Authors: Emily Franklin
But Monti begs to differ. “Oh you two are just like Mick and Jerry,” she says. “When they first met they couldn’t stop arguing over the silliest things — and now…”
“Now they’re divorced, mother,” Arabella says, saying
mother
like it’s a slur. I’ve noticed that she calls her parents by their first names except when she’s digging at them — sort of the way parents say your full name when you’re in trouble. Suddenly it dawns on me that I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I’ve said the word
mother
or
mom
out loud. If you count how often I’ve wondered about the reality of my own birth, there’d be plenty, but uttering the name is a rare occurrence.
“I think Mick and Jerry are just separated again,” Monti says. “Or maybe not. But nevertheless, many great romances begin with bickering.”
“The roots of passion are such…” Angus agrees but his words get lost in the mouthful of lamb he forks up and eats.
It’s Christmas Eve Eve, but no one has mentioned the upcoming holidays. I’m not a huge proponent of the wreaths and stockings — we never really celebrated much come to think of it. Dad and I always exchanged gifts, but not necessarily on Christmas Day or anything. I have vague memories of lighting a Menorah for Chanukah with Mable, but I’ve never been clear whether that was due to being part Jewish or Mable’s Christma-Kwanzi-Kah-Solstice kind of open spirituality.
Part of being such a small family, a twosome really, means that we kind of live by our own rules a lot of the time. Maybe this is part of the reason Arabella and I click so well. Even though our backgrounds are totally on opposite ends of the spectrum, we have that overlap; the non-traditional family. So the fact that none of the Pieces have mentioned the holidays isn’t such a foreign concept to me. Except that they could full well fit Santa’s sleigh and herd of reindeer in this room, not to mention give a bedroom to each elf.
“I’ll be going on a winter walk tomorrow at dawn for those who might be interested,” Monti says.
“I’m decorating my topiaries,” Angus says with pride, which causes Arabella to stifle a giggle. I lock eyes with her and we explode with laughter. I’m also hit with that nervous post-illicit kiss (was it really illicit?) energy when I think of sitting in that tea cup. Arabella looks at me and mouths
what?
She knows from my face that something happened so I mouth
later — I’ll tell you later
.
Clive watches our exchange and swigs a glass of wine then pushes his chair back. It scratches the slate underneath. “I’m out of here.”
He says it in a Hadley-dude kind of way that makes Arabella stop laughing and say, “Don’t try to sound American. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Don’t try to sound mature, Arabella, it doesn’t suit you,” Clive intones back. Times like this I am very glad to be an only child. Sure, the sibling companionship would be nice, but the fighting I could do without.
Full of wine and rich food, I help clear the dishes. Monti and Angus remain at the table as the candles drip down, signaling how late it is. I check my watch — midnight here, seven at home. I go to the phone room to call home (phone room=one of those red phone boxes set into a long corridor the leads from the kitchen to the pantry).
Inside, I’m not Superman, but deflated when I dial the international operator and think about Mable and my dad.
“I miss you,” I say to my dad as soon as he’s picked up.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he says. “You sound more refreshed.” I had phoned just to let him know I’d arrived but was pretty much incoherent.
“Yeah,” I say, wanting to substitute
refreshed
with
drunk,
but not for the sake of keeping the phone call on task. “How is she?”
“She’s…she’s right here, hang on.”
“What’s it like?” Mable asks right away. She sounds good, not tired, not hoarse. She wants to know all about Bracker’s Common and the family and I tell her about Monti being Shalimar and Angus being the playwright and Mable nearly chokes. “Are you serious? Did you ask Shalimar about the punk scene in London? Also didn’t she have an affair with Bono?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But they’re all really nice. It’s just different and I wish you were here. It’s hard to explain.”
“Many of the best things in life defy explanation,” Mable says.
Arabella knocks on the glass of the phone box and waves.
“I gotta go,” I say. “Have good night and Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Kwanza and all that.”
Arabella undoes the latch on the door in front of us and leads the way into the music room. By room I mean hall and by hall I mean auditorium. Not one but two grand pianos, a harpsichord (yes, I pluck-played it and found out), a cello, and so on.
