Emily tried to untwist the telephone cord that was tangled around her arm and finally, in frustration, just handed the receiver to Janet. She carefully raised Emily’s hand and unwound it, put it back and set the telephone on the sideboard. Then she came and sat down at the breakfast table. The two women didn’t look at each other. It was the silence of not knowing what to say and wanting the other woman to say it first. If there had been a clock, it would have ticked. If there had been an hourglass, they would have heard the sand fall. It was the longest eight seconds in human history. Finally, without moving, Janet looked over and caught Emily studiously “not” looking back, and in that silent apprehensive eye contact, the professional veneer collapsed and they were fifteen again, passing notes in Miss Cafferty’s chemistry class – and they giggled.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Magpie: spill it!”
“What? Nothing. He’s just a man I met in London.” Emily twirled her coffee cup.
“Of course, and you always invite the men you meet in London home for Christmas? This is what? One in a row?”
Emily could hear Janet rolling her eyes.
“Well, no — you know – he — uh – we – uh – we get along really well. I think he likes me.”
Janet nodded her head. “Could be? He tracked you down and threatened to call the police if you didn’t come to the telephone. Yeah, could be? Oh, come on! What’s he like?”
“He’s – uh – it’s hard to say. I’m not sure …. At first, you think he’s sort of not really there, but he has this way of … way of just being there. Just ….”
Emily spread her hands and lifted her shoulders. “Not big … just …”
Emily put her teeth together and shook her head slowly. “More.”
“More?” It was a statement and a question.
“I don’t know, Jans. He has this way of – uh – of getting everything to move around him, but not like he even means to do that. It just happens.” Emily tilted her head toward her friend. “And he was really sweet to me after the Russians cut off my finger.”
It caught Janet under the chin, and she snapped her head sideways. “WHAT?”
“Oh,” Emily paused and shifted her eyes, “You didn’t know.”
Janet exhaled and shook her head. Her eyes had completely lost their schoolgirl laughter. She waited.
“Uh – it’s nothing, really. I was doing some work for … evaluation work — for an insurance company … Well, not really an insurance company. It was … It’s complicated. It’s very complicated.”
“Russians?” Janet asked tentatively, “Like Russian gangsters? What have you gotten yourself into?”
“No, no, it’s not that way. Well, they were gangsters, I suppose. They turned out to be, anyway. But that’s the point. Sinclair is the one who fixed it. He stopped them and got me out of there.”
“After they cut off your finger! God Almighty, is he a criminal too?”
“No, no, he works for the insurance company.”
“The one you weren’t working for?”
Emily slumped back in her chair. Suddenly she was very tired. Everything was so complicated. She just didn’t have the energy to explain. “What did they say happened?”
“Billie said they told him you got your hand caught in a weaving machine. An accident. A bloody, stupid accident.” Janet’s voice was sharp with worry for her friend.
“Janet,” Emily reached over and touched her arm, “It’s over. Completely finished. I promise. And when I’m feeling better, I’ll tell you the whole story. I will. But right now, I’m just too tired.”
Janet hooded the doubt in her eyes.
“Do you have anything else in your book?”
“No, no. We’re done.” Janet said, without looking down.
“Alright, I’m going to go back to bed for a while.” Emily stood up. “You’re going to like Sinclair. I know you will.”
Janet forced a smile.
Halfway to the door, Emily turned around. Janet looked up. She moved her index finger back and forth and nodded solemnly. But she also made a mental note to tell Billie to keep an eye on this Dreyfus Sinclair – whoever he was.
The unwritten rule was no Pyaridge business until after breakfast, and normally Janet Miller, the estate manager, cut it as close as possible, coming in with the second carafe of coffee, a coil notebook in one hand and her own cup and saucer in the other. But Janet had stayed away the first day. She’d sent breakfast up, and it had been a total disaster with unbalanced trays and Emily (slightly stoned on painkillers) tipping, spilling, arguing with the fuss and finally just shouting everybody out of her room. The next day, with no notebook, no coffee and an anxious look, Janet had danced around Emily’s questions until, overcome with frustration, Emily had demanded things return to normal or (and the threat was real) she’d go back to London and they could all fend for themselves. Today was going to be that normal day, and Emily (God, she just wanted to go back to bed!) was determined — even though the thought of trudging through council minutes, potholes, tenant requests and purchase orders almost made her sick. She smeared jam on her last piece of toast, holding it down with a clumsy thumb, and right on cue . . . .
Janet Miller paused briefly at the door in the one concession she made to the formality that should have existed between the two women. Actually, they’d grown up together– whenever Emily hadn’t been parcelled off to boarding school or America or the wicked aunts of Cheltenham. They had been close as girls and had gotten to know each other better as adults. Now, after some difficult years, they had a “We’re in this together, alone” camaraderie that sometimes develops between women who find themselves in a world where they’re too young, too professional and too female. Mainly it worked, but sometimes their “Aux barricades!” attitude got in the way.
