by Beth Corby
Dad and Uncle Nigel aren’t included, then. But there’s an uncomfortable silence, and a shift of attention that seems focused on Nicholas.
‘Who told him?’ Nicholas demands, his eyes locking onto mine, and I feel a flicker of alarm. I glance anxiously at Dad. What exactly does Nicholas think I’ve said?
‘It’s just a legal turn of phrase,’ Dad assures him. ‘After all, how could Donald know you’re adopted?’
A hush falls and Lauren and I stare at each other. Adopted? We look at Nicholas who glares back, his expression defiant and angry.
‘Absolutely, just legal jargon,’ Mr Sanderson confirms hurriedly. ‘In situations such as these, adopted children have the same rights as natural-born children. There’s more,’ Mr Sanderson calls over the increasing noise levels as everyone starts to ask questions. The room quietens down.
‘ “That is all . . . with the exception of a small matter concerning my great-niece, Hannah, for whom I have left specific instructions with my solicitor. After that undertaking has been completed, the remainder of my estate shall pass to a list of charities, the details of which have been left in a separate document”.’ Mr Sanderson shuffles his papers anxiously. ‘So, if I could ask to see Hannah, please?’ He peers around anxiously until I raise my hand. ‘Ah, yes. If possible, I would like a word in private?’
I nod, feeling a blush creeping up my neck as everyone looks from Mr Sanderson to me and back again. Then everyone starts talking at once.
Grandma Betty is ranting at Mr Sanderson, but his answers send her sinking back into her chair, as if poleaxed. Mum and Dad appear pleased, but then Aunty Pam, Uncle Nigel and Nicholas start demanding answers from them. Lauren just stares at me incredulously, while Alec watches me with an air of grim resignation. Grandpa Albert is the only one who seems happy. He’s sitting amid the uproar with a smile on his face. I think he’s picturing his allotment.
Mr Sanderson clears his throat noisily, but everyone completely ignores him. ‘Excuse me!’ he shouts. ‘If you could all please wait outside? Thank you!’ he says sternly, and everyone finally starts shuffling out, giving me chilling sidelong glances. Alec is also watching me like a hawk, but if he thinks I had a clue about this, he’s deluded.
‘Now,’ says Mr Sanderson as Alec leaves, his eyes fixed on me until he closes the door between us. ‘Let’s get down to business. I understand that you are just starting your finals?’
‘Yes . . . sir,’ I add, unsure of the etiquette with solicitors.
‘Then I think perhaps it would be best if you visit my office when you are done? That way we can get you started on everything Donald has planned for you. Do you have employment after your degree?’
‘No,’ I say, happily shelving my plan to sign up for more temping work.
‘Good.’
‘Could you tell me what this is about?’ I ask. ‘What has Donald got planned for me?’
Mr Sanderson frowns. ‘Ah, well, this is a highly unusual bequest,’ he says. ‘Let me read you the codicil to this part of the will. Ah yes, here: “For my great-niece Hannah I have prepared a series of tasks to be completed within six months of the date of my death, under the supervision of my PA, Alec. Should she complete them, she shall inherit an undisclosed reward. Should she not complete them, the reward will pass to my list of chosen charities”.’
‘A “series of tasks”?’ I ask. ‘What kind of tasks?’
‘Well, there’s the question,’ agrees Mr Sanderson. ‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say just yet, but Mr Makepiece has requested that you either accept or decline immediately.’
‘What? Really? Without knowing any details? Just that there are tasks?’
Mr Sanderson nods.
‘But what if they’re . . . I don’t know . . . dangerous or humiliating . . . or just downright odd?’
‘His exact words were, “She will know what to do based on our conversation at lunch”.’ This obviously means nothing to Mr Sanderson, but it finally gives me something to go on. ‘And you can back out once you start,’ he adds, ‘so I don’t believe you have much to lose by trying out a task or two?’
I bite my lip. ‘And the “undisclosed reward”?’
‘Remains undisclosed until you are done.’
‘And if I fail even one task?’
‘No reward,’ says Mr Sanderson, shaking his head sadly. ‘To be honest, the best person to ask is your uncle’s PA. He will be administering the tasks.’
Oh great, that’s the last thing I need – a surly onlooker, hoping I fail. ‘And I have to decide right now?’
