Authors: R J Gould
The Reunion (29 page)
“OK. She might want particular music or a hymn. Maybe Led
Zep’s
Stairway to Heaven
although heaven might be wishful thinking as
far as she’s concerned.”
“Come on Charlotte, she wasn’t that bad.”
“She wasn’t that good either. I don’t believe in this
heaven and hell stuff but if I did and I was in charge, being merely alright
wouldn’t qualify you. You’d have to have done something special to get in.”
“There wouldn’t be many up there then.”
“Don’t worry, you’d make it. You always were the family
goody-goody.”
They were smiling as they spoke. The death of their
mother had brought them closer; such banter hadn’t been evident since their
adolescent days.
Mr Spratt, their mother’s solicitor, was unable to fit
them in so they arranged to see him the following morning. David stayed over in
the house.
It was an eerie experience without the presence of the
person who had lived there for all forty-four years of his life. He popped out
to buy fish and chips at the take-away he used to visit as a child. Now pizzas
and curry were on offer in addition to the traditional meal. Back in his
temporary home he sat in the lounge on ‘his’ armchair, switching from channel
to channel. Before bed he wandered round the house again, distant memories roused
with each item of furniture or knickknack he saw. His parents had collected
junk during their travels – a Swiss cuckoo clock, a plastic Venetian gondola, and
worst of all a battery operated lamp in the shape of the Blackpool Tower. He
remembered when they’d bought the tower. He was fourteen and had fallen in love
with the daughter of another guest family at the hotel. She was sweet sixteen
and had led him along for a while until an older boy came on the scene. David
saw them kissing one evening by the swings and felt a wave of despondency that
he could feel again now as he touched the plastic casing of the tower. He
scrutinised the two slim shelves of books, filled with bland best sellers. He selected
the best he could find and was lulled to sleep by the James Bond adventure.
The next morning Charlotte and David met at a smart
Victorian double-fronted villa in the centre of Edgbaston, close to the
university. It was across the road from a well maintained park with giant oak trees
bursting into leaf, surrounded by the yellow and pink of forsythias and azaleas.
A shiny brass plaque to the left of the door displayed the name
Clutterbuck,
Sharpe and Spratt.
“A bit posh for our mum isn’t it,” David remarked.
“I was thinking that, too. Everyone knows it’s the most expensive
law firm in the area.”
No expense was spared in the modern reception area with
its huge semi-circular light wood front desk, plush leather armchairs, zany
chandeliers and vivid abstract oil paintings.
By contrast, entering Mr Spratt’s room was like taking a giant
stride back into the nineteenth century. His office was a parody of a
solicitor’s office and Mr Spratt was a caricature of a solicitor. The furniture
was dark oak, the desk and chairs covered with the mottled maroon leather that
had once been popular. One wall was lined with bookcases and there were piles
of paper and files on the floor. The only sign of modernity was a computer on a
separate workstation in the far corner of the large, high-ceilinged room. And
Mr Spratt was the perfect Scrooge as he peered at them above his half-moon reading
glasses. He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and navy bow tie. His
salt and pepper hair made it difficult to identify age – anything between forty
and sixty was possible.
“Sit,” he instructed before shuffling papers on his desk
and opening a folder. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, your mother was a
fine woman.”
“Thank you for saying that,” David responded quickly,
fearing a sarcastic put-down from Charlotte who was fidgeting on the
uncomfortable chair. Her bearing improved somewhat as Mr Spratt announced that
their mother had instructed that her assets were to be equally divided between
her two children, or had either been deceased at time of death, to the
appropriate child’s own children.
As he read on Charlotte gasped and grabbed hold of
David’s arm.
Their mother was loaded. She had inherited the fortune
acquired by a great uncle who had died when they were infants. Joseph Kirby had
manufactured jewellery. During the 1960s and 1970s he had owned
the most successful business in Warstone Street, at the heart of Birmingham’s
Jewellery Quarter. Mr Spratt outlined how the sum inherited had been managed by
the financial consultancy that his firm recommended to their clients. They had
successfully played the markets across good and bad times and had even been
able to hedge against the current economic downturn.
