by Beth Corby
I smile cautiously as he folds the final letter and puts it back in its envelope. I can tell he’s shocked, but I don’t know what by – I thought I’d passed on a lot of the salient points as we went along, with the rest being covered today.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, and his eyes finally meet mine.
‘Judith was my grandmother,’ he says quietly.
My mouth drops open. ‘Donald’s Judith? The Judith he loved who led him to London? She was your grandmother?’
Alec nods, still looking dazed. ‘I didn’t even know they knew each other. Neither of them ever said a word, not even when I applied for the job.’ He fixes me with a piercing look. ‘Should I have guessed?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, how hard is it to say “I have a friend in the country who needs an assistant”, rather than show you a magazine advert?’
Alec nods numbly. ‘Now I understand why she was so confident I’d get the job, despite me having no experience or references. I turned up with the flu for heaven’s sake. Who gives someone a job when they turn up with the flu?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes, but that meant you couldn’t leave, and they got to know you . . .’
But Alec isn’t listening. ‘He didn’t even say anything when she died.’
‘She died?’ I feel a jolt of sympathy for Donald, and then for Alec. Given that Donald told me practically everything else, him not telling me that she died suggests it really hurt him. ‘When?’
‘Two years ago. Donald even came to the funeral. I thought he was just being nice, but he must have needed to say goodbye just as much as I did. I should have guessed then.’
‘Why? He’d have gone with you anyway, wouldn’t he?’
‘Perhaps, but he wouldn’t have been mopping away torrents of tears or got quite so drunk at the wake.’
I picture Donald singing about ‘Spanish Ladies’, or even giving ‘Hey Jude’ a go, but one look at Alec tells me this isn’t the time to joke.
‘It really annoyed me that he’d been drinking,’ says Alec. ‘I called him a taxi and made him leave before he caused a scene. The next day, he told me he’d been feeling his own mortality, but now I know the truth . . .’ He stares at the stack of letters, his eyes bright. ‘He loved her. Even after everything she did. I don’t know how I feel about that.’
He’s looking so bewildered, I find it easy to push aside my own feelings about Judith. I perch on the arm of his chair and take his hand. ‘The way I read it, Donald loved her, and despite how it all turned out, he didn’t regret any of it.’
Alec stares at me. ‘Perhaps.’ He pulls his hand away, runs it through his hair and shifts irritably in his seat. ‘But it’s not only that – it’s his whole time in London! I was his typist, proofreader, copy checker and it never even occurred to me that any of those situations could be real – I thought they all came from his imagination.’
‘Reading his books, I think most of what he wrote about did come from his imagination. And no one would suspect another person of being quite so much larger than life.’
Alec glances at me sceptically. ‘Even Donald?’
‘OK, perhaps Donald,’ I admit. ‘But the reality won’t have been as romantic as he described in his novels – and you have to remember he was doing something people looked down on. He was hardly going to wave a scarlet flag in your face and shout, “Look, I was a gigolo”. Who knows how you would have responded? And before you give yourself any more of a hard time, you weren’t about to jump to the correct conclusions while reading about his swashbuckling heroes, either.’
‘I suppose not.’ Alec glowers at the letters for a moment or two. ‘I suppose it was all quite squalid, really.’
I’m caught by a sudden urge to defend Donald. ‘Some of it was, I expect, but then you have to realise that he changed quite a few people’s lives for the better despite, and perhaps because of, what he did for a living.’
‘Jane?’ he asks.
‘And Jim and May, Mrs Crumpton, her husband, and Judith. And even yours and mine,’ I add, remembering Donald’s intimation that we should get together. ‘And those are just the ones we know about.’
Alec rubs his forehead. ‘You’re right. And he’s still the same person. I suppose I just need to come to terms with it all.’
‘Yes, you do,’ I agree.
We sit in silence and I glance at the letters, slightly relieved that Donald’s suggestion about us being well suited seems to have got lost somewhere among all the other revelations. But like a forgotten pin at a dress fitting, it’s needling me and I can’t stop thinking about it. What will I say if Alec does ask me about it? ‘Yes, isn’t it funny that Donald thought that?’ ‘No, I didn’t see that coming either.’ ‘Well, of course I know the kiss was an impulse’ . . . not that this explains Alec’s second attempt to kiss me.
Alec suddenly gets up and checks his watch. ‘I should phone Mr Sanderson and see when he can fit us in.’ I glance up at Alec. ‘We need to get the last task,’ he reminds me.
‘Yes. I wonder why Donald gave it to Mr Sanderson?’
‘Ah,’ says Alec. ‘This bit needs to be official.’
I stare at him, unsure what to make of that, and a grin spreads across his face. ‘I’ll call Mr Sanderson,’ he says.
‘Please!’ I say, resisting the urge to throw a cushion at him, and I’m glad to see he’s over the initial shock of finding out about Judith and Donald.
Luckily for my rampaging curiosity, Mr Sanderson can squeeze us in during the afternoon. So, after a leisurely lunch of homemade leek and potato soup in the kitchen with Jane and Mrs Crumpton, Alec escorts me down to the village.
We arrive early, and I take a seat in the reception area. Alec remains standing, supposedly examining a print of the church, but I get the feeling he’s almost as tense as I am.
Mr Sanderson lets a client out, and shaking our hands, he welcomes us into his office. He takes a large file from his cabinet and opens it on his desk. An envelope, clearly labelled ‘For Hannah. The Last Task’ is sat on the top, and Mr Sanderson contemplates us both seriously over the top of his glasses.
‘So, the last one,’ he says. ‘And in record time, too,’ he adds with raised eyebrows.
‘There have been reasons for that,’ I say, feeling I should explain myself.