“Do you guys really need all the orchestral accoutrements?” I ask. It’s not that they aren’t deserving of all this stuff, and at least their money has bought good things as opposed to say piles of drugs, but it’s…
“It’s kind of….” I start, unsure how to say what I’m thinking without sounding bitchy or jealous.
“Oh, it’s totally OTT,” Arabella nods. She doesn’t need to explain Over The Top, it’s just obvious. “But it’s not like they’re uncharitable either. Some people buy islands or collect figurines…”
“You can’t compare someone’s Hummel collection with this estate,” I say, half-laughing, half-incredulous.
“I’m not — I’m just stating for the American jury that my parents don’t judge anyone else’s money or status. You know they despise traditional displays of wealth, like Tobias and all his British royals, so they choose to spend their money on what they value — a nice home, instruments, that sort of thing.”
“Isn’t that contradictory? If they don’t judge anyone’s money or status, then they shouldn’t care about Toby being loaded — or royalty.”
“I guess,” Arabella says, mime-dancing by herself, complete with a curtsy and bow.
“I know, I know. It makes sense what you’re saying, it’s just hard when you’re here — or when I’m here,” I take another look around the grandness of the room, “to remember what life’s like outside it — and I’m not trying to say that I’m like this bastion of everydayness, being at Hadley and everything, but this is pretty extreme.”
Arabella nods and takes her wine goblet over to one of the pianos and sits on the bench. Suddenly, she begins to play (play=show mastery of the instrument, hands fluttering up and down the keys, bare feet working the brass pedals).
“I had no idea you even knew how,” I say.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” she says and smiles. You, too, I want to add, thinking about when I should explain my whereabouts with Asher the gardener, but deciding now’s not the best time.
“Like she’s a total wanker,” Clive shouts form the doorway.
“Fuck off!” demands Arabella without pausing her playing for a moment. To my surprise, Clive obeys her commands, taking a small bow and exiting.
Arabella stops playing. “Is he not the MOST annoying creature ever?”
I sigh. “No offense, but yes.” I almost never use the
no offense
clause because it basically means
I am going to offend you now
, but it’s okay in this instance.
“At least he’s only my half-brother,” Arabella states casually and shakes her chestnut hair back dramatically.
“What?” I ask. “How is that possible?”
“First off, anything is possible around here.” Arabella looks me in the eye and smirks. “I learned that when I was eight and wanted a hot air ballooning birthday — and got it.”
“Um, hello non-sequitor?”
“Not really,” Arabella says. “Come sit.” I join her at the piano bench and we play chopsticks and then the ever-annoying
Heart and Soul
while she informs me, “I mention my eighth birthday because as I was about to climb into the ballooning basket, someone yanked my knickers down so my bare bum was on display for the whole party — Madonna was there, by the way, not that she had anything to do with the pants situation — and when I screamed, Angus patted me on the shoulder.”
“And then?”
“And then he said well, never mind, Bels, that’s just Clive — your semi-brother…” She stops playing and stands up. “And that’s how I found out Dad had been married before.”
“My God — that’s slightly traumatic.”
“I know. When I was up in the balloon I kept looking down at Bracker’s — we were directly over the lake and the topiary garden, which I’ll show you later — and I just couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets or surprises we were hiding down there.”
I stand up and go to the window. The glass is outlined in lead and cold, and outside I can’t see much except for the lanterns glowing on the drive. Arabella stands next to me, her arms wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. I want to tell her I’ve already seen the topiary garden, but I’m still digesting the Clive news, and how overwhelming it must have felt for her to suddenly have a sibling she never knew about.
“What else haven’t you told me?” I poke her shoulder.
“Oh, nothing,” she chides.
“Tell me!” I say. “Is Sting your uncle or something?”
Arabella raises one eyebrow like I taught her to do and I raise one back. We stay mirrored like that for a minute and then she breaks, “Come on, I’ll show you something.”
My adventures in Wonderland continue when Arabella and I climb a set of stone stairs up into a narrow tower. At the top is a “whispering circle” which is a sort of stone curved bench that arcs into one side of the cupola.
