The solicitors office was stuffy that June afternoon, even though the street outside still carried the fresh scent of early summer. Grace brushed the pleats of her skirt, trying not to meet the eyes of her sisters, Helen and Mabel. The sisters arrived on time, each in her own manner: Helen in a crisp blazer, her mobile glued to her hand, and Mabel in a light cardigan, her face warm as if she had dropped in for tea by accident. Grace noted how differently they settled: Helen took the seat opposite the door, back straight, gazing out the window; Mabel drifted toward the coffee table piled with wellworn magazines.
Outside the town of York roared with traffic, horns blaring in the jam, while inside time seemed to slow. A thick, taut silence hung between the sisters; every one of them understood why they were there, yet none dared to break the quiet.
Grace turned her gaze to the solicitors door. Behind it lay a fragment of their past the family cottage they had spent every summer at. Since their mothers death the house had stood empty for years. All three had grown, married, taken on their own responsibilities. Now, within that modest room, the fate of their shared haven rested on the decision they were about to make.
When the clerk beckoned them in, Helen rose first and let out a barely audible sigh. Sunlight filtered through the large windows that looked out onto a leafy square. On the desk lay orderly folders and an elegant wooden pen.
The solicitor greeted each by name, her tone calm and businesslike. She explained the procedure, reminded them that written consent was required, and checked that their passports were at hand. The paperwork had been prepared in advance; she confirmed surnames and moved briskly through the formalities, as efficiently as a school examination.
Grace remembered the solicitors words: The cottage at Pinewood will be transferred into joint ownership of the three daughters, in equal shares. Helens brow furrowed slightly, Mabel dropped her gaze. No one voiced an objection.
After the signatures, the solicitor outlined their rights: each sister could now deal with her share as the law allowed, but any change would need the consent of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period was set for the formal inheritance, though in practice everything depended on the sisters agreement among themselves.
Stepping back into the corridor, the evening light striped across the grimy glass. Grace felt a wave of fatigue, as if something important had been left behind and only an unknown road lay ahead.
Already in the hallway Mabel broke the silence.
Perhaps we could meet at the cottage? Have a look around? she suggested.
Helen shrugged.
I can only make it this weekend. The childrens holidays finish right after.
Grace thought of the hectic week awaiting her at the office. To refuse now would feel like conceding defeat before the battle even began.
Lets try to go together, she said slowly. We need at least to assess the work involved.
Helen lowered her head.
Id actually sell it outright, she murmured. Well never agree on who uses it and what about the taxes?
Mabels eyes flashed.
The cottage is the only place left where Mothers strawberries still grow!
Helen snapped back.
Were not children any more, she said. Who will look after it? Who will pay for the repairs?
Grace sensed the familiar tension: each pulling toward her own reason. She recalled summer evenings on the veranda, when the only disputes were over who would wash the dishes or where to hide apricot jam from the autumn frost. Now the arguments were adult: taxes and shares replacing jam and sandpits.
Maybe, she ventured at last, if we tidy up and put a little money in, we could let it rent out during the summer. Split the earnings fairly?
Helen stared at her.
And if one of us wants to live there herself?
Mabel interjected.
Id come now and then with my son maybe a week each summer. I dont need rental income.
The conversation circled: one idea replaced anotherliving there in turns, renting to strangers or neighbours, doing a full renovation versus merely patching the roof before the next season, selling to an outsider or putting the whole property on the market. Old grievances resurfaced without invitation: who had poured money into the place before, who had tended to Mother, who had once painted the shutters a new colour without asking.
The talk grew sharp and brief. No compromise emerged; they only agreed to reconvene at the cottage in two days, each interpreting that as a chance either to persuade the others or simply to state their position more firmly.
The cottage greeted them with the smell of damp earth after a nights rain and the harsh whine of a neighbours mower. The house looked much as it always had: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees drooping over the windows, a cracked bench beside the outbuilding.
Inside it was stifling even with the windows flung open. Mosquitoes lazily swirled around a heavy glass vase that Mother had once bought at the village ironmongery. The sisters moved through the rooms in silence: Helen inspected the meters and windows, Mabel immediately began sorting the boxes of books in the bedroom corner, and Grace checked the gas cooker and fridgeboth sputtering on and off.
A quarrel erupted almost at once after the tour.
This place is falling apart, Helen complained irritably. We need a fullscale repair! And that costs money
Mabel shook her head.
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage is alive as long as we visit together.
Grace tried to mediate.
We could fix what we can now, she suggested. Deal with the rest later in detail
Yet the compromise proved illusory; each held fast to her stance until night fell. By evening they barely spoke. Mabel attempted a dinner of leftover rice and tins, Grace watched the news on her phonesignal only near the kitchen window, and Helen perused work documents beside the kettle.
At eight the lights went out; the porch bulb blew with a sharp click. Heavy grey clouds gathered over the garden.
A sudden thunderstorm rolled in, the first clap of thunder sounding as they were about to separate for the night. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain battered the roof so loudly that they had to raise their voices even indoors.
Midway down the corridor a strange sound rosea splash mixed with the creak of ceiling boards. Water streamed thinly along the wall near the bookcase. Mabel was the first to shout.
Theres a leak! Look!
Grace raced for a bucket in the shed, first unable to locate it among the old jam jars. She finally unearthed a plastic pail with a handle and hurried back. The rain intensified, the water now dripping faster.
Helen clasped a mop, trying to divert the flow away from the sockets. Short bursts of light illuminated the rooms, shadows darting across the ceiling. The air filled with ozone, wet timber, and a sharp edge of scent.
Helen turned sharply to the sisters.
This is a family nest! We cant live here, nor rent it, while its bleeding!
Now no one argued; everyone was busy pulling books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it became clear: if the leak wasnt sealed now, half the furniture would have to be replaced in the morning.
The earlier grievances shrank to nothing beside the urgent repair. The solution emerged on its own: find material for a temporary fix straight away.
When the water finally ceased dripping from the ceiling, the house seemed to exhaletogether with Grace, Helen and Mabel. A halffilled bucket of murky water sat by the bookcase, the rug was damp at the edges, books lay stacked against the wall, and the corridor smelled of wet wood. Outside the rain softened; lone drops pattered on the windowsill.
Grace wiped her forehead with her sleeve and looked at her sisters: Helen crouched by the socket, checking that no water had seeped in; Mabel sat on the stairs, clutching an old towel theyd improvised as a rag. Silence settled, broken only by the shed door slamming in the wind.
We must sort the roof now, Helen said, weary. Otherwise the next downpour will do the same.
Grace nodded.
There should be felt roofing and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Mabel rose.
Ill help, she said. Just fetch a lantern; its dark in there.
The shed was cool and smelled of earth. Grace struggled with an old headlampits batteries were low, the light flickered across the walls. The felt was heavier than they expected. Mabel held a handful of nails, Helen took the hammer that Father had once used to fix the gate.
Time was short; the rain could return at any moment. They climbed to the loft through a narrow hatch behind the kitchen. It was hot and stale, the scent of dust and years past hanging heavy.
They worked in silence. Grace held the felt while Helen hammered it onto the rafters, the sharp thud echoing in the cramped space. Mabel passed the nails, murmuring to herself, counting blows or simply keeping fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps, the night sky showed fleeting stars as clouds drifted over the garden, the moon casting a pale light on the damp apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Helen urged. If we dont secure it, the first gust will rip it away.
Grace pressed the edge of the material down harder.
Mabel suddenly laughed.
Well, at least weve done something together today
The laugh sounded warm, unexpectedthe first genuine sound of the day.
Grace felt the tension melt away, her back finally relaxing enough to let a sigh escape.
Perhaps this is how it ought to be, she whispered. Fixing what breaks together.
Helen met her gaze, not angry but tired.
Otherwise it wont work, she replied.
They finished quickly, the final strip of felt snugly in place, and descended.
The kitchen was chilly; the window remained ajar after the storm. The sisters gathered around the tablesomeone put a kettle on the stove, another fetched a packet of biscuits.
Grace brushed stray hair from her forehead and examined her sisters, now free of irritation.
Well still have to keep negotiating, she said. This repair is only the beginning.
Mabel smiled.
I dont want to lose the cottage, she admitted, shrugging lightly. And I dont want us fighting over it.
Helen sighed.
Im scared of being left alone with all the upkeep, she confessed, looking at the table. But if we do it together maybe it can work.
A pause settled; outside the wind rustled the leaves, a distant dog barked.
Lets not put it off any longer, Grace decided. She pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag. Well draw up a calendarwho can be here each summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Mabel brightened.
I can take the first week of July.
Helen thought.
August works best for memy children are free then.
Grace wrote the dates, sketching lines between weeks; slowly the page filled with a grid of possible visits and duties.
They debated small detailswho would come for the May holidays next year, how to split the cost of the mower and electricity, what to do with the apple harvest in autumn. Yet now there was no anger, only a shared desire to sort things out without losing each other.
The night passed peacefully; no one awoke from the sound of water or wind. Morning found the sun streaming through the open windows, the garden glittering with dew on the apple leaves and grass along the path to the gate.
Grace rose before her sisters and stepped onto the porch, her bare feet feeling the cool boards. A neighbours voice drifted over the fence, chatting about the weather and the latest harvest.
In the kitchen the aroma of coffee wafted; Mabel had brewed a pot and laid out a packet of bread.
Helen arrived last, hair tied back in a low ponytail, eyes a little bleary but calm.
They ate together, sharing the bread and talking over plans without haste.
Well need more felt, Helen noted. What we used barely covered the leaks.
And a new bulb for the porch, Mabel added. I almost tripped in the garden yesterday.
Grace smiled.
Ill note everything in our repair calendar
The sisters exchanged looks; any lingering grievances seemed dissolved.
The cottage stood quieter than usual; through the open doors came the chatter of neighbours and the clatter of dishes. The house felt alive againnot only because the roof no longer dripped, but because all three were there, each with her own habits and frailties, now no longer apart.
Before departing they walked through each room once more, closing windows, checking sockets, stacking the leftover building supplies in the loft. On the kitchen table lay the paper with the plotted dates and reminders of purchases.
Helen placed the keys neatly on the shelf by the door.
Shall we touch base next week? Ill check with the builder about the roof.
Mabel nodded.
Ill swing by the following week to see the strawberries. Ill give you a ring first.
Grace lingered in the hallway a moment longer, turned to her sisters and said softly, Thank you for last night and for today.
The sisters looked at each other, their eyes calm and open, free of the old prickly shadows of distrust.
When the gate shut behind them, the garden was dry after the nights rain; the path gleamed in the sunshine. The calendar sheet still bore their names beside the upcoming visitsa small promise that they would not vanish from each others lives, even after the toughest summer.
