The Forgotten Story

by Winston Graham

  The realisation that the oblong of the shop door was really the oblong of his bedroom window finally brought him to safety. He lay back in bed breathing his relief out slowly from between closed teeth. He should have laughed; anyone as old as he was should have been amused at the perverted vitality of the dream. But you never could see things like that in the dark, however much you might do so in the following day’s sunshine. Besides, the stirring and rustling had not stopped.

  He raised his head and listened. There it was again. But he was completely mistaken as to its character and direction. This was someone moving about in the office below him.

  Determined not to give way to the reasonless fear which had beset him when he heard Aunt Madge coming up the stairs, he listened quietiy for a time while the square of fight at his window grew and spread into the room. Just daybreak. A few mornings ago he had sat with Uncle Perry while a life ebbed slowly away. Daybreak. No reason why somebody should not be moving about in the office, people could get up at what time they pleased. It was just the sort of noise Uncle Joe made: the shutting of drawers, the occasional scrape of feet, the movement of heavy books. Strange to think that Uncle Joe was no longer interested. But was he not? Who was to say that it could not be so? Supposing he was moving about down there, still attending to his affairs.

  Anthony climbed cautiously out of bed. As he did so the sounds beneath him ceased. With the hair prickling upon the back of his neck he slid silently under the bed and pulled out the cork spy-hole.

  The early light falling through the narrow window lit up the office greyly. Some books were piled on the desk, and papers lay in disorder on the floor. But the room was empty.

  As he replaced the cork the unmistakable smell of Uncle Joe’s tobacco came to his nostrils.

  The old man had kept the threads of his various business undertakings so jealously within his own hands, had so refused to delegate responsibility, that the unravelling of them was like fumbling with a tangle of string to which one cannot find an end. In his time he had had dealings with every solicitor in town, and Mr Cowdray, whom Aunt Madge called in, knew little more of his affairs than anyone else.

  But in a sense, too, Joe’s one-man business resembled a clock which has been wound and will run of its own accord for a time although the owner is gone and the key lost. Goods were delivered; letters arrived from ships’ chandlers and shipping agencies; a cargo appeared for The Grey Cat and she proceeded to take it on board and would shortly depart for Hull. Lavengro arrived with a cargo of pit-props from Norway and the purchaser was ready waiting for them; bills and receipts arrived and could be filed or settled. Aunt Madge and Uncle Perry – who had recovered his good spirits – and Mr Cowdray worked hard together to keep the clock still ticking.

  A few days after me funeral the relatives of Smoky Joe, together with Mr Cowdray, who was plump and untidy and wore a heavy beard to conceal a birthmark under his chin, assembled in the upstairs parlour to hear what there was to hear about the settlement of the estate. The parlour faced north and was therefore hung with dark red wallpaper which took away most of the light that filtered through the thick lace curtains. On the floor was a red carpet with blue flowers and a blue border showing ridges of wear by the door, and the furniture consisted of an upright rosewood piano which no one had ever used, a red plush music stool, and crimson plush furniture which emitted an ineradicable smell of dust. The mantelpiece carried an ornate overmantel with numerous small shelves and a gilt mirror.

  Present were the cousin from Percuil and the cousin from Mawnan Smith, the sister from Arwenack Street and the brother from across the landing, who, incidentally, seemed to want to open the proceedings with a joke and a toss of his black hair. Aunt Madge and Patricia sat side by side on the sofa; and Anthony had slipped in almost unnoticed and pricked the backs of his legs on a horse-hair stool.

  Mr Cowdray opened with an explanation of the difficulties which confronted him in clearing up the estate. He talked ponderously and leisurely from behind his beard, and no evidences of impatience on the part of the sister from Arwenack Street or the cousin from Mawnan Smith were sufficient to hurry him by so much as a syllable or cause him to miss out a single rusty clearing of the throat. Nor was he influenced by Perry’s good-natured desire to make a party of the occasion. As if he were addressing a jury on a clear case of tort, he went on and on, making each point with the maximum of effect and the minimum of brevity. Perry caught Anthony’s eye and winked wickedly, then it roved round for fresh eyes to contact. But all the others were too conscious of the solemnity of the occasion to meet such a challenge. If they were aware of it, as it must have been difficult not to be, they avoided it as the good little boy will avoid the bad little boy thumbing his nose on the way to church.