‘Ah yes,’ agrees Mr Sanderson, consulting his notes. ‘Mrs Jennings. Any further problems on that front?’
‘Nothing we couldn’t handle,’ says Alec, dismissing the terrifying twenty-four hours with just a few words and giving me a conspiratorial look.
Mr Sanderson graces us with a small smile. ‘Excellent. In that case, let’s pursue the matter in hand, shall we?’ He holds out the envelope, but as I reach for it he twitches it back slightly. ‘Your uncle left your final task with me because, as he put it, it lets the cat out of the bag. It is, however, imperative that you complete the task he mentions before you consider yourself in possession.’
I look from Mr Sanderson to Alec, and see the same expectant look on both their faces.
‘Understood,’ I say, and Mr Sanderson hands me the envelope. I slide my finger under the flap and start to read with growing incredulity.
My Dearest Hannah,
My story is almost done. You know all about my past: how I came to own The Laurels, how Mrs Crumpton came to be my wonderful housekeeper and how Jane, Jim and May became my very dearest friends. I am hoping they are now as dear to you as they have been to me. Alec can tell his own story, but the most pertinent point is that Judith was his grandmother. Taking him on as my personal assistant was my last favour to her, and one I never lived to regret. She knew that would be the case, and my time with Alec was her final gift.
So, all that remains to be done is for you to complete the circle and for me to bring you fully up to date with my life. How is that to be achieved, you may ask? I have had a brainwave!
For your last task, you will host a party very similar to the one where I met
you. You will invite all your family, and let them know you have an announcement to make. When they arrive, I want you to stand up in front of them all and inform them that you are my heir and have inherited both my wealth and The Laurels.
I gasp. I feel a little dizzy, but I don’t stop reading.
I can imagine you are surprised – at least I hope so! But let me assure you I am certain I have chosen wisely, and if you have made it this far through the tasks, you have proved yourself worthy.
You may be wondering why I didn’t choose Alec. I’ll admit I did consider him, but Alec inherited his grandmother’s estate, which is far grander and more prodigious than my own. And I couldn’t let Judith outshine me, even in death! I am pleased to know that, in your eyes, at least, I will always reign supreme, because you have my side of the story.
In passing on The Laurels to you, there is, however, one pitfall I am anxious to avoid: I do not want to drive a wedge between you and your family. I don’t want you to live here missing out on knowing important people, as I missed out on knowing you and Albert better. So don’t be scared, and invite them. Be proud of who you are, accept what you have achieved, and stay unshakeable in what you want to do. Manage that, and you will be bullet-proof to their comments.
Added to that, I would like you to be honest about how they treat you. It is almost always a mistake to hide other people’s unkindness. If you are protecting a third party, perhaps it is excusable, but if you are protecting your aggressor from exposure, don’t think for a moment they will ever stop or thank you. So be brave, Hannah, as that is the theme for this final task. Take the bull by the horns, and realise that it is up to them to come to terms with your inheritance, not your duty to apologise for it. Remember this and stand tall.
To misquote the wonderful J.K. Rowling, ‘It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much,’ in fact, probably more, ‘to stand up to our family’. So I bid you good luck in this final task.
Bravely yours,
Uncle Donald
I sit very still. Can it be real? The idea of owning The Laurels gilds every thought like the sun breaking through on a rainy day. Is it really possible? I stare at Alec, expecting him to answer my unspoken questions. He grins at me, and I look from him to Mr Sanderson.
‘Am I really inheriting The Laurels?’ I whisper.
Mr Sanderson nods. ‘Yes.’
‘It isn’t some kind of joke?’
‘I assure you I would never allow a joke of that kind,’ says Mr Sanderson evenly.
‘But you’re certain? I mean, you’re really, really sure?’
Mr Sanderson steeples his fingers and looks at me over the top of them. ‘I asked your uncle several times if he was really intending to leave all his worldly goods to a relation he had met only once, and he told me firmly that it was up to him what he did with his property, and that, yes, he was more than certain. Seeing my incredulity, however, he had his mental acuity measured and a certificate issued to provide sufficient protection against detractors. As it turns out, that came in useful, but to answer you more fully, I have in my possession all the paperwork necessary to transfer the ownership of The Laurels over to you. I only require the say-so from Alec concerning this final task and we will start the process.’
There’s a knock at the door and Mr Sanderson’s secretary puts his head around the door to ask him a question about another client. Mr Sanderson sniffs irritably, looks at us apologetically, then gets up and follows him out.
‘Why me?’ I ask, turning to Alec, feeling that Mr Sanderson didn’t cover that point. ‘Not that I’m not grateful – I really am! But why me?’
‘Donald said he knew as soon as he met you. He said he knew, just like he did with Jane, although at the time I didn’t know what he meant by that.’
‘But Jane’s wonderful. Jane’s gorgeous and genuine and kind!’ My voice sounds cross, but I don’t know how to change it.
Alec grins at me. ‘Yes. And he saw all those qualities in you on the day of the party. He saw how dignified you were when you were attacked, how open and honest you were when he asked you to be, and how you never muscled your way into the limelight – and then, when he caught a glimpse of your wicked sense of humour, that was that. He knew.’
‘Did you know, too?’ I ask, hanging my insecurities out like laundry.
‘No,’ he says, looking a bit shamefaced. ‘I thought you were all circling around like vultures, waiting for him to die so you could enjoy the spoils.’ Remembering Lauren’s words before we even met Donald, and Aunty Pam saying at the graveside that they couldn’t leave yet because of the will reading, I can’t help thinking his suspicions were justified. ‘But I soon saw what he meant,’ Alec assures me.
‘Did you? When?’
Alec laughs, but his eyes