Charlotte had grown impatient. “So how much? How much is
there now?”
“I haven’t got the current year figure to hand, though
being well into April, I expect a statement very soon.”
“How much was it worth last year then?” Charlotte
persisted.
Mr Spratt lifted a sheet from the collection of papers in
front of him. With a deep, austere tone he read. “£1,427,345.86.” Charlotte let
out a scream. Mr Spratt continued. “This sum refers to Joseph Kirby’s portfolio
which has been kept apart from everything else. Your mother had additional
assets to add to the total – some shares, a substantial savings account,
jewellery and the house of course. Though you must remember that beyond the
first £325,000 there is inheritance tax to pay.”
David was in accountancy mode, doing calculations as Mr
Spratt was spelling out exactly what those additional assets comprised of. Not
surprisingly he was linking the inheritance to the expenditure needed for the
café. Charlotte’s chain of thought was at a somewhat lower level. “The
miserable old witch. She never let on she had anything. When she gave the kids
£20 at Christmas she made out it was a major sacrifice,” she whispered loud
enough for Mr Spratt to hear.
David didn’t respond. He continued to tot up the windfall
as the solicitor ran through the long and complex list of assets. For insurance
purposes the jewellery had been valued. They might decide to keep some, but if
they sold it and on the assumption they got two-thirds of the insurance valuation,
that would bring in another £200,000. The substantial savings accounts Mr
Spratt had mentioned were in excess of £300,000. The extensive portfolio of
shares was in British companies; they had been purchased many years ago by
their father. He’d known what he was doing because although a few had declined,
most had grown to become major international players. David would be able to work
out the exact current value as soon as he had access to a computer or
newspaper, but they would make a sizeable contribution to the total. Then there
was the large house in one of the most fashionable suburbs of Edgbaston which
Charlotte’s husband would have no problem selling. In all they would be
inheriting a pot in excess of two and a half million pounds!
“Just making a quick call,” David informed Charlotte as
they left the solicitor’s building.
“Me too,” said Charlotte as she stepped a few paces away
from her brother.
David dialled Bridget.
Chapter 38
Throughout the first three weeks of April they had
enjoyed delightful blue skies and the first warm sun of the year. On the day of
the funeral the weather turned and it was as cold, windy and wet as the most
brutal mid-January day. The small group of mourners made their way to the
graveside, their shoes caked in sticky brown clay. Wrapped in dark raincoats,
they were desperately hanging on to unrestrained umbrellas.
David and Charlotte were at the front behind the hearse,
walking alongside the vicar. Jane was in the second row with Rachel and Sam. Poor
Sam, it was his birthday. Donald, Charlotte’s husband, and her children, Crispin
and Emma, were next in line. They were followed by Bridget, Andy and Kay. Next
came the few acquaintances of David’s mother including Mr Gupta and his wife.
The rain lashed down as the vicar spoke, generic words of
kindness followed by the traditional prayer. The mourners watched as the grave
diggers turned their attention to filling the hole, shovelling sodden soil onto
the coffin. David listened to the harsh rattle of clay and small stones against
the wood, reducing to soft thuds as earth began to drop against earth. He
looked around and noted there wasn’t a tear in sight. His mother’s bitterness
and harshness had stifled love and affection.
Back at her house caterers had provided sandwiches, cake,
tea, coffee, sherry and wine for the mourners.
“We could have gone for champagne and caviar what with
all our money,” Charlotte joked.
“Can we keep quiet about that for now?” David pleaded,
looking across to Jane.
“Sure. Are you able to stay on for a bit afterwards to
start clearing some of her stuff away?”
“Yes of course. How long have we got the skip for?”
“As long as it takes to fill it. The cost isn’t based on
time.”
Rachel and Sam were unsure where to go. They wanted to be
with their father to offer support; they liked Bridget and her children and
would have spent time with them; but were made to feel guilty by Jane who was
intent on monopolising them since she was, as she put it, alone and uncomfortable.
