by Lulu Taylor
Not even Francesca. Although she is the closest to looking untouched by parenthood. Maybe because she started earlier.
Olivia, meanwhile, felt immune to the transformative effects of age. All through her thirties, she barely changed. The odd strand of grey almost invisible in her blonde hair, a faint line or two on her forehead. She’d begun to think that she was a lucky one, with some kind of genetic youthfulness that would never leave her.
Ha! What an idiot.
Now she has a feeling that she’s going to discover she isn’t so different after all. Already her body feels as though it’s been through some great physical trauma, and she hasn’t even given birth yet.
She lies back on the sofa, smiling, stroking the huge mound in front of her. ‘Hello, babies. Are you asleep? You’re getting very tight in there, aren’t you?’ She tries to discern what’s under her hand – a foot? An elbow? The rounded shelf of a bottom? But she can’t make it out, even when she feels the inner jabs and kicks from the babies. They’re a tangle as far as she can tell, but safely warm and contained within her.
It will all be worth it.
This is what she has longed for. Now it is so close, just a matter of weeks. As the world darkens and turns cold outside, the piles of autumn leaves now rotten and slippery, the wind biting with the onslaught of winter, the babies are defying the season, growing bigger and healthier with every day, their little lungs ripening, their limbs preparing to stretch and kick, their eyes opening like mature fruit slowly bursting.
Olivia is warmed by the two little bodies inside her. She has not felt cold for weeks, even while the temperature drops. Winter outside, but spring inside me.
She tries to imagine what the babies will look like, but her imagination won’t play ball. It provides fuzzy, generic baby faces, little bodies hardly visible inside blankets. Only once, when she was dreaming through the relaxation period at pregnancy yoga, did she see a pair of faces, little elven-featured pale visages, with deep glimmering eyes of navy blue.
Their eyes might be blue, like Dan’s. I hope they are. I hope they have Dan’s eyes. But she knows that they could have any colour. And a stranger’s features. Who cares? All children are a mixture of any number of genetic combinations. You never know what you’ll get. It doesn’t make me any the less their mother. How could it? She is growing them inside her, her body going about the mysterious process of providing the building blocks for the cellular blueprints being constructed right now. As the babies unfurl like petals, she is nesting them, her blood running through their veins, her oxygen feeding their hearts and brains. That’s being their mother.
The sound of the front door startles her. It slams with particular force in the winter, the blustering wind sucking it shut with a fierce bang.
‘Hello!’
It’s Dan, back from work. It’s late then. She blinks, looking at the sodium-stained darkness outside the window. It must be after six already. She ought to be cooking, not dozing on the sofa. She’s just manoeuvring herself towards the edge so she can stand up when he comes in, bringing the chill of the winter evening with him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so late . . .’ she begins, then catches a glimpse of his face. It’s white, his mouth turned down, his eyes stern but also bewildered. She looks at the clock. It’s not six. It’s only four thirty. ‘What’s wrong?’
He sits down on the sofa beside her, and takes her hand, not meeting her eye for a moment. She thinks at once of the babies, and then remembers with relief they are safe inside her. Next she thinks of her mother, and then of her sister and nephews far away in Argentina. ‘What is it, Dan?’ A jitter of panic races through her.
He looks at her now, his expression serious. His hands are cold and clammy from the outside and she wants to pull her own warmth away but doesn’t. ‘I’ve got some bad news, darling.’
‘Tell me, quickly.’ She can’t bear the suspense. If the world has been turned upside down, if someone dear is dead, she needs to know right now. She can’t exist in a dream world for one moment longer than she has to.
‘Okay.’ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
They are at the kitchen table, their plates smeared with the remains of their food, sitting within the pool of golden light from the overhead pendant. They have talked so intently, they barely tasted the stew that Olivia started cooking this morning, trying out a new recipe she cut from the paper at the weekend. She’s been craving Moroccan flavours lately: the sweaty tang of cumin, the sweet calm of cinnamon, the perfume of rose and the spikiness of chilli and pepper. She’s dimly aware that the stew was good, but all the pleasure in its creation has gone. Dan has described the scene to her three times at least: how they were all summoned to the meeting room, then divided into groups, and how one by one they were called into separate offices to learn their fate.
‘It was like being divided into fit for work, and destined for the knacker’s yard,’ he says bitterly.
‘That might be overstating it a bit,’ Olivia says with a touch of severity. ‘You’ve got to keep it in proportion. It’s not the end of the world.’ She rubs her hand absent-mindedly over her full, drum-tight belly. ‘You’ve lost a job, that’s all. It happens to lots of people. We’ve still got the babies, that’s the important thing.’
‘But that’s why this is the worst possible time to lose my income!’ He takes a big gulp of the red wine in his glass and pours more from the bottle. He’s already had two thirds of it and there’s a rim of black speckles on his lips. Olivia hasn’t drunk for ages now, and she’s begun to lose that unquestioning belief that it’s just something you do. She doesn’t like watching Dan get belligerent and start ranting, his brief burst of energy followed by sudden deep fatigue and, later, by sound, snore-filled sleep. He’s not at the ranting stage yet, but it might not be far off. ‘We need all the money we can get now we’re going to have two children to support. And all our savings are practically gone. And you’re not working!’ He finishes up with another gulp of wine.
