We all sat in solemn wonder at the breakfast table as the great windows glared back at us from a blinding white sea. It was a sheer light, icicle white and so luminous its ferocity burned our sleep-soaked eyes. Great pillows of snow had gently eased up against the glass at the bottom of the French doors. Nothing moved. It was quiet but not peaceful. The room was cut through with a sharp tension, an anxious pause, as if we were waiting.
Angel was there. Maybe he had been all along, but my sight only now adjusted to his silhouette. He was flustered, his usual composure slightly ruffled. As if to highlight this, in one step he stumbled and fell to his knees, dropping a plate. Shards of vintage china bloomed across the carpet along with bacon and great gobs of scrambled eggs.
Everyone sat rigid on sudden alert. Mirabelle glared from above her strategically placed reading glasses. Her black eyes swam like tadpoles behind the grey glass. She wasn’t reading so there was no need to have them on. In fact, to my recollection, I’d never seen her reading which was surprising given that this was a book club. She had no real need of the reading glasses save to give herself a veneer of respectability.
‘Aha, a fallen Angel,’ Mirabelle observed sharply.
‘Don’t be so insensitive, Mirabelle.’ Less was serenely irritating this morning. She sat immaculately as if scolding us for our poor postures. She took each mouthful of quinoa-infused air with a meticulous opening and closing of her mouth that made me want to force feed her.
Mother was locked in a filthy hangover, which she was disguising as food poisoning.
As Angel clambered to his feet unaided, he began scooping the shattered petals of the plate and the splattering of eggs into a small pile.
I pushed back my chair. ‘Let me help you.’
‘You will not,’ Mother flared. ‘We’re paying a fortune for this!’
The dog bolted out from under the table and began gnawing at the bacon.
‘Can’t you control that thing?’ Aunt Charlotte grumbled.
‘He’s only helping!’ Bridget ran forward.
Mrs Angel appeared. People had a habit of just appearing here. She began solemnly sweeping away the mess. She glanced at her husband and then quickly looked away again. She saw me watching.
‘Would Madam require anything further? Some fresh tea perhaps?’ Her smile was crisp and methodical.
‘I’m not paying for it, you know’ — words that tripped from Mother’s mouth with such regularity that it should be emblazoned on some sort of crest for her. It’ll be carved on her headstone. Though my therapist says I shouldn’t linger on that image too often.
Angel did not glance up from sweeping away the remains of the china, but the dog could not be dissuaded from the food.
‘I hope this is all organic,’ Bridget said, as she stood over the Angels. ‘Mr Bojangles only eats organic.’
‘I need to get a message to London,’ Aunt Charlotte announced, as if she’d stepped out of a Victorian melodrama.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Madam.’ Mrs Angel stood up, her smile broken-glass sharp.
‘I can assure you that it is possible and you will sort—’
‘Madam, we do not have a telephone here, as the literature clearly states. This is a retreat from the pressures of the outside world. And I’m afraid the driveway is blocked with snow as is the road into the village. It’s impassable. When we went out—’
‘We shall starve to death!’ Bridget screamed. ‘We have to get out. Now!’
Mrs Angel watched her with slow, patient eyes.
‘We could eat the dog,’ I suggested to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t.
Bridget looked shocked for everyone else’s benefit and covered her dog’s ears.
‘I thought you were vegetarian,’ Mirabelle sneered.
‘Madam, there is sufficient food,’ Mrs Angel began in a deliberate voice. ‘We are no strangers to isolation here.’
‘That’s obvious,’ Mother murmured from her fragile shell of pain. I could smell last night’s brandy festering with a familiar foetid sweetness on her breath. No matter how exhausted or anxious I am, I never fail to brush my teeth before breakfast for this very reason. No one wants to smell the remains of someone’s sorrow.
Aunt Charlotte rose and seemed to expand to fill the space around her. ‘Young man.’ Angel looked suitably mystified. ‘I am not accustomed to isolation. I am a member of three bridge circles and the Women’s Institute. I do not do isolation.’ Her hands were firmly embedded on her hips. ‘Who’s got a mobile with them? Has anyone got a signal?’
It had been the first thing I’d checked when the long road of boredom that lay ahead became obvious.
‘What?’ Less looked aghast. ‘No phones, no mobile, no internet, no transport? It’s like a prison!’
‘You’d know,’ said Aunt Charlotte.
‘We shall all die!’ Less was beginning to sound genuinely alarmed, but it’s hard to tell with her. ‘We have to get out. I can’t be kept in confined spaces.’
‘Because of all that solitary?’ Aunt Charlotte laughed.
‘It’s a mansion,’ I offered.
‘I have just as much right to speak as anyone else here,’ Less said, defiantly. ‘I am a human being and I deserve—’
‘We could see it as a good opportunity to discuss the book.’ Everyone ignored Bridget.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Less, please spare us from your rights. Someone has got to take control here.’ Aunt Charlotte looked ready to lead her troops — possibly to certain death but nonetheless, she was keen.
‘Oh, and that should be you should it? Just because you’re loud and stupid?’
‘How very dare—’
‘Stop it! Stop it right now! All of you.’
The room fell silent and we stared at Mother. Her eyes looked darker, more sunken than usual, her skin as gauze thin as a moth’s wing. Suddenly she looked older, in an exhausted, resigned way. Her face seemed longer, drawn down by time. I had grown so used to her being self-assured and polished that the slightest gap in her armour, the slightest slip was magnified. I relied on her utter perfection but I knew she was flawed — just how flawed, I didn’t know yet.
Mother spoke slowly, as if picking her way carefully through the words. ‘We must work together. All this will pass. Besides, it’s only a weekend. We can survive that, I’m sure. Now, Charlotte, if you desperately need to make contact with the outside world, can I suggest a small search party wraps up well and takes a walk to the end of the drive to assess the accessibility.’
‘It was blocked when we—’ Angel began.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Can’t we just settle in here for the day and deal with this tomorrow?’ This was uncharacteristically lazy of Mirabelle. I watched her shift awkwardly.
‘We could discuss the book,’ Bridget offered.
‘I can’t believe Charlotte has anything so pressing that we need to freeze to death in the wastelands so she can make a phone call.’
‘How bloody dare you, Mirabelle? I will have you know that the WI has a meeting this Thursday and I am chairing. I need to secure my keynote speaker. I don’t suppose that would mean anything to you as you’ve never organized a thing in your life — least of all your life!’