They ended up circuiting between each party for sound bite chats.
However, after lunch Jane told her children to move away as
Donald approached. She’d always got on well with her brother-in-law and now, in
the corner of the living room, they chatted away like there was no tomorrow.
Bridget and her children approached David, Rachel and Sam.
They had on their coats. “We need to head off. Andy’s got judo later this
afternoon and if we get back in time Kay can get to her dance class.”
“Thanks for coming,” he said, addressing all three of
them. “I’ll call tonight.”
Rachel and Sam stood by David’s side as mourners offered
their condolences. By the time David had begun a conversation with an elderly
lady who claimed to remember him from his childhood days, his children were
bored to death. They edged away indicating that they were going outside for a
walk – suffering the rain would be by far the lesser of two evils.
When the woman told him her name was Vivienne, memories
came flooding back. She had been vibrant and vivacious, now she was slow and
listless. She slurred as she spoke.
“Yes, you were a good boy, that’s for sure.”
“Thank you,” David replied, hearing the same claim for a
third time.
“Not like that sister of yours, she was a right little
madam.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“When she was one of those teenagers she was, I can tell
you. All that loud music, punk wasn’t it? I don’t know how the rest of you coped.”
This was going in a direction David didn’t want to
follow. “It wasn’t like that at all, we loved our childhood together.”
“I’m only repeating what your mother told me, god rest
her soul.”
“Mother liked to grumble a bit, but she and Charlotte got
on fine. In fact…”
“Talking about me?” Charlotte was by their side. How much
had she heard?
“I was just saying what a lovely family you were.”
Vivienne might have deteriorated, but a capacity to lie convincingly remained
intact.
Jane approached the group. “David, I need to speak to
you.”
Charlotte hadn’t spoken to her since the separation.
“Hello Jane, how are things?”
Jane didn’t reply, she was looking at David.
Vivienne chipped in. “You’re the wife who ran away,
aren’t you? David was such a good boy.”
Jane didn’t reply to that either.
David faced his soon to be ex-wife. “What is it, Jane?”
“Not here. Somewhere private, please.”
“OK, let’s go upstairs.” They left Vivienne and Charlotte
together to talk about little madams, coping with teenagers and the social
impact of punk music.
David led the way. He headed towards his old bedroom, but
this had been the venue of their clandestine sex sessions ahead of getting a place
of their own. It would be a poor choice given the circumstances. He did a quick
about turn on the landing and they went into his mother’s room. Clothes were
piled high in cardboard boxes and the bed was stripped down to the stained mattress.
They sat on it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I think you know very well. How could you, David?”
“How could I what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Donald’s
told me everything.”
“I have no idea. How could I what?”
“You were so keen to rush the financial settlement,
weren’t you? Now I know why.”
Sitting together on the bed, David could feel the heat of
her anger. He stood and walked to the window, looking out over the large
garden. The swing at the bottom was still there, though in a sorry state, the
chains rusty and the wooden seat rotten. He’d spent many an hour on it as had
his own children. The grass needed a mow; the March rain followed by the early
April warmth had brought rapid growth. Flower beds housed untidy clumps of
uncared for bushes. He wouldn’t miss the place, they should put it on the
market as soon as possible.
He turned back to face Jane. “OK I get it, and what
you’re implying is laughable. Remember, you were the one who wanted things done
quickly. In time for a spring divorce and your summer wedding.”
“You knew your mother had a weak heart.”
“If you’re suggesting I knew she was about to die, that’s
ludicrous.”
“Is the amount of money Donald mentioned true?”
“I’ve no idea what he told you, but I’m not prepared to
discuss it.”
David walked away from the window, stopping at his
mother’s dressing table. There were large opal necklaces and pearl earrings on
it. The stones looked real enough, though Mr Spratt had informed him and Charlotte
that the expensive stuff was stowed away in a bank safe. On seeing him looking
at the jewellery Jane stood up and went across to inspect. David wasn’t
comfortable with this and moved across to intercept. They stood close, eye to
eye. Anger, distrust and hate had replaced love.