‘It sounds bad,’ Olivia agrees. ‘But it’s not that grim. You’re getting a redundancy package, right? A decent one, as you’ve been there so long?’
He nods, frowning.
‘So maybe this is a good thing. You’re going to be around when the babies arrive, with more than just a fortnight’s paternity leave.’ She starts to see it in a different light, and feels a rush of excitement. ‘We’ll have enough for a year or so, won’t we? You’ll have time to think about what you really want to do, and I’ll be able to get some work in while you’re home with us.’
Dan frowns, and Olivia thinks that it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge anything positive. Then his face starts to clear a little. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Expressions flit over his face. He’s only looked at the downsides. He’s not used to failure of any kind, and he’s stung by the humiliation of losing his job, needing to vent his anger at the people who treated him this way after all these years. But he’ll get a tidy tax-free sum and can forget all the stresses and strains of his office and concentrate on the miracle of the babies and the excitement of parenthood instead. As the reality of their arrival sharpens, Olivia has dared to look ahead for the first time and consider what having twins to look after might mean. She hasn’t wanted to tempt any malevolent fates, but now it seems it might actually happen. And then what? If she and Dan could do it together, how much more wonderful would that be?
She leans across the table towards him. ‘This could be just the opportunity you’ve wanted, even though it’s not ideal. I know it’s a horrible thing to go through but . . . you’ll be with me and the babies. We’ve got to enjoy this. Think how hard we worked and struggled to get here. We’ll never do it again. Honestly, Dan, this is the silver lining, can’t you see?’
Dan nods slowly and smiles. When his face clears, she sees the man she loves again, handsome with those dark blue eyes and thick, almost black hair. He has an Irish look about him, and indeed his father is Irish Am
erican. Charm runs in the family, along with good looks, and the attractive aura of self-confidence. Olivia still melts when Dan turns the full force of his smile on her, even after all this time. She’s still thrilled by his intelligence and intellectual prowess, his sharp wit and belief in himself. Although she was prepared to adopt if the IVF hadn’t worked, ready to love any child who needed her so that she could satisfy the maternal longing that’s consumed her for years, it’s a special pleasure to her that the babies are biologically Dan’s. She almost sees it as an honour to be creating his children, even if they share half their genetic inheritance with a stranger.
Olivia goes on, eager to push home this new slant on the day’s trauma. ‘You know what? You can write the play you’ve been planning. This could be the chance you’ve been waiting for! You’ll finally have the time to do some writing, just like you’ve always wanted.’
Interest flickers in his eyes, then he laughs. ‘I bet there won’t be much chance for writing when the babies get here.’
‘You’ve got a breather before then. And babies do sleep, eventually!’ She smiles at him across the table and puts her hand in his. They clasp each other on the scrubbed pine surface.
‘But the redundancy money won’t last forever,’ he murmurs thoughtfully. ‘We’ll need to be very careful.’
‘Fine,’ she says, wanting everything to be all right. ‘We’ll cut right back. We’ll work it out, I just know it. And . . .’ She smiles at him, squeezing his hand gently. ‘Just think. You don’t have to go back to the office. Ever again. And one day, you’ll probably think that this was the best thing that ever happened to you.’
He nods thoughtfully. She feels a rush of triumph that she has managed to turn his setback into an opportunity, a doorway to another life, one that he wants more than his old job.
Things are going our way. She feels sure that life is smiling on them at the moment. Luck is on their side. Fortune has spun her wheel and is whisking them upwards to a bright future after all the bad years. Everything’s falling into place. I can feel it.
Chapter Four
The estate agent is very excited. Perhaps it’s the effect of seeing Walt’s Daimler sweep up the drive of Renniston Hall, or perhaps it’s the thought of the massive commission that will come the agency’s way if the hall is sold.
Or maybe he just likes the house, Francesca thinks. The agent jigs along, perky and energetic, beside the more laconic figure of the man from Preserving England, the heritage society that’s selling the house, who’s pointing out the historic features and the work already completed. Francesca remains in the background, her face inscrutable behind huge dark glasses, cutting a neutral figure in white jeans and a black silk trench coat. The attention is all on Walt, as though he is a walking wallet that can be talked open. Maybe they’re right. Usually it’s a woman who makes the final decision about a house, but this place is different. It needs so much capital that it’s no wonder they are focusing on the probable source of it.
‘Note the plaster barrel ceiling in this room,’ the heritage man is saying, gazing upwards. He’s exactly what one would expect: white-haired and imposing, wearing faded plum-coloured cord trousers and a tweed jacket over a checked shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. ‘The fireplace is mid-sixteenth century and the plaster overmantle probably a little later, closer to 1630 or so, we believe. You can see it has a bas-relief, showing the sacrifice of Isaac.’
Walt is drinking it all in, although it means very little to him. He can’t tell a pediment from a portico, but he knows that he’s seeing something spectacular. ‘Wow!’ he exclaims. ‘And whose coat of arms is that on the ceiling?’