  Aunt Madge was a mountain of unrelieved black, installed with closed eyes on the larger end of the couch. A breath moving from time to time among the darker recesses of her bulk was the only evidence that she lived. Beside her Patricia looked slender to the point of frailty, taut like the stem of a daffodil and as easily snapped.

  So far as any final settlement of the estate was concerned, Mr Cowdray went on, the work entailed might stretch over many weeks. But it was felt – he personally felt, and he knew Mr Veal’s widow felt – that to give at once a broad outline of the disposition of the bequests would be the fairest to all concerned. He did not propose to read the Will, but would just state the facts, and of course anyone could examine the documents afterwards –

  ‘I think you should read the Will,’ said Aunt Louisa sharply. ‘What do you say, Peter?’

  There was a faint stir. Louisa’s harsh voice had disturbed the reverential dust.

  Peter from Percuil looked uncomfortable and pulled at one end of a drooping moustache. ‘Reckon I don’t mind one way or th’other.’

  Mr Cowdray glanced at the widow but she did not open her eyes. ‘Very well, then, if you wish it – hrrr-hm! – naturally no objection myself.’ He opened his bag and took out a sheet of parchment. ‘Actually, quite a short document; Mr Veal was not a man to waste words; that is so far as I knew him; he deposited this Will with me, but I had not previously had business transactions …’

  ‘When you’ve been about the world a bit,’ said Perry, ‘it teaches you not to waste anything. Words, time or money. Joe was a regular one for seeing nothing went to waste. That’s Joe all over.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, read it out; I’ll bet old Joe’s got a surprise or two up his – sleeve.’

  ‘ “This is the last Will and Testament,” ’ read Mr Cowdray stiffly, ‘ “of me, Joseph Killigrew Veal, of Falmouth, in the County of Cornwall. In consideration of me fact that for forty-seven years he has proved unpunctual in all his dealings and appointments, including the day he was born, I give and bequeath unto my brother, Perry Veal, my gold watch and ten pounds for its maintenance. Unto my sister –” ’

  ‘Well, I’ll be stung!’ exclaimed Perry. He threw back his head and laughed in a sort of unmalicious indignation. ‘If ever there was an old –’

  ‘Perry …’ said Aunt Madge, opening her mouth but not her eyes.

  ‘Go on with the Will,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Hrr-hm … “Unto my sister Louisa …” Yes. “Unto my sister Louisa I give and bequeath forty-six pounds ten shillings and eightpence, which is the return of a loan made to me thirty years ago plus compound interest added to the year 1905, a return for which she had persistently pestered me. To my dear sister I also bequeath such records of the family as survive, dating back to 1690, and the family Bible, which I trust she will make more use of than I have.

  ‘ “To my cousin Peter Veal, of Percuil, I give my piano, my edition of Chambers’ Encyclopaedia, and twelve pounds, one pound for each of his twelve children. If any of his children should predecease me, let him lose proportionately. To my cousin, Polly Emma Higgins, of Mawnan Smith, I bequeath my cottage and two fields situated near that village.

  ‘ “To my daughter Patricia, in view of the fact that
she has seen fit to marry against my express wishes and against my specific threat to disown her if she did so, I leave five hundred pounds as a free gift and no further interest in my estate. To my wife, Madge, I bequeath the residue of my property absolutely. And I appoint my said wife sole executrix of this my Will, and revoke all previous Wills – mm-mm-mm …” ’ Mr Cowdray’s voice descended into the depths of his beard. For some time it stirred and rustled in the undergrowth and then was still. He raised his eyes and his eyebrows as if to say, There you are; there it is; I disclaim all responsibility.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anthony’s eyes flew unbidden from face to face. As the only person not directly concerned, he alone had the leisure to appreciate the situation. But appreciate was not the word, for he felt a burning sympathy for the girl on the sofa. While the solicitor had been speaking of her Patricia had gone so pale that it would not have been difficult to imagine her slipping to the floor in a faint.

