Holly and Ivy
Once upon a time, not too long ago, Holly and Ivy Holme lived with their parents, James and Miranda, in a spacious flat that sat atop a ludicrously large garage located in a ludicrously leafy suburb of a great metropolitan city.
James drove the cars of Hamilcar Lector, a very rich man who, I am happy to say, enjoyed full freedom from the embarrassment that would have resulted from the existence of a kinsman named “Hannibal.”
James liked his job, not merely because of its many perks (such as the aforementioned apartment and lots of little pieces of painfully French cheese left over from parties), but also because it gave him lots of opportunity to listen to audiobooks. (James had caught the bug of literary listening years ago, in an age when the spoken version of a proper book filled several dozen cassette tapes.)
Holly and Ivy had been born at Christmas time (whence their names), eighteen years before their parents sat them down for what they would long remember as “the Boxing Day talk.”
“So, Ladies,” asked James, “what are your plans?”
“I want to go to Harvard,” said Ivy.
“I want to sweep the floors at the Museum,” said Holly.
“Harvard,” gasped Miranda. “We can’t afford that.”
“I think we can,” said James. “Mr. Lector tells me that a student from a family of modest means can go to Harvard for free.”
“Do we qualify?” asked Miranda.
“Indeed we do, at least as far as cash is concerned.”
“So,” said Ivy, “as long as they don’t factor in the value of our apartment …”
“Or that of the cheese,” added Holly, who often completed thoughts begun by her sister.
“That’s a relief,” said Miranda, “now all Ivy has to do is get into Harvard.”
“That won’t be difficult,” said James, with confidence. “Mr. Lector is one of Harvard’s biggest donors and he has offered to write a glowing recommendation.”
“Another perk of the job,” said Miranda.
“Better than the cheese,” said James.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Holly.
As if on cue, they all looked at the plate of day-old canapés in front of them and laughed.
“So, Holly,” said Miranda, “It’s your turn.”
“I want to learn about Hittites, and the Museum is the best place to do that. So, I want to get a job that provides lots of contact with Hittite artifacts and people who love them.”
“I like the way that you think,” said James. “You are truly your father’s daughter.”
“Thanks, Dad. I was afraid that you and Mom would take umbrage at my plan.”
“No umbrage here, My Child,” said Miranda, “but some concern about money.”
“I’ll make enough to cover the cost of my monthly train ticket, and pay rent to you and Dad, for room and board and the cheese I take for my lunches.”
“That will do for the present. What about the future?”
“Well, he doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to marry Christopher.”
“Christopher the plumber? The young man with the strange obsession with The Sound of Music and a dog named Shuppiluliuma?
“The same. He’s put a downpayment on a house upstate. It’s got plenty of room for children, and chickens. It’s even got a little room I can use to record podcasts for my Substack.”
“Your Substack?”
“Holly Holme’s Hittite Haven.”
I hope that my daughters grow up to study the Hittites, but I will be content if they casually use the word "umbrage."
To be fair, the Hittites were completely fascinating.