15 June
The solicitors office in York felt oppressively warm, even though the June air outside still held a hint of freshness. I brushed a hand over the pleats of my skirt, trying not to meet the eyes of either Irene or Beatrice. The sisters arrived on time, each in her own way: Irene in a crisp blazer, phone glued to her hand; Beatrice in a light sweater, her face warm as if shed simply dropped in for tea. I noted how they chose their seatsIrene positioned herself opposite the door, back straight, gaze fixed on the window; Beatrice settled nearer the low coffee table littered with wellworn magazines.
Outside the city roared with traffic, horns blaring in the queue, yet inside time seemed to slow. A heavy silence stretched between the sisters; we all knew why we were there, but none of us dared to break it.
I stared at the solicitors door. Behind it lay a piece of our pastthe cottage our parents owned, where wed spent every summer together. After Mums death the house had sat empty for years. Wed all grown up, started families, taken on responsibilities. Now the decision made within that room would determine whether we kept a shared place or let it finally slip away.
When the secretary beckoned us in, Irene was the first to rise, letting out a barely audible sigh. The office was bright; large windows looked out onto a green park. Neat folders and an elegant wooden pen lay on the desk.
The solicitor greeted each of us by name, speaking calmly and efficiently, outlining the procedure and reminding us of the need for documented consent. The paperwork had been prepared in advance; she confirmed our surnames and asked for passports. Everything proceeded formally and swiftlyalmost like sitting an exam.
A phrase stuck with me: The cottage at Littleton passes into joint ownership of the three daughters, in equal shares. Irene furrowed her brow slightly, Beatrice lowered her eyes. No one voiced an objection aloud.
After the signatures, the solicitor explained our rights: each sister could now deal with her share according to the law. Any change would require the agreement of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period for formal probate was mentioned, but in practice everything hinged on our mutual consent.
We stepped back into the corridor, the evening light slicing through the grimy glass in strips. Fatigue settled over me, as if something important had been left behind and only uncertainty lay ahead.
Outside, Beatrice broke the silence first.
Maybe we should get together at the cottage? Have a look around?
Irene shrugged.
I can only make it this weekend. After that the kids holidays are over.
I thought of the looming week of deadlines at the office. To say no now would feel like admitting defeat before the battle even began.
Lets try to go together, I said slowly. We need to understand what were dealing with.
Irene lowered her head.
Id just sell it outright, she whispered. Well never agree on who uses it and the taxes?
Beatrices eyes lit up.
Sell? Thats the only place Mums strawberries are still growing!
Whatever, were not children anymore, Irene cut in. Who will look after it? Who will pay for repairs?
The familiar tension rose: each of us pulling in a different direction, each with our own reason. I recalled the summer evenings on the veranda when the biggest arguments were about who washed the dishes or where to hide the apricot jam from the autumn squirrels. Now the disputes were adult: taxes and shares instead of jam and sandbox.
Perhaps, I ventured at last, if we tidy things up and invest a little we could rent it out in summer? Split the earnings fairly?
Irene looked at me intently.
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Beatrice interjected.
Id come up now and then with my son maybe a week in the summer. I dont need the rent money.
The conversation went round in circlesalternating between living there in turns, renting to strangers or neighbours, doing a full refurbishment versus just patching the roof for the season, selling to an outsider versus putting the whole property on the market.
Old grievances resurfaced without invitation: who had funded earlier repairs, who had cared for Mum, who once repainted the shutters without asking.
The talk grew sharp and brief. No compromise emerged. We only agreed to meet again at the cottage in two days, each taking it as a chance to persuade the others or at least state our position seriously.
The cottage greeted us with the smell of damp earth after the nights rain and the sharp whirr of a neighbours mower. The house looked almost as it had years ago: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees shedding leaves beside the windows, an old bench by the shed with a crack in one leg.
Inside it was stuffy despite the windows being thrown wide. Mosquitoes lazily buzzed over a thickglass vase that Mum had once bought from the local ironmongery shop. The sisters moved through the rooms in silence: Irene inspected the meters and windows, Beatrice immediately began sorting a box of books in the bedroom corner, I checked the gas hob and the fridgeboth sputtered on and off.
The argument sparked almost as soon as the walkthrough ended.
This place is falling apart, Irene complained irritably. We need a full renovation! That costs money
Beatrice shook her head.
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage lives as long as we visit together!
I tried to mediate.
We could fix what we can right now, and discuss the rest later, I suggested.
But the compromise was only an illusion; each of us held fast to her stance all day. By evening we barely spoke to each other. Beatrice attempted a dinner of leftover cereal and tinned beans, I watched the news on my phonesignal only near the kitchen window, Irene leafed through work documents beside the kettle.
At eight the sky darkened; the porch light flickered and went out. Heavy grey clouds gathered over the garden.
A sudden thunderstorm rolled in fastthe first boom of thunder sounded as we were already heading to our rooms. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain hammered the roof so loudly we had to speak louder even inside.
Midcorridor a strange sound cut through the storma splash mingled with the creak of boards overhead. Water streamed thinly down the wall beside the bookcase. Beatrice was the first to shout.
Theres a leak! Look!
I dashed to the shed for a bucket, stumbling over old jam jars before finally finding a plastic pail with a handle and hurrying back. The rain intensified, water now dripped faster.
Irene grabbed a mop, trying to steer the stream away from the sockets. Short bursts of lightning illuminated the rooms, shadows dancing on the ceiling. The air smelled of ozone, wet wood, and something sharp.