Emily looked up. Janet had her concerned face on, which was actually a relief from all the worried faces Emily had seen over the last three days. “This can work,” she thought and took a breath.
“Good morning, Miller. And how are you this fine, frozen morning?”
Janet Miller sat down, looking sceptical.
“It’s cold up there.” Emily gestured with her good hand. “I’m not getting naked at 40 below zero. Take it or leave it. Now, what do we have today?
“I thought we’d settle the Christmas schedule and tie up some loose ends — if that’s alright?”
“Alright.”
“Okay, let’s see.” Janet opened her notebook.
“Right. No lights again this year, I’m afraid. But the tree is going up today. It’s not a large as last year, but it’s local. Less expensive. The children from the primary are coming tomorrow to decorate. The school has arranged transportation, and I’ve enlisted some of the staff to supervise. But they’ll expect an appearance?”
It was a question.
“I’ll need some help,” Emily said seriously, lifting the lapel of her work shirt.
Janet nodded. “And lunch. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Tisdale.”
“So no riding tomorrow, then?” Emily said.
“I should think you won’t be riding for a while.”
Emily made a schoolgirl face. Janet ignored it. (On a different day, she would have probably stuck out her tongue.)
“The Christmas Market’s on the 19th. Again, an appearance?”
Emily nodded.
“You’ll need to bring money. We’re thinking of Beecham’s jam and perhaps something from the Crystal Shop. I’ll leave you the details. And we going to have two nights of carollers.”
“Two?”
“The 21st and the 23rd. It seems there’s been a rebellion in the Weldon Choral Society. There was a falling out over the program. Unfortunately, the Rebel Alliance called us first and nobody twigged. Now we’re stuck It will be two night for you, but the rest is taken care of. We’ll just split the menu. Little meat pies, our brandy, coffee, tea, and the local shortbread. Let’s see. Church on Christmas Eve this year. Apparently, a special service. Two hundred years, I believe. They’ll need a donation. We’re at the end of our Charity budget, and there’s still Boxing Day to do, but anything less than a thousand pounds and there will be talk. I was thinking . . . .”
Emily quit listening for a few seconds. The pressure in her hand was starting to throb, and it all seemed so endless — even the baby Jesus wanted a piece of the pie. She closed her eyes tight, exhaled and started over.
“. . . and the pagans want to use Stride Hill again for their Solstice bonfire.”
“An appearance?” Emily said sarcastically.
“Certainly not. But we did have some trouble with them last year. They left a bit of a mess. So I’m thinking . . . .”
“Who’s the Grand Poobah these days?”
“One of the Clifton boys. Ronald I believe. He was behind us in school.”
“Leave me his information, and I’ll put the fear of God into him.”
The two women made eye contact and smirked at the unintended joke.
“How are you holding up?”
“Just a couple more, I think.” Emily said, and closed her eyes.
“Alright, then, Christmas dinner is very much set up. It will arrive in a van on the 24th and we don’t have to do anything except the tables.” Janet pointed. “We can do those in advance. And, of course, accommodations for the catering staff. They do cleanup and then leave on Boxing Day. It’s a lot more expensive, but it’s better than the mess we used to go through with Epiphany. We do have two empty seats at your table, though. The Claypools are going to see their new granddaughter, so they’ll be gone until after the New Year. I was thinking of adding the Witherspoons. They’ve had a poor year, and lately they’ve been losing chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Three nights in a row. It’s a badger. Last night he killed one and left two half dead in the enclosure. We’ll need to apply for a permit and that’s going to take forever. Remember the fine we got for the fox last . . . .”
The telephone rang, and both women looked up in shock. “Morning prayers” (as they called it) were sacred, and everyone on the estate knew that. Janet went over to the sideboard and answered.
“Yes?” It was an accusation.
“There’s a man on the telephone looking for her ladyship. He’s been quite persistent, and now he’s threatening to go to the police and report she’s been kidnapped.”
“What? Is he still there? Put him through.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hello? Yes. Who am I speaking to?” It was Janet’s you’re-in-deep-trouble voice. “Well, Mr. Sinclair . . . .”
“Sinclair!” Emily turned in her chair and motioned for the telephone.
Janet put her hand over the receiver. Emily motioned again, and Janet reached the telephone over to her. Emily fumbled with her bandaged fingers, juggled and finally held the receiver up to the wrong ear with the wrong hand.
“Hello? Sinclair?”
“Hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Well, no, not so much, but. Why are you calling me on the estate telephone?”
“There was no answer at the number I have, so I had Sydney find you on doodle.”
“Google,” Emily corrected. “Sydney, of course. How is Sydney? I never got to give him a proper thank you.”
“He’s alright. Making a nuisance of himself, trying to look busy.”
“Busy? You’re not working?”
