THE WOODSHED, WEYFIELD HALL, 3:50 P.M.
• • •
“There you are,” said Emma. “I thought we might all have tea. What are you doing?”
“Getting kindling,” said Olivia. “The log basket was empty.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks, sweetheart.” Her mother looked surprised, as if it was out of character for Olivia to be helpful.
They stood just inside the woodshed, a former privy with a large hole in the roof. Behind them sat a stately Victorian lavatory, cobwebs tightroping from cistern to curved wooden seat.
“Gosh, that must have been nippy!” said her mother, staring at it.
Olivia was about to answer: “The entire developing world still has outdoor loos,” but stopped herself, seeing how tired Emma looked.
“Anyway, Wiv, I wanted to tell you something. I know you’ve already had a shock today. A real shock. But, well, I should have told you first, really—I mean—you’re a doctor!” she said, with an odd soprano laugh.
Olivia prepared to look surprised.
“I’ve, um, well, a couple of weeks ago I found a lump, you see, just here,” Emma went on, fingers leaping to her armpit. “And it’s, it’s cancer, I’m afraid.”
She stopped with a little gasped breath. “Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Anyhow, I’m only telling you this because—” She stopped again. “I mean, I was going to wait to tell everyone after quarantine, but Phoebe found out the other day, and now—”
“Found out?”
“Yes, by accident. And also, it sounds barmy, I know, but when I met Jesse at Heathrow I told him all about it. And he presumed Andrew knew, so ‘the cancer’s out the bag’!” She laughed the tinkly laugh again. “I’m sorry, I know I should have told you all immediately. I didn’t want to cast a shadow over Christmas. I couldn’t bear to think about it myself, to be quite honest.”
Olivia knew this was her cue to say something reassuring. It wasn’t fair to press her mother on how Phoebe had “found out.” Or to scare her, by pointing out the risk of being quarantined together. It was too late now anyway.
“That must be frightening for you, Mum,” she said carefully. “I’m glad you told me. But this type of cancer is very treatable, you know. There’s every chance of making a full recovery.”
“Yes, he said. My consultant.”
“What stage is it?”
“Just early, hopefully. But I’m waiting for more results.”
“Which ones? Did you have a CT scan?”
“Yes, CT, MRI, lots of blood and things. But I won’t find out until the New Year.”
“And has he talked you through the treatment options?”
“He touched on them, yes. But not to worry. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said, picking up the log basket as if the conversation was at an end. “We’ve got enough on our plates, what with Daddy and Jesse.”
They walked back across the sodden lawn, side by side, her mother chattering about how Andrew and his son had identical ears, and had Olivia noticed that they both had the same way of pushing back their hair, and wasn’t it uncanny that they were both interested in food. The sun was sending fat fingers of gray light down to the horizon. Olivia remembered her mother saying—after Granny died—that they were slides from Heaven. What if she hadn’t caught the cancer early?
“Well, if you’re unsure of anything, I’m happy to advise,” said Olivia as they reached the porch. Why did she sound like she was speaking to a patient, not her mum? She thought how different Phoebe and Emma sounded when they talked. Though it was interesting that Emma hadn’t confided in Phoebe after all. Typically sly of her sister to make out she was the chosen one.
“Mmm,” said Emma. “Thanks, lambkin. Must get some WD-40 on this bloody door.”