Irene turned sharply to us.
This is a family nest! We cant live here or rent it out like this!
No one argued now; we were all busy clearing books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it became clear: if we didnt stop the leak now, wed have to replace half the furniture in the morning.
Suddenly the earlier grievances seemed petty. The solution presented itself: find some tarpaulin and nails and patch the roof immediately.
When the water stopped dripping from the ceiling, the house seemed to exhaleas did I, Irene, and Beatrice. A bucket sat halffilled with murky water by the bookcase, the rug was damp at the edges, books stacked against the wall. The corridor smelled of wet timber. Outside the rain eased, a few drops still pattered on the windowsill.
I wiped my forehead with my sleeve and looked at the sisters: Irene crouched by an outlet, checking that water hadnt reached it; Beatrice sat on the stairs holding an old towel wed used as a rag. It was quiet, only the wind flapping the shed door in the garden.
We need to fix the roof right now, Irene said, weary. Otherwise the next downpour will do it again.
I nodded.
Theres a roll of roofing felt and some nails in the shed I saw it on the shelf.
Beatrice stood up.
Ill help, just fetch a lanternits dark in there.
The shed was cool and smelled of earth. I struggled to find an old headlamp; the batteries were low and the light flickered over the walls. The felt was heavier than we imagined. Beatrice clutched the nails, Irene brandished the hammer that Dad once used on the gate.
Time was short; the rain could return at any moment. We climbed the narrow loft hatch behind the kitchen. The space was hot, dust and the scent of bygone years hanging in the air.
We worked in silence. I held the felt while Irene hammered it onto the boardsthe hammers clang echoed in the cramped loft. Beatrice passed the nails, muttering something under her breath, perhaps counting blows or just trying to keep fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps, the night sky could be seen; clouds drifted over the garden, the moon lit the damp apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Irene urged. If we dont secure it well the first wind will rip it off.
I pressed the edge of the tarpaulin harder.
Beatrice suddenly laughed.
Well, at least weve done something together
The laugh sounded warm, unexpectedthe first genuine one of the day.
A tension Id felt all afternoon seemed to melt away. My back ached now, but I could finally relax a little.
Maybe this is how it should be, I murmured softly. Fix what breaks, together.
Irene met my eyesnot angry, just tired.
It wont work any other way
We finished quickly, securing the last strip and descended.
The kitchen was chilly; the window was still ajar after the storm. The sisters gathered around the table: someone set the kettle on the hob, another found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard.
I brushed hair from my forehead and looked at the sistersnow calm, no trace of irritation.
Well still have to keep negotiating, I said. This repair is only the beginning.
Beatrice smiled.
I dont want to lose the cottage, she said, shrugging lightly. And I dont want us to keep fighting over it.
Irene sighed.
Im scared of being left alone with all this, she admitted, looking at the table. But if we do it together maybe itll work.
A brief pause fell, the only sound the rustle of leaves and a distant dog barking.
Lets not put it off any longer, I decided, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from my bag. Well draw up a calendarwho can visit each summer week. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Beatrice brightened.
I can take the first week of July.
Irene thought.
August works better for methe kids are free then.
I sketched dates, drew lines between weeks; slowly a grid of possible visits and duties appeared.
We argued over minor detailswho will come for the May bank holiday next year, how to split the cost of a new mower and electricity, what to do with the apples in autumn. But now the arguments held no venomonly a genuine desire to sort things out and not lose each other.
The night passed peacefully; no one woke from the sound of water or wind. Morning sunlight streamed through the open windows; the garden glittered with dew on the apple leaves and the grass along the path to the gate.
I rose before the others and stepped onto the porch: bare feet felt the cool boards. A neighbours voice floated over the fence, chatting about the weather and the harvest.
In the kitchen the scent of coffee lingered; Beatrice had brewed a pot and laid out a packet of toast.
Irene entered last, hair tied in a ponytail, eyes a little bleary but calm.
We ate together, sharing toast and discussing the days tasks without rush.
Well need more roofing felt, Irene noted. What we used was barely enough.
And a new light for the porch, Beatrice added. I nearly fell in the garden yesterday.
I smiled.
Ill note everything in our repair calendar
The sisters exchanged glances; any lingering grievances seemed dissolved.
The cottage felt quieter than usual; through the open doors came the chatter of neighbours and the clatter of dishes. The house seemed alive againnot only because the roof no longer leaked, but because all three of us were present: each with our quirks and weaknesses, now no longer apart.
Before leaving we walked through the rooms once more, shutting windows, checking sockets, stowing away the leftover building supplies on the loft. On the kitchen table lay the sheet of paper with dates and notes about needed purchases.
Irene placed the keys neatly on the shelf by the door.
Well touch base next week? Ill confirm the roof work with the builder I know.
Beatrice nodded.
Ill pop by next week to see the strawberries. Ill give you a ring.
I lingered in the hall a little longer, looked at my sisters and said quietly:
Thank you for last night and for today.
They met my gaze, calm and open, the old shadows of distrust gone.
As the gate closed behind us, the garden was dry after the nights rain; the path glittered in the sun. The calendar held our names beside the dates of future visitsa small promise that we wouldnt disappear from each others lives even after the toughest summer.
Lesson: When family ties are tested, the right thing to do is to face the problems together, fixing whats broken before it tears us apart.