‘Yes,’ he says sympathetically. ‘Though it does seem like very little to go on. Alec?’ he calls loudly and Alec, who must have been waiting outside, comes in and carefully closes the door behind him. ‘I have explained to Hannah about the need to accept or decline Donald’s offer, but she is understandably tentative. Can you offer any advice?’
Alec looks me in the eye. ‘I’d accept,’ he says surprisingly. ‘If I know Donald, you won’t regret it.’
I look into his eyes, trying to understand why he’s encouraging me. Does he want me to try and fail, or is he being loyal to Donald’s last wishes? It’s definitely not because he wants to spend time with me. Pulling my eyes away, I turn back to Mr Sanderson.
‘Then I suppose I accept,’ I say, a mixture of excitement and apprehension curdling in my stomach. Alec gives a small nod, more resigned than enthusiastic.
‘Excellent!’ says Mr Sanderson. ‘In that case, please visit me at my office in the village as soon as you have finished at university.’ He hands me his business card. ‘And on that occasion we will run through how this is going to work.’
‘That’s it?’ I ask.
‘For now,’ agrees Mr Sanderson.
I have a million questions, but he’s already packing away his papers.
‘Ready to face everyone?’ asks Alec, his hand on the door handle.
‘Absolutely,’ I say coolly – and dishonestly.
Alec opens the door and Mr Sanderson sweeps past us – I think he’s trying to get away before Grandma Betty can speak to him again. I walk out, leaving Alec to straighten up the study.
In the hall, Aunty Pam and Uncle Nigel fix me with such a stony stare, I thank my lucky stars Medusa isn’t anywhere on our family tree. I hurry past them to find Mum and Dad, but have to stop as I come face to face with Nicholas in the corridor.
‘Well done, Hannah,’ he says, before I can get past. ‘Sold me out to great personal profit – six bedrooms is it?’
‘Five,’ I say, correcting him before I can stop myself. ‘And I’m not getting the house.’ I start to turn away, but he takes hold of my arm and pulls me around the corner towards the kitchen.
‘Nicholas, what are you doing? Get off me!’
‘Why did you tell him?’ he demands, his nostrils flaring.
‘What?’
‘Why did you tell the old man I was adopted?’
‘I didn’t! I didn’t even know!’ I try to pull my arm away, but his fingernails are digging into my armpit. ‘You’re hurting me,’ I say through gritted teeth, trying to convey more anger than fear.
If anything, his grip tightens. ‘Of course you told him. How else could he know?’ He shakes his head at me. ‘I’ve always known you were a sly one; all quiet and watching us, playing the “poor little me” card.’ I blink. Is that really how he sees me? ‘But now you’ve taken a step too far, selling me out like that. You’ve put yourself in a tricky position. The family won’t help you when Uncle Donald—’
‘Let her go,’ Alec says quietly, but firmly, from behind Nicholas.
When Uncle Donald – what? But Nicholas just gives me a nasty look, his grip slackening only slightly.
‘Just offering my congratulations,’ he says smoothly, finally letting go as he turns around.
‘Of course you were,’ says Alec watching me rub my sore arm, but when his eyes meet mine there’s no sympathy there.
Nichol
as smirks. ‘I must say, I’m surprised you didn’t do better,’ he says, shaking his head at Alec. ‘Buggered you twice daily, did he, and all for nothing? Bet Donald’s laughing now.’
I glare at Nicholas, disgusted, but Alec only raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, he’s laughing all right, but not at me.’
Nicholas flushes and, giving me one last venomous glance, stalks off after his parents.
‘Nice comeback,’ I whisper to Alec.
Alec’s still staring after him. ‘Stay by your parents. He’s angry, and I don’t like the look of him.’
‘Neither do I.’ I never have.
‘Did he hurt you?’ Alec indicates my arm.
‘Not really. I’m fine.’ I stop rubbing my armpit, and cast around for a change of topic. ‘What happens to you now? Do you stay here?’
‘For the time being. Donald instructed me to administer the tasks Mr Sanderson told you about, and since I don’t have much choice in that matter, I’m obliged to stay.’ Even knowing he doesn’t like me, that one stings.
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but in case you hadn’t realised, I didn’t exactly ask for any of this,’ I remind him icily. ‘I’d better find my family. Thanks for intervening,’ I add stiffly. Not that I couldn’t have freed myself with a swift knee to his groin – Nicholas should be the one thanking Alec, really.
