Page 4 of Annabel and Her Sisters

‘You’re backing yourself into a corner, old girl.’ She eyed me beadily over the mug which was raised at her lips. ‘She loves London and all she really wants is to stay there. What’s your point?’

I caught my breath, remembering she was as sharp as the Stanley knife hanging from orange binder twine around her waist.

‘Clarissa, I can’t have her live with me long term. Much as I love her, it’s not fair on anyone: me, her, Polly or Luke.’

There. I’d said it. And honesty was always the best route with Clarissa. Get a bit nuanced and manipulative as Ginnie was apt to do and she lost the thread. Clarissa was very literal.

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s not. You’re right. But you know the idea is to share her…’

‘But you and I both know that won’t happen.

You’re too busy,’– I didn’t say and your house is too disgusting – ‘Ginnie’s too social,’– I didn’t add and her house is either full of people or she’s on someone’s yacht – ‘so I’m the obvious candidate.

With the odd visit to the pair of you.’ Our eyes met over the table.

Hers pale and blue, mine darker blue, like Ginnie’s, but with the same Fanshawe stamp.

‘And frankly, I do not have room in a three-bedroom house in Fulham for seven dogs.’

It was my trump card. No way would Clarissa suggest what Ginnie had, about the Fluz and Toto. She was ingrained to the core with animals.

‘What about if I had the dogs here…’ She tailed off, knowing it was hopeless. The dogs went with my mother, surgically attached, in the way some women are to a Chanel handbag. I waited. Didn’t answer.

‘What does Ginnie say?’ There. I knew it. They hadn’t even had a conversation.

‘She says it has to work because of the new roof, and Hugo can’t remortgage because he’s too old and that–’

‘It does have to work, Annabel,’ Clarissa interrupted fiercely, leaning in, her fists clenched, fixing me intently over the scrubbed pine.

‘The Massey Ferguson out there,’ she pointed through the open door, ‘will save this farm and others around here, from ruin. I’ll rent it out when I don’t need it.

For once I agree with Ginnie. Vast sums are needed to save her house and vast sums are needed to save the farm if I don’t have to turn it into a fucking wedding venue or something.

It has to work.’ I was silenced. It was years since I’d seen such passion.

‘But I totally get it from your point of view,’ she went on.

‘You can’t have all those dogs in the house.

But they’d be absolutely fine if I built a kennel at the end of your garden.

’ Oh yes, she could, single-handed. ‘I’ve thought it through,’ she said, as I opened my mouth to protest. ‘You’ve got ninety feet out there if you clear the bushes– I’ve looked on the internet– plenty of room for a run, plus it’s walled.

Mum will poo-pick, and I’ll put a kennel across the back.

But you’re right, the transfer has to be done properly, with a strict rota.

I suggest three months with each daughter.

A contract. Which will be drawn up, signed and agreed by all of us.

You can put the fourth bedroom in the loft space along with a studio for Polly, Luke can have his bedroom back to save him paying a fortune in Hackney– lucky you having children who like you and are happy to live with you, incidentally– I get to keep my tractor, and Ginnie gets her roof.

But we’ll draw it up legally, and sign it.

All dogs to stay with Mum, obviously. What d’you say? ’

My sister knew which buttons to press, even if it was unwittingly.

As I say, she’s not manipulative. The thought of the joy on my darling daughter’s face at her very own studio at last, with proper light from airy dormer windows, a sink and a work table, and not all her clay in Luke’s tiny room, which nonetheless crept into her own, the smell of which was not good for her asthma, and my son’s relief at not paying a fortune in rent which had seemed a good idea a year ago but now didn’t, made me hesitate for a moment. Clarissa saw it and pounced.

‘I’ll get someone outside the family to draw it up, a proper independent third party, someone like Giovanni.’

Giovanni was my godfather, a barrister like my father, and his greatest friend, who I adored.

‘OK…’ I said warily. ‘So where would we start? The first three months, I mean?’

‘Oh, with you, obviously.’ She drained the dregs of her tea noisily and banged the mug back down on the table.

‘You’re clearly the first port of call. She’ll slip into the routine much better if she’s only going across London, adapt so much better to the wrench of leaving the house.

You’re the clear favourite. After all, Polly wants to go to Florence on that course for three months– courtesy of Mum, incidentally– so she can have her room until she’s back.

And it’ll give you three months to do the loft conversion. Perfect.’

‘Polly’s changed her mind about the course. She says it’s too generic– everyone’s work turns out the same, apparently, with the same stamp– so she’s not doing it. And I was paying for it, incidentally. Not Mum.’

‘OK, so she comes here till you’re sorted, or goes to Ginnie.

To Ginnie, actually. I’ll need to tidy up a bit.

Which gives you even more time to get your building work done, plus the kennel.

Perfect.’ She grinned, interview over. ‘Anyway, I must get on. I’ve got a chap coming to see me about the combine which is on the blink. ’

I opened my mouth to protest but she’d already scraped back her chair, got to her feet and marched outside.

I heard her bark an instruction to some unfortunate farm worker who’d had the temerity to stray into her path without looking busy: through the window I saw him hurry away as she strode into the distance, bound for the machinery barn.

I turned my head back and stared blankly at a pin board on the wall opposite, full of rosettes.

As I picked up my untouched tea I heaved a sigh up from my wellington boots. That went well.