?’ Laura moaned. ‘It throws a completely different slant on things.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Kitty apologized. ‘I figured it was Olive’s story to tell, not mine. I just picked up Cat’s life once she came to live here.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not blaming you,’ she murmured. ‘So Cat’s was a childhood of two halves, then. Before – big house, pony, alcoholic father, warring parents. After – you, chickens, no father, sister at boarding school.’ Something occurred to her. ‘How old was Cat when her parents divorced?’

  Kitty inhaled slowly, deep in thought, the cake knife hovering above the first cut. ‘Five-ish? I remember being told that this girl my age was coming to live in one of the cottages, and I sat on the gate waiting for her. She was coming back from a holiday, and Mum had said to me to be extra kind to her because this girl didn’t know that she wasn’t going back to her old house and it might all be a bit of a shock. But we took one look at each other and . . . ’ Kitty shrugged. ‘We just smiled. That was it.’

  ‘Where had she been on holiday?’

  ‘Cornwall, I think, just with their mum. Their father stayed behind to clear out the house.’

  ‘So then Cornwall was the last week that Cat and Olive knew as a family,’ Laura murmured, thinking of the two little sisters standing guard over the giant crab in a rock pool. ‘When they came back, everything had changed – their father had left, Olive was sent away . . .’

  ‘I know. It was an almighty mess,’ Kitty said, shaking her head sadly. ‘The entire family torn apart because of one sliding-doors moment. I mean, how do you live with that?’

  ‘
Sliding doors?’ Laura frowned.

  ‘Yes.’ Kitty looked at her, quite still. ‘Oh, please tell me someone’s told you about Daniel.’

  ‘Who’s Daniel?’

  Kitty looked shocked. ‘Their brother.’

  ‘They’ve got a brother? But why didn’t Olive or Rob say anything? Is he estranged too?’

  ‘No. He’s dead. He died when he was eleven months old.’

  Laura’s hands flew to her mouth.

  ‘He choked on a grape in front of Olive. She was only about three at the time.’

  ‘But where were their parents?’

  ‘Upstairs, making up after one of their rows,’ Kitty said. ‘Conceiving Cat, as it turned out.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Laura whispered, understanding the fatal fissure between the sisters immediately: Olive had witnessed her brother’s death and felt she was to blame, whilst her pretty little baby sister was born with a clean slate and the promise of making things good again.

  Laura thought about her parting words: Dead to me. They made perfect sense now. Olive couldn’t forgive – she couldn’t forgive herself for not saving him; she couldn’t forgive her parents for neglecting them; but most of all she couldn’t forgive her sister for being born whilst their brother had had to die.

  ‘Those girls never stood a chance of being sisters,’ Laura said. ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘No,’ Kitty sighed, putting a saucer of plum cake down in front of her. ‘But enough of other people’s worries. How are things in your neck of the woods? I was so worried when you left in such a hurry. Sam’s convinced Alex did something to scare you away.’ She dropped her voice. ‘He didn’t try anything on, did he?’

  Laura shook her head. ‘No, no! Nothing like that. Jack was worried about Arthur, that was all,’ she replied, keeping her voice steady as she said Jack’s name. ‘He, uh . . . had a temperature.’

  Kitty didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘Everything’s okay, though?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She nodded vehemently, keeping her eyes down as she picked at the cake. The impulse to tell Kitty about Fee and Jack was overwhelming. She knew that if she told her, Kitty would hug her again, probably cry with her and feed her more cake. But how could she ask for a shoulder to cry on when she was guilty herself of betraying Kitty’s own best friend? She had kissed Rob and would become the enemy in an instant – irrespective of whether or not she had ‘started’ it – and Laura wasn’t sure she could cope with losing Kitty’s friendly face too. She’d come to rely on her more than she wanted to admit. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ she murmured instead.