“No, they close the office for Christmas. Sydney isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do when I don’t call. He’s trying to make . . . .”
“You’re not working?”
“No, I said that. Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes – um – uh” And Emily suddenly decided, “What are you doing for Christmas?”
There was a pause.
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Emily could see the Sinclair shrug.
“Come here,” she said. “You can come here. We’d love to have you. Really.”
“What? Wait a minute. I just phoned to see how you were doing. I have your clothes. And I didn’t know . . . .”
“Bring them with you. Bring Sydney. It’ll be fun. We’ll go riding and roast chestnuts and drink hot brandy and …. C’mon, we’ll have a great time.”
“I don’t think Sydney’s ever even seen a horse.”
“I’ll find him a girlfriend, then. Really. You’re not doing anything. Why not?”
This was a serious Sinclair pause. Emily kind of held her breath.
“Alright. Sounds good. When should I arrive?”
“Right now – uh,” Emily looked down at her work shirt. “No – uh — tomorrow. You can help me decorate the tree. We’ll pick you up at the station.”
“I’ll let you know. Answer your phone.”
“I will. Yes. Okay, see you tomorrow.”
“Is there anything you want me to bring?
Emily looked back at Janet and smiled for the first time in three days.
It was the kind of December morning Victorian novelists dream about. Diamond frost sparkling over the trim English pastures, horses with steam breath puffing in the air, a slanted sun line on the stable roof, shiny with melt. On the hill, past the white plank fences, the winter bare trees were pencilled against the too-blue sky. And not that far beyond where the old stone Roman road curved behind the fruit groves, there was the village steeple, arrow sharp and tiny in the distance. Emily could hear the Dilfords, mother, uncle and daughter, opening the paddocks and starting the tractor. She wouldn’t ride today, or any time soon; it was difficult with the bandages, and anyway there was too much work to do. Besides, she was tired – tired, bitchy and sore. Her hand had hurt in the night with a black ache, clock-ticking sleeplessness that almost made her cry. She could still feel it, the dull pressure of the bandages on her fingers that didn’t have enough courage to be pain but had settled in to irritate her. And she was cold – just out of bed chilly through flannel pajamas and a thick duvet hugged around her shoulders. She turned away from the window, looked at the cold stone hearth and shivered.
“Damn the insurance,” she thought, “Tonight, I’m going to have a fire.” She swept the duvet off her shoulders and back onto the bed. Then awkwardly, she pulled heavy green trousers over her pajamas and a red checked work shirt. She struggled with the buttons, gave up after two and went down to breakfast. Not quite the lady of the manor, but . . . . She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth out some of the tangled sleep. It would be warmer downstairs where the wheezing old Pyaridge’s boilers could reach, but there was no way she was going to endure another winter like this. Something would have to go out of next year’s budget. Next year’s budget? She hadn’t paid for this year’s yet! She ran her hand over the thick oak bannister like you would an old dog and continued down the big step staircase, through the high, wide entrance hall and into the breakfast room.
No matter what time Emily arrived for breakfast, it was there waiting for her. In winter, porridge, eggs and toast, sometimes bacon, sometimes sausage, coffee and juice. She knew if the salt and fat didn’t kill her the cholesterol eventually would, but it had been a war to get rid of the beans, tomato, mushrooms, wheat cakes and assorted other fried bits, so . . . . Mrs. Tisdale ran the Pyaridge kitchen with an iron ladle, fed the entire estate on a budget that would embarrass Gandhi and hadn’t taken no for answer since Emily was 6 — which meant, after winning half the battle, it was an act of valor for Emily to just shut up and eat her breakfast, nice girl. And she did that, every morning, alone at a huge table, in a room built for twenty.
In London, Dreyfus Sinclair didn’t usually eat breakfast unless he was travelling or Mrs. Flynn was in the mood to cook. And since Mrs. Flynn only came in 3 days a week and was seldom in the mood, it was mostly just coffee and a newspaper under the tall windows in the loft over the river. That day, there was a crawling mist on the Thames, so there wasn’t much boat traffic, and the lights on the far shore looked distant and scuffed. It was a perfect day to sit back and contemplate the woes of the world. Actually, Dreyfus didn’t much care about that, but he did enjoy the style and variety of Fleet Street journalism, so he had the concierge bring him a different/random newspaper every morning. It made the read a little more interesting. (Today was The Guardian, full of opinion.) He thought about going to work later, but he wanted to write a few letters, and he enjoyed writing letters, so . . . . Plus, he had that neatly-wrapped plastic package of clothes to deal with, and he wasn’t sure what he should do about that. They had arrived yesterday back from the cleaners with a note that read. “Our apologies. Unfortunately, we were not able to remove the extensive bloodstains from the garments without ruining them, and the style and quality dictate that they would not be easily replaced in that event. Therefore, we are returning them to you. Regards …”
WD Fyfe 