Lydia, hullo! Prepare yourself for a visitor, called out her sister as she nudged a suitcase into the hallway with her foot.
It must have been a Saturday, about midday, and Lydia was passing the time idly when the doorbell rang.
Twice at first, then thrice more, then a long peal without pause.
Arthur, not bothering to look up from the telly, remarked in a distant manner,
Someones certainly persistent.
Standing outside was Nina, the younger sister. She came burdened with two enormous suitcases, a hand bag slung across her shoulder, and the look of a woman who had at last made a grand life decision and couldnt be more chuffed about it.
Lydia, hullo! Make room for a guest, she declared, expertly rolling the first suitcase inside with her foot. She did it so seamlessly, one would have thought shed spent years practicing.
Lydia reflexively shifted aside. Forty years of sisterhood, as anyone can imagine, isnt a lark ones body learns to respond before the mind.
For how long will you be staying? Lydia asked, glancing at the second suitcase.
Nina shrugged off her coat, hooked it on the very peg occupied by Lydias mac, and surveyed the hallway much like a forewoman passing final judgment on a building.
For good, Lyd. Im moving in. Your flats quite the size, three bedrooms, and theres just the two of you. Clearly, youve a spare room, so I made up my mind.
Lydia simply stared at her. She had made up her mind.
Arthur, from the lounge, quietly turned up the television.
Nina, hold on a tick. This isnt just a lark, is it? Lydia called.
Dead serious, Nina was already ambling down the corridor, peeking into the bedrooms. This one will do. Its bright. Windows facing the garden nice and quiet.
This was the guest room, of course. The one with the battered old sofa, the sewing machine, and three boxes of odds and ends Lydia never seemed to sort through.
Nina, Lydia caught up with her at the threshold, we havent even discussed
Whats to discuss? Ninas brows arched in astonished inquiry. Were family, Lyd. Family shares, you know. Thats what Mum always said. Taught us both the same, didnt she?
Lydia thought that, at just this moment, mention of their mother was probably best avoided.
The telly behind the wall muttered predictions of rain for the coming week. From the sound of it, Arthur was resolved to become an expert on English weather.
Meanwhile, Nina unzipped her suitcase.
She unpacked with the thorough purpose of a rightful landlord reclaiming what always ought to have been her own.
First she shifted the bed. She took exception to the headboard being by the window. “Drafts, Lyd, my neck cant take it, honestly.” Then she shoved the sewing machine into a corner. “Whys this here? You sew? No? Well, then.” Lydia watched the old thing glide away without a word.
By evening, Ninas slippers had made their appearance enormous, fluffy, with bobbles, the sort hawked in stuffy market stalls. Next to them, Lydias sensible shoes looked every inch the librarian beside a circus bear.
Arthur dined in silence, eyes fixed upon his bowl, as though seeking hidden truths in his soup.
This stew is top-notch, he managed at last.
Its just stew, Nina replied briskly. Arthur, do you have a fan? Stuffy in my room, cant imagine sleeping.
Arthur looked at Nina. Then over at Lydia.
Well find one, he promised.
Lydia inwardly sighed so deeply she felt it in the soles of her feet.
On the third day, Nina turned her sights on the fridge.
But she didnt simply open it and glance inside she studied it. Like a biologist dissecting some rare specimen.
Lyd, your milks turned.
Yes, I hadnt gotten round to throwing it out.
And why three blocks of butter at once? Hogging precious space.
Nina, its my fridge.
So? Im not a stranger.
That was her signature phrase. The master key. Lydia heard it half a dozen times daily and always wondered perhaps, this time, she should answer honestly? No, Nina, in this matter you are a stranger. But she held her tongue.
Nina, by now, was thoroughly at home.
She learned when Arthur trotted off to his wood carving club and when hed return. She knew the exact moment when Lydia would start her evening TV drama, appearing punctually with a cup of tea and the irresistible urge to talk. About life. About her neighbours, whom she no longer saw. About the weather. About the young, who were well out of hand. Politics there Nina truly shone.
Lydia would listen, nod, fix one eye on the screen where her heroines troubles unfolded, and think her own troubles stacked up just as impressively.
Nina rose earlier than anyone in the house.
Lydia used to think her sister was a night owl. Turned out, she was a lark armed with a plan. At six in the morning came the din of pans and crackle of eggs in the frying pan, with Ninas perky voice carrying through the flat like a camp leader on parade.