  The boy was furiously indignant with his uncle. Although he was not old enough to put the matter in an ethical frame he felt the bitter injustice of leaving such acrimonious remarks to be read after one was dead and free from query or reproach. No one had the right to make a bitter accusation, to leave a smirch where it could not be answered or removed. That was not playing the game. Especially was it unfair when the accusation was groundless. Patricia had left her husband to nurse him and had been with him to the last. There had seemed no enmity between them. To her alone he had been prepared to delegate little business items during that last fortnight in bed. She –

  ‘When is that Will dated?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘April the twelfth of this year.’

  ‘Thank God!’ the girl said.

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled a moment, then he remembered that in April had occurred the estrangement between Smoky Joe and his daughter, first over the court case and then over her marriage. She had –

  ‘I call it perfectly scandalous!’ said Aunt Louisa, fiddling suddenly with the bits of fluff on the armchair. ‘ I do really. I’ve never heard anything like it. He goes out of his way to insult all his blood relations and then leaves everything to his – wife. ’Tisn’t right. Tisn’t right at all.’ She looked up suddenly, her eyes like darts. ‘And I don’t mind telling you I’m not at all content with it!’

  ‘Now Louisa, now Louisa,’ said Perry. After the first brief spurt of indignation he seemed to be taking his own lack of fortune in his usual philosophical manner. Everything with Perry was easy-come, easy-go. ‘Put about. It’ll do you no good bringing your head up to the wind. We’ve all of us suspected what Joe thought of us, and now, bigod, we know! Well, it’s cleared the air, but it don’t alter the Will, do it? I get my gold watch and you get your family Bible. And that’s the end of it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Louisa allowed the words to escape from between tight lips. ‘ ’Tisn’t only for myself that I care, though I care for myself sure enough; but it’s Patricia. Look at the way he’s treated her!’

  ‘Don’t bother about me, Aunt Louisa,’ the girl said, her fine eyes dark. ‘I wouldn’t touch any of his money now if I had it.’

  ‘But something can be done about it surely!’ Miss Veal transferred her gaze, which had been fixed for so long upon Aunt Madge, to the bearded solicitor. ‘Look, Mister Cowdray. This Will you’ve been reading … it was made in a fit of raging bad temper when Joe, when my brother was estranged from his daughter. In another month they’d made it up again and were as friendly as you like. Can’t that be taken into account? What about his earlier Wills?’

  Mr Cowdray shook his beard. ‘Each Will has a clause revoking previous testaments. Unless he has made a later one this must stand, Miss Veal.’

  ‘Well, what of a later one? What about that? Has any search been made for one? Has the house been searched? Or he may have deposited it with some other solicitor. I refuse to accept this until a full search has been made.’

  ‘I’ve looked,’ said Aunt Madge, speaking for the first time. She closed her eyes again. ‘Everywhere …’

  ‘That may well be, but –’

  ‘Aunt Louisa,’ Pat said quietly. ‘If you’re saying this for my sake, don’t bother. No doubt Dad gave me what he thought I deserved. Well, if he thought that, I am quite content to accept it.’

  ‘Are you indeed!’ said Miss Veal, her nose going pale with excitement. ‘Well, I’m not. You should be ashamed of yourself, Pat! I thought you had more spirit. Why Joe – your father – must have been worth fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds if he was worth a farthing. It may be much more. That’s no right to go out of the family. That’s Veal money and should stay Veal money –’

  ‘Mrs Veal,’ said Mr Cowdray sombrely, ‘happens to be his wife, you know.’