‘No problem,’ Alec says, his eyes boring into mine as if he’s trying – and failing – to understand Donald’s choice. His intensity is unnerving, but also weirdly mesmerising in a cobra–mouse kind of way, and I have to force myself to turn away and find Mum and Dad.
Alec follows me out and stands under the portico, probably making sure we all vacate the premises. He nods to me as I get in the car, and as I sit back in my seat I notice Lauren watching me. I bet she’s dying to know what Mr Sanderson said.
‘I didn’t know Nicholas was adopted,’ I say before she can ask.
‘No,’ agrees Lauren, transferring her accusing gaze to Mum.
Mum turns around to us both as Dad pulls away. I glance at Alec once more, but he’s not looking my way. ‘No, well, Pamela asked us not to say anything,’ she says.
Lauren and I wait. Dad focuses on the driving, clearly not wanting any part in the conversation, so Mum sighs and gives us the bare facts.
‘Pam and Uncle Nigel had problems conceiving. No signs of a pregnancy for two years. They did tests, but the doctors said they couldn’t always tell why some couples have problems. They tried various methods, but nothing worked. In the end, they decided to adopt. They got Nicholas. Neither of you were born, so there didn’t seem any reason to tell you.’
I bite my lip anxiously. ‘Nicholas thinks I told Uncle Donald about him being adopted.’
‘Of course you didn’t, darling. You didn’t even know.’
‘No,’ agrees Lauren, but the look she gives me is far from certain.
Silence hangs in the car. It’s a long drive and I take the opportunity to close my eyes and feign sleep while trying to make sense of what has been a very peculiar day.
Chapter 7
After three weeks of exams, a great deal of celebrating and a couple of weeks spent looking into temping and other career possibilities, I buy an ancient Volvo from a friend moving to teach English abroad, and head home. I try not to admit it, but returning home feels like a backwards step and it’s odd being back. My room feels smaller, and although I appreciate my parents’ attempts to look pleased that I’ve returned, they’re artificially cheerful, and none of us quite know what to do about my being here. After only being home a day, I make an appointment to see Mr Sanderson, and after only three days, I climb into the Volvo to tackle the two-hour drive to Wiltshire to go and see him.
My Volvo has age and wisdom on its side, but not much else, so I amble along in the slow lanes of the motorway and dual carriageways, baking in the early July sunshine, wishing I had air con. It’s sweltering, but as I turn onto country lanes, I crank the windows right down and turn up the radio to lose myself in being ‘Happy’ with Pharrell Williams. After a couple more songs, I almost relax, but as I reach the village, my nerves come flooding back.
Thankfully, Mr Sanderson’s building is easy to find, and I go into the reception area and find him waiting for me. ‘Ah, Hannah!’ he says, showing me straight into his office and indicating a seat opposite his desk. We both sit and I smile at him expectantly. ‘We are waiting for Alec,’ he explains.
‘Oh,’ I say, my smile becoming fixed. ‘I didn’t realise he was coming, too.’ Though, if he’s administering the tasks, perhaps I should have guessed.
Mr Sanderson checks his watch, looks at the door and checks his watch again. ‘He really should be here.’ He picks up a piece of paper and starts to read, stopping quite quickly to glare at my foot, which without my knowledge is tapping against the chair leg. I stop tapping and hunt for something to say.
‘So this is all quite unusual, isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘I mean, how this will is arranged.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Mr Sanderson. ‘I would go so far as to say it’s highly unusual, but then I suppose it represents the eccentricities of the testator.’ A pained expression crosses his face. ‘I did, however, once act as an executor for a will that contained a contest. It ended badly, but what can you expect when you involve a cat?’ He smiles, as if this explains everything. ‘Perhaps I should tell you about the challenge we received to your great-uncle’s will?’
‘Let me guess,’ I say drily. ‘Nicholas?’ I mean, who else could it be?
‘Ye-es.’ Mr Sanderson gives me a long look followed by the briefest smile. ‘Your great-uncle suspected your cousin might take issue with his arrangements and left a letter, which we have despatched as per his instructions. On the plus side, it mentions your cousin’s five hundred pounds, so that has been approved. Beyond that . . . well, you had better read it.’ He holds out a copy of the letter, and I hesitate. ‘It’s quite within your rights,’ nods Mr Sanderson.
I take the letter reluctantly and read it.