Arthur, eggs for you? Lyd, would you like tomato or not? Found a bit of cheese, rather hard, but waste not, want not!
Arthur would enter the kitchen with the air of a man woken too early but unable to explain why it shouldnt be so, take a seat, eat politely, and utter a grateful “thank you”.
Lydia, in her dressing gown, would stand in the kitchen doorway and take in the scene.
Shes feeding my husband breakfast. In my own home.
Perhaps it was that very morning when, quietly within Lydia, something clicked.
She poured herself some coffee, sat by the window, and rang her daughter.
Olivia, are you busy?
Not especially, Mum. Is everything all right?
Could you come round? I need to talk.
Olivia arrived on Sunday, just after midday, bringing a polite cake. She set it on the table, hugged her mother, and whispered,
Well, go on, tell me everything.
So Lydia did. The suitcases. The slippers with pom-poms. The sewing machine in the corner. The hard cheese grated “so as not to waste it”. The early morning eggs.
Olivia listened, quiet and intent, only lifting her eyebrows now and then until they all but met her fringe.
Mum. Is she even paying for anything? Food, bills?
She says shell chip in for food.
She says, or shes paid?
Lydia hesitated.
She says.
Olivia glanced towards the corridor, where the guest room door was firmly shut.
At that moment, Nina emerged. She saw Olivia and beamed, as only those with nothing to hide can.
Olivia! Good of you to visit! Lyd, wheres the sugar? Its gone from the bowl.
Cupboard, said Lydia.
May I use it?
Go ahead.
Nina helped herself, stirred it into her coffee, tasted, and nodded in self-satisfaction.
Olivia watched her with that deliberate calm of someone whose mind is already made up.
Aunt Nina, she said, when did you sell your flat?
A short but momentous pause.
How did you know? Nina set down her cup.
Aunt Margaret mentioned it, just happened to say, when she rang the other day.
Nina looked at Lydia. Lydia gazed out of the window.
Well, yes, I did sell, Nina replied, her tone now tinged with wounded pride, the sound of one caught out but still convinced of her rightness. I have the money. Im weighing up my options. No point buying now the markets wild. Ill stay for a bit, save a little, and itll sort itself out.
“A bit” meaning how long? asked Olivia.
Oh, perhaps a year. Or two. Well see.
Lydia turned from the window.
Nina, she said softly, evenly, you came here after selling your flat to save your money. Is that correct?
Oh, Lydia, dont put it like that.
Is it true?
Were family, replied Nina. Her most trusted key.
But this time it no longer fit.
Olivia and her family are moving into that room. Ive invited them. Theyll arrive next Saturday.
Nina stared at Olivia. Olivia sipped her tea, calmly, as if she knew more than she let on.
When did you have time for that, Nina began.
I managed, replied Lydia.
It was, of course, a fib. Olivia had a home of her own and wasnt relocating. But the steadiness in Lydias gaze was something entirely new.
Nina fell silent for quite a while. Then she stood, smoothing her dressing gown.
Understood, she said. Brief, final.
And returned to her room.
Nina spent two days packing.
No hurry. The same relentless method as when shed first arrived. At first, the soft rustle of bags, then the clatter of hangers, then a bit of furniture shifting presumably, the bed restored to its original position. Lydia stayed away. So did Arthur.
Wednesday morning, Nina appeared in the kitchen, suitcases at hand.
Off to Tamaras, she said. Shes been asking me for ages.
All right, said Lydia.
You will call sometimes?
I will.
Nina reached for her suitcase at the door.
Lyd, she said, not looking back, youve changed.
Lydia considered a moment.
Yes, she replied. I suppose so.
The door closed with a gentle click.
Lydia lingered in the hallway awhile, glancing at the empty peg where Ninas coat had hung, at the floor, now free of fluffy slippers. It seemed the space had grown lighter.
She entered the guest room, opened the window.
And nudged the sewing machine back to its usual spot right beside the window.
That evening, Olivia called.
Well? Did she go?
Shes gone.
And how do you feel?
Lydia gave it thought.
Good, she said. Very good.
Dusk gathered outside; Arthur clattered dishes in the kitchen, and to Lydia, it was the most comforting, familiar sound in all the world.