‘You’ll see various arms and crests throughout the house, reflecting the many different owners since the original house was built in 1540. It’s been added to several times since then, of course, so you’ll see Elizabethan, Jacobean and Palladian styles . . . The families who lived here include the Vanes, the Earls of Arnandale, the Beauclerks . . .’
Francesca is half aware of the voice as they move through the great rooms, but she is in a daze as they walk around. The house has stunned her. It is beautiful, though deeply dilapidated, and more redolent with history than any place she has ever been, outside public and royal buildings. She can tell it’s full of centuries’ worth of ghosts: ruffed courtiers, armoured knights, cavaliers and crinolined ladies. She senses the vanished presence of dandies, nobles, duchesses and bishops, not to mention the hundreds of servants who must have kept a place like this running. It is ornate as only great houses are, the stone mullion windows embellished with carving, every column rich with entablature, and every cornice moulded in intricate designs.
But it’s so . . . tired. So worn out.
The heritage man is explaining how the house was left empty for a couple of decades, put on the register of buildings at risk, served with notices for compulsory repairs to the foreign-based leisure group that had acquired it, sold on several times before the heritage society stepped in with emergency public funds and bought it. Millions have already been spent getting the house up to its current state: still not much more than a shell, but watertight, although without much in the way of plumbing or power; vast empty, dusty chambers leading one into another, and huge staircases winding upwards to corridors of doors leading into yet more rooms. Francesca is hopelessly lost after only a short time when they gain the first floor, and she walks quietly in the wake of the others as they discuss what needs to be done in this great, neglected place. It’s like a gigantic beast, left untended to fend and forage for itself, its majesty hidden under the ravages of time and creeping decay, and a kind of acquired savagery. She catches glimpses of sunshine glowing on the honey-coloured stone outside, of green lawns beyond the windows. The grass is in wonderful condition. Someone has been looking after it. It is in stark contrast to the dust, cobwebs and the dirt-smeared glass inside.
She knows that Walt wants to buy this place; she can feel the desire for it emanating from him. When the heritage man mentions in passing that Queen Elizabeth stayed in the very room they’re standing in, Walt almost quivers with excitement.
‘Queen Elizabeth the First?’
Francesca thinks, It’s hardly going to be the other one. Where would she sleep? On a camp bed?
‘That’s right.’ The heritage man looks quite touched by Walt’s excitement. ‘She stayed here several times apparently, on her summer progresses around the country. She had a particular affinity with the place, we believe. We know that James the First visited too.’
‘Wow,’ Walt breathes again. ‘Would you believe it?’ He turns to Francesca. ‘It makes history come alive, doesn’t it, honey?’
‘Yes,’ she says. Her throat feels thick with dust. She imagines the Tudor queen lying in a huge carved bed with tapestry hangings, old and childless, feeling the glory of her reign fading. Francesca shivers with a sudden chill that crawls over her skin.
‘Queen Elizabeth, huh?’ Walt shakes his head. ‘That sure is something. Imagine making this room just the way it was when she was here. It would be a kind of privilege.’
There is a murmur of agreement. Francesca follows the others as they leave the room.
The tour takes them up to the second floor and to the attics, then down some back stairs and into a different part of the house altogether, to a place where there are no turned balustrades or moulded plaster. Instead, they are surrounded by the unlovely tiles, ugly paint and solid pipework of an institution.
‘This place was a girls’ school from before the war until the sixties,’ explains the heritage expert, leading them down a dark, dank corridor. ‘They converted this wing into their sports hall. It would never be allowed now, of course, but back then people did as they liked. Here are the old showers.’ He opens a door to a long, narrow tiled room, full of the bitter smell of mould and the sour tang of old, rotten water. The floor is covered in large white tiles with blackened grout that dip down in the centre to a channel where dry drains still wai
t for a deluge. Shower heads stick out from the wall at intervals, crusty with ancient limescale. There are no partitions or curtains. No privacy at all.
Francesca thinks of the tour she took around the Swiss boarding school where Frederick and Olympia are studying. Olympia is in a pretty chalet-style boarding house, with views over the mountain, and a cosy, homelike environment. The plentiful bathrooms are comfortable and private.
How horrible this is, Francesca thinks, with another shudder. It’s hard to believe this is in the same house as the grand royal bedroom with its panelling and great stone fireplace.
‘Obviously there’s plenty to do in this part of the house,’ the heritage expert says, shutting the door. ‘Although it’s hard to know precisely what. That’s why it’s been left pretty much as it was.’
He takes them further down the corridor and opens another door inset with a panel of murky safety glass. Now they are in a huge chamber, its high walls tiled except at the top where there is a row of narrow rectangular windows that let in a little grey light. Francesca realises that about half of this room is below ground. In the middle of the room is a vast tiled rectangular hole sunk far into the floor, its depths filled with rubbish and filth.
Of course, she thinks, getting her bearings. That’s the swimming pool.
She sees now that she is looking into the deep end, where a pile of leaves and accumulated litter has settled. Someone has tossed in old fittings: a pool ladder, cracked tiles, a coil of blue lane rope, some floats. The filters, thick with dirt, are falling from the sides of the pool, and the whole thing is a giant ruin.