My Dearest Nicholas,
I see you have lived down to my every glorious expectation of you. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t, as ever since we met I have longed for the opportunity to tell you how highly amusing and wonderfully appalling I found you. You are an example of awfulness in your own class, and I would happily hang you at the Tate Modern with an inscription saying ‘Beware my Porsche’. I admit you would not be alone in my exhibition, as I have met people who could serve as a whole host of warnings. My favourite was a general who demoralised his men and divorced his thankful wife, declaring her to be ‘sub-standard’. (She moved in with a milkman who enjoyed candle making.) The general’s inscription would have read: ‘Medals maketh not the Man!’
And now to the nub of the matter, the very reason I have written this letter: your unimaginative attempt to pervert my will. Let me make it clear to you that you will not receive a penny beyond your £500. I consider this sum generous given my dislike of you, but I cannot deny that your hilarity-factor should earn you something. But know this – I have left explicit instructions that you will not receive even that should you contest my will any further, particularly should you try to suggest that I am not capable of making sound decisions. Don’t waste your time. My solicitor has a witnessed affidavit from a leading psychologist that confirms I am of sound mind. He is willing to testify to this in court. I am lucky in my friends, you are not. Do not persevere.
In thanks for giving me this opportunity to tell you in frank terms what I think of you, and as a final gift, I offer you three pieces of advice. I am well aware that these will thoroughly annoy you, which is probably why I give them so freely, but they are still worthwhile.
1. You seem to have devoted your interest to the wrong end of women. Try the other. They are infinitely more fascinating than you give them credit for.
2. Sell the sports car. It bespeaks a lack of imagination and a desperation to show wealth, where there is, at best,
only mild affluence. No one is deceived.
3. Take a pin and deflate your ego. You are not God’s gift: none of us are. It takes humility and interest in others to be pleasant company. Save conceit, vanity and self-aggrandisement for old age – it wears better then!
I fully expect you to ignore this advice, but before you dismiss it, know that it is more valuable to you than my entire estate.
With the greatest enjoyment (and thank you for almost giving me the gift of dying laughing),
Yours delightedly,
Uncle Donald
I stare at Mr Sanderson, gobsmacked.
‘Quite,’ says Mr Sanderson. ‘Expressive, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Brutally so.’
‘But, like I said, it does mention the five hundred pounds.’
It also clears me of telling Donald about the adoption, but still . . .
There’s a knock at the door, and Alec comes in dressed in an old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and ripped jeans. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved in a while, and the dark circles under his eyes have become almost bruise-like. He looks exhausted. He takes a spare chair from against the wall and sits down next to me, mumbling apologies to Mr Sanderson, but sparing me only the smallest and most dismissive flick of his eyes. Any sympathy I might have felt dries up and flakes off like old paint.
Mr Sanderson turns frostily businesslike. ‘Now that we are all finally here, please witness . . .’ Mr Sanderson holds out an envelope to me with great ceremony ‘. . . the first letter.’
The envelope is labelled ‘For Hannah – The Beginning’. After reading Nicholas’s character assassination, I’m a little apprehensive. I glance at Alec for reassurance, but he’s staring at the wall morosely. Still, this is what I’m here for, so I prise up the flap and take out the letter.
My Dearest Hannah,
Writing my will proved to be a far more irritating problem than I ever anticipated. I always thought I would name an heir and that would be that. But when it actually came to it, I realised there is no satisfaction in just throwing money at someone – not when you want to make a difference and be remembered and hopefully a little revered for all that you have achieved. I discussed the matter with Alec, but he was no help, so I consulted a solicitor expecting him to have no end of ideas. Unfortunately Sanderson gave only dingbat suggestions about charities and such – please tell me how naming a hospital wing after someone ever changed anything?! Still, deciding where there’s a will, there must be a way – and after a lot of wrangling – we came to the conclusion that I should use my assets to help someone. This was all well and good in principle, but when we sorted through my friends, there was no one for whom I could make any real difference (it’s an odd moment when you damn your friends for being too happy), so we reached an impasse. We spent weeks rattling around various options, and in the end, somewhere out of the conventions drummed into me in my youth, came the conviction that I should try and help my family. The trouble was I didn’t know my remaining family (a situation of my own choosing, I admit) and I didn’t want to reward someone repulsive, so, as Alec pointed out, I had to meet you all. This was the reason behind the party you attended.