“See,” my crazy English friend explains to me, “you can sit on one side and whisper really softly and the person on the other side can hear you.”
“How Victorian,” I say and take a seat on one end while Arabella sits far away on the other side of the arch.
“Exactly — I think lords and ladies or whatever used to sit here and confess their deep dark secrets without genteel society being able to hear.” She points to a seat that’s carved into the wall on the far side of the room. “That’s the chaperone’s spot — mixed company was never left alone, you see, young women were assigned a governess or a chaperone to make sure they didn’t get in trouble.”
“Am I your chaperone?” I ask.
“No — I’m yours,” Arabella says. “You’re in my country and my house so it’s my duty to make sure you have fun but do it properly.”
“Have fun or behave?” I ask.
“Both,” she says.
We pose there, our hands over our mouths, overly demure and then Arabella whispers, “Say something.” It’s so cool because I can totally hear her as if she’s just faintly spoken into my ear.
“Say what?” I ask.
“Tell me your deep dark secrets,” she says.
“Like you don’t already know everything — not that there’s much to tell. Not yet.”
“Well, I told you that Clive isn’t my brother — he’s just half. And Angus’s prior marriage — his former wife — was this notorious wild woman — but that’s a story for another time. And my mother — Monti — she’s not really English. She’s from Indiana by way of Newport, which is how she knows Lila Lawrence’s lush mother.”
“Oh, yeah — it’s weird because I thought I heard your mom slip into an American accent today, but I didn’t want to say anything, obviously.”
“Anyway,” Arabella tucks her knees up to her chest and rubs her arms again, probably freezing in her dress since the room is cold. “There’s enough fodder in my family to fill a billion tabloids — not to mention my brother being the biggest mystery.”
“Clive?” I ask. “It’s nice that you refer to him as your brother, even if you kind of detest him and he’s only genetically linked by half.”
“No,” Arabella says, “I didn’t mean Clive.” She stands up and breaks our whispering, her voice sounding even louder than normal after all our hushed conversation. “I meant my other brother.”
“God — don’t tell me there’s another one like Clive?” I laugh.
“No — this one’s nothing like Clive. I was talking about my full brother, whom I don’t think you’ve had the displeasure of meeting.”
“Oh,” I say and sigh, incredulous that Arabella just forgot to mention another member of her family. “And who is this forgotten soul?”
“Asher,” Arabella slides her bare feet along the cold black and white checked marble floor. “My brother Asher.”
That’s me: putting the ass back in assumption. Why I ever assumed Asher was a gardener is beyond me. Of course he’s related, of course now that I know he’s Arabella’s brother the resemblance is clear. Arabella is halfway down the tower stairs before I regain my composure and follow her. “Bels, wait a minute,” I say.
“No — I’m freezing,” she whines. “Let me just run to my room for a sec and then I’ll meet you downstairs. It’s probably time for hot chochie in the kitchen, anyway.”
Hot chocie is just one of the many abbreviations I’ve heard since my arrival — presents are pressies, kisses are kissies, biscuits are bickies. Note to self: keep list of English phrases and their meanings in journal. I start to head downstairs to wait for Arabella but feel like I need to tell her about my run-in with Asher so I walk the maze of the second floor hallways and try to get to her room. The trouble is that we came down the back stairway and I only know my way around from the front stairway, so I’m wandering around like Alice (which I kind of am, between the tea cup kiss — kiss=snogs — and my wide-eyed amazement).
Each room is a different color, and I take a quick peek in as I go by. There’s the yellow room, with its buttery curtains and cream-colored bedspread, worn in tapestry on the wall. The silver room is austere, gray linens, throw pillows bordered in silvery rope, polished cement floors, and a floor to ceiling mirror anchored to the wall by a wrought-iron hook. The pink room — where Monti mentioned she likes to sleep when she needs to feel “closer to her inner organs”, um, okay — is a vision of warmth; since it’s at the front of the house in one of the turrets, the room is round with a queen-sized bed oddly in the center of the room not touching any wall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bedroom where the bed just floated, but it works in this one. Deep rose silk drapes billow on the floor, two round couches quilted in velvety pink (not My Pretty Pony pink, antique, mellow pink) beckon me over.