  ‘His wife! Who two years ago was his cook! That’s no true wife. His true wife is dead and buried, Patricia’s mother. You don’t make a wife of your servant. Besides, where did she come from? Nobody knew her in Falmouth till she came as his cook. She’s no Veal –’

  ‘Houd vast,’ said Perry, patting her arm. ‘You’re working up for a squall, sister. It’ll do you no manner of good to spill a lot of bad blood. The law’s the law and that’s an end of it. Learn to face your disappointments with a smile like me. I can’t pretend that I’m pleased with my share but there’s nothing to do about it. We’re both in the same boat and it’s no manner of good standing up and whistling for the wind –’

  Aunt Louisa withdrew her arm impatiently. ‘Your concerns are your own, Perry. You make your own peace with your conscience and I’ll make mine.’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you, sister. Leave Patricia to mend her own affairs. I’m sure she’ll not lack for a home, will she, Madge? There, I knew not. And besides, she’s married to a rich and handsome young man who’ll see that she’s well taken care of. Now if I were you –’

  ‘The black sheep,’ said Miss Veal distantly. ‘ You’ve always been the black sheep, haven’t you, Perry? If you must know, I’d trust you no further than I could see you. I’m not here to cast insinuations, but maybe you think you’ll not come off so badly after all –’

  Aunt Madge’s eyeglasses wobbled at last.

  ‘Hi’ve tried,’ she said. ‘Politeness. Manners. How long am I to stand this? My own house …’

  ‘Your own house, indeed! It’s Patricia’s house by every manner of right, and Joe’s no licence to disown her. I’ll warrant there’s a later will than this – if it can be found.’

  ‘Insinuating …’

  ‘My dear Miss Veal – hrrr, hm – I beg you to calm yourself. It is not at all unnatural for a man –’

  ‘And what have you to say to this, Peter; and you, Emma? Joe was not in his right senses when he made this Will. Will you help me to contest it?’

  Peter pulled at the end of his moustache. ‘Well, can’t say that I’m altogether satisfied. But if we get mixed up in the law all the money’ll go to the lawyers. It was like that when I went to law over that cow. It isn’t what they get for you, it’s what they take from you …’

  ‘We don’t want that to happen,’ said Polly Emma hastily. ‘We certainly don’t want that, for sure. As for me, I can’t say as I expected much more than I’ve got. I’ve seen little of dear Joe for these pretty many years, and husband was saying only last month that I did ought to call. But when he’s that ill, I said, it looks like asking. It looks like begging, I said, going round and calling special on my dear cousin after all these years, when he’s that ill, I said.’

  ‘Insinuating,’ said Aunt Madge, towering over Aunt Louisa. ‘Don’t like. Own home …’

  ‘Nothing but a cook,’ said Aunt Louisa, bantam-like. ‘A cook from nowhere, to wheedle into his good books. Where did you come from? I’ll see it doesn’t end here!’

  ‘By rights,’ said Peter, ‘ he should have left a little something for my eldest. Eldest was his godson. He’ll be eighteen in January month, and a little something might have set him up
in something. Never a present has he sent in all these years, though Christine remembered it now and then. A little –’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we never bothered him,’ said Polly Emma, ‘except that husband would pass the time of day if he saw him in the street. I think well-to-do folk don’t like to be bothered. But Albert is that way, you know; proud as proud, and not liking to go licking people’s boots.’

  ‘Any action,’ said Aunt Madge, quivering. ‘Any action you think fit …’

  ‘Well, there are other solicitors in the town besides Mr Cowdray, and I don’t mind telling you I intend to consult one. I should consider it a sheer neglect of my duty if I did not. And I may tell you that not only me but all the town will be of the same opinion, that – that undue pressure –’

  ‘My dear madam – hrrr, hm – you may take any action you think fit. You are legally within your rights to do so. But I may inform you that your brother has made himself persona non grata with every one of my colleagues in this district, and is unlikely to have deposited a Will with them. I may also say –’

  ‘Maybe we’re not so partic’lar about these things, Emmie Higgins,’ said Peter, ‘but when we asked Joe to be Billy’s godfather, ’twas intended as a mark of respect, not anything more. Lizzie and me don’t go round licking of people’s boots – neither his nor yours, see?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, I’m sure I beg your pardon, cousin,’ said Polly Emma; ‘it was a figure of speech that was intended. It’s not for the like of me to criticise other people. But, of course, what I say and what Albert always says is, if the cap fits, wear it, you know. That’s what Albert always says. And it seems to me that when people are too quick to take offence –’