The waiting room of the solicitors office smells of stale coffee, although a June breeze still drifts past the windows. Olivia smooths the folds of her skirt, trying not to meet the eyes of Imogen or Poppy. The sisters arrive on time, each in her own way: Imogen in a sharp blazer, phone glued to her hand; Poppy in a light cardigan, her face warm as if shes just popped in for a cuppa with a friend. Olivia watches how they sit differently: Imogen opposite the door, back straight, gaze fixed on the street; Poppy nearer the coffee table, leafing through a battered magazine.
Outside the city hums, horns blare in the traffic jam, yet inside time seems to slow. The silence between the sisters feels thick and taut: everyone knows why theyre here, but no one dares to break it.
Olivia glances at the solicitors door. Behind it lies a piece of their past the family cottage where they spent every summer together. Since Mums death the house has sat empty. All three have grown up, started families, taken on responsibilities. Now the decision made in this room will decide whether they keep a shared haven or let it finally disappear.
When the clerk invites them in, Imogen rises first and exhales softly. The office is bright: large windows look out onto a leafy square. Neat folders and a long wooden pen sit on the desk.
The solicitor greets each by name, speaking calmly and efficiently, explaining the procedure and reminding them that written consent is required. The papers are ready; she checks surnames and asks to see passports. Everything proceeds formally and swiftly almost like sitting an exam.
Olivia remembers the solicitors words: The cottage at Ashford will be transferred into joint ownership of the three daughters, in equal shares. Imogen furrows her brow slightly, Poppy drops her gaze. No one objects aloud.
After the signatures, the solicitor outlines their rights: each sister may now deal with her share according to the law. Any change needs agreement from all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth period is set for the inheritance to become official, but in practice everything hinges on their mutual consent.
Back in the corridor, evening light strips across the dusty glass. Olivia feels a wave of fatigue: something important has just passed, and ahead lies only uncertainty.
On the street, Poppy breaks the silence first:
Maybe we could meet at the cottage? Have a look
Imogen shrugs:
I can only do this weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
Olivia thinks about the hectic week ahead at the office. Saying no now would feel like conceding defeat too early.
Lets try to go together, she says slowly. We need to understand the scale of the work.
Imogen leans her head forward:
Id actually sell it all straight away, she mutters. We wont agree on usage and the taxes?
Poppys eyes flash:
Sell? Thats the only place Mums strawberries are still growing!
Yeah, were not kids any more, Imogen snaps. Wholl look after it? Wholl pay for repairs?
Olivia senses the familiar tension: each pulls in her direction, each has a reason. She recalls summer evenings on the veranda, when the biggest argument was who would wash the dishes or where to hide apricot jam from the squirrels. Now the stakes are grownup: taxes and shares instead of jam and sandpits.
Perhaps, she suggests at last, if we tidy things up and put a little money in, we could let it rent out in summer? Split the income fairly?
Imogen studies her:
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Poppy interjects:
Id come by now and then with my son maybe a week each summer. I dont need rental income.
The discussion circles: take turns living there, rent to strangers or neighbours, do a full refurbishment or just patch the roof before season, sell to an outsider or list the whole property. Old grievances surface without invitation who invested what before, who cared for Mum, who repainted the shutters without asking.
The talk ends sharp and brief. No compromise emerges. They merely agree to meet again in two days at the cottage, each interpreting that as a chance to persuade the others or at least make their stance clear.
The cottage greets them with the scent of damp earth after a night rain and the sharp whirr of a neighbours mower. The house looks almost as it did before: peeling paint on the porch, apple trees drooping under the windows, an old bench by the shed with a cracked leg.
Inside it feels stuffy even with the windows flung open. Mosquitoes lazily circle a heavy glass vase that Mum once bought from the local haberdashery. The sisters drift through the rooms in silence: Imogen checks the meters and windows, Poppy immediately starts sorting a box of books in the bedroom corner, Olivia peeks into the kitchen to test the gas hob and fridge both work intermittently.
A spat erupts almost straight after the walkthrough:
This place is falling apart, Imogen complains irritably. We need a full renovation! And that costs money
Poppy shakes her head:
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage lives as long as we visit together!
Olivia tries to intervene:
We could fix what we can now, she offers. Discuss the rest later
But the compromise feels phantom: each holds her ground until nightfall. By evening they barely speak. Poppy attempts a dinner of leftover rice and tinned beans, Olivia watches the news on her phone the signal only catches near the kitchen window, Imogen flips through work documents by the kettle.
At eight oclock darkness deepens; a switch clicks loudly at the entrance the porch lamp has blown. Heavy grey clouds gather over the garden.
A thunderstorm rolls in quickly the first clap of thunder sounds as they are about to head to their rooms. Lightning flashes through the windows, rain hammers the roof so loudly they have to raise their voices just to be heard.
Midway down the hallway a strange sound rises a splashing mixed with the creak of floorboards. Water drips in a thin stream along the wall by the bookcase. Poppy screams first:
Its leaking! Look!
Olivia darts for a bucket in the shed, first struggling to locate it among old jam jars. She finally hauls a plastic tub with a handle back inside as the rain intensifies and water pours faster.
