Failing Upward

Chapter 13 (part 3): The Community

Touching the chair, I got no sense of him left behind. Fuck this extrasensory shit inside me that comes like a whim. I sat, carefully unfolding the napkin in my lap, pretending not to notice the long, uncomfortable silence that slapped me in the face. I'd walked in on one of those moments...where you know you were being talked about just before you stepped into the room.

I stole a glance at Mycroft, who arched back in the chair, feigning disinterest. Hell, the tension was so hot that it left burn on my cheeks from the imprint.

Sherlock bounced in, breaking the spell.

"John! They have bees!"

"What?"

"I saw the hives outside the windows when I was in the washroom!"

"After dinner Sean can show you the colony, but for now let's eat first," said Glenda.

Sherlock reluctantly took a seat as my uncle bowed his head in silent prayer.

We passed our dishes to Glenda and my uncle served. As usual, Sherlock had little appetite, and the possibility of inspecting hives distracted him further. He sat next to me and cut up bits of roast and pushed them from one side of the plate to the other. I, on the other hand, was famished and cut big, tender chunks and shoveled them in with potatoes dripping in rich gravy.

I looked up, and Mycroft's icy eyes regarded me from across the table. Immediately Sherlock noticed the stare and started snarling at his brother. No choice, I had to step in before the war of words started.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked Glenda, who sat on the other side of Sherlock.

"I had this place built years ago—around 1814."

Sherlock dropped his fork on the plate with a clang.

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's impolite to ask a woman her age?" she laughed.

"No," Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft, "she didn't." Sherlock turned his attention to Glenda, his disbelief turning to awe. He glanced over to me, and I could see his complex mind calculating the changes my aunt and uncle had seen, the history they'd lived, the incredible stories they must hold.

"Don't feel bad," she said. "I don't count anymore. Let's just say I'm much older than this house. Much, much older."

"I don't feel bad," he said. "I assumed you were old, just not that old. In most women, 40s and 50s mark the cessation of fertility. Sean told John he's eighty-nine years old. That's over a fifty-year gap between children."

"My, you are a snarky one!" Then she sat forward conspiratorially and whispered to him, "We're fertile for a very long time but our window for conception is narrow."

"Sherlock, this is not appropriate dinner conversation," Mycroft said, turning to Glenda. "Do forgive him. Mummy did teach him manners, he just chooses to ignore her lessons."

"Mycroft, are you going to finish the entire pork roast? What, no dinner rolls? Here, have the basket. And what about more gravy for that pile of potatoes?" Sherlock said haughtily.

"I was wondering about some of the antiques—" I said, changing the subject fast, "especially the staircase in the back. All hand-carved. It's beautiful."

"Oh, yes. That staircase is old— much older than this house. We had it brought here from one of our first homes overseas," she said.

I watched as she concentrated on cutting her meat up in delicate bits. She was being intentionally vague, and I wasn't sure why.