Imogen grips a mop, steering the stream away from sockets. Short bursts of lightning light the rooms, shadows flicker on the ceiling. The air fills with ozone, wet timber, a sharp edge.
Imogen spins to the sisters:
This is a family nest! We cant live here or rent it out like this!
Now no one argues; all are busy pulling books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes its clear: if the leak isnt sealed now, half the furniture will need replacing in the morning.
Old grievances shrink to nothing. A solution appears on its own: find material for a temporary fix right then.
When the water stops dripping from the ceiling, the house seems to exhale together with Olivia, Imogen and Poppy. A halffilled bucket sits by the bookcase, the rug is damp at the edges, books stack against the wall. The corridor smells of wet wood. Outside the rain eases, a few drops patter on the sill.
Olivia wipes her forehead with her sleeve and looks at her sisters: Imogen squats near an outlet, checking it for water; Poppy sits on the stairs holding an old towel theyve grabbed as a rag. Silence hangs, broken only by the shed door slamming shut in the wind.
We need to sort the roof now, Imogen says, weary. Otherwise the next downpour will do the same.
Olivia nods:
Theres roofing felt and nails in the shed I saw a roll on the shelf.
Poppy stands:
Ill help. Bring a torch its dark in there.
The shed is cool, smelling of earth. Olivia scrambles for an old headlamp; the batteries are low, the light flickers across the walls. The felt is heavier than expected. Poppy holds nails in her palm, Imogen grabs the hammer her father once used to fix the gate.
Theres no time to lose the rain could return any second. The three climb onto the loft through a narrow hatch behind the kitchen. Its hot, dust and old memories hang in the air.
They work in silence. Olivia holds the felt while Imogen hammers it to the boards the hammers clang echoes in the cramped space. Poppy passes the nails, muttering numbers under her breath, perhaps counting blows to keep fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps the night sky peeks clouds drift over the garden, the moon lights the damp apple trees.
Hold it tighter, Imogen urges. If we dont secure it, the first gust will rip it off.
Olivia presses the edge harder.
Poppy suddenly laughs:
Well, at least weve done something together
The laugh sounds warm, the first genuine one all day.
Olivia feels the tension melt away, her back finally easing as she allows herself a brief relaxation.
Maybe this is how it should be, she says quietly. Fix what breaks, together.
Imogen looks at her, not angry but tired.
It wont work any other way
They finish quickly, nailing the last strip of felt and climbing down.
The kitchen is cool; the window remains open after the storm. The sisters gather at the table: someone puts a kettle on the stove, another finds a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.
Olivia brushes hair from her forehead and studies her sisters now without irritation or resentment.
Well still have to keep negotiating, she says. This repair is just the start.
Poppy smiles:
I dont want to lose the cottage, she says, shrugging slightly. And I dont want us fighting over it.
Imogen sighs:
Im scared of being left alone with all the upkeep, she admits, looking at the table. But if we do it together maybe it will work.
A pause settles; outside leaves rustle with dripping water, a dog barks faintly in the distance.
Olivia decides:
Lets not put it off, she declares, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag. Well draw up a calendar who can come each summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Poppy brightens:
I can take the first week of July.
Imogen thinks:
August works best for me the kids are free then.
Olivia marks the dates, drawing lines between weeks; a grid of possible visits and duties slowly appears on the page.
They argue over small details who will be here for the May bank holiday next year, how to split the cost of the mower and electricity, what to do with the apples in autumn. Yet now there is no anger, only a desire to sort things out and not lose each other.
The night passes quietly; nobody wakes from the sound of water or wind. In the morning the sun streams through the open windows; the garden glitters with dew on apple leaves and grass along the path to the gate.
Olivia rises before her sisters and steps onto the porch, bare feet feeling the cool boards. A neighbours voice carries over the fence, chatting about the weather and the harvest.
The kitchen already smells of coffee; Poppy has brewed a pot and laid out a packet of loaf. Imogen arrives last, hair tied in a ponytail, eyes a little bleary but calm.
They share breakfast, passing bread and discussing the days plans without rush.
Well need more roofing felt, Imogen notes. What we used barely covered everything.
And a new porch light, Poppy adds. I slipped in the garden yesterday.
Olivia smiles:
Ill add both to our calendar of repairs
The sisters exchange a look; any lingering grudges have vanished.
The cottage feels quieter than usual; through open doors the chatter of neighbours and the clatter of dishes drift in. The house seems alive again not just because the roof no longer leaks, but because the three of them are there, each with her quirks and strengths, now working as one.
Before they leave they walk through each room again, closing windows, checking sockets, clearing away leftover building material from the loft. On the kitchen table lies the sheet of paper with dates and notes on needed purchases.
Imogen places the keys on the shelf by the door:
Shall we call each other next week? Ill confirm the roofing contractor.
Poppy nods:
Ill swing by next week to check the strawberries. Ill give you a ring.
Olivia lingers in the hallway a moment longer, looks at her sisters and says softly:
Thank you for last night and for today too.
The sisters share one more steady glance, their eyes calm and open no longer shadowed by distrust.
When the gate closes behind them, the garden is dry after the nights downpour; the path glints in the sun. The calendar sheet rests on the table, their names next to the dates of future visits a small promise that they will not fade from each others lives even after the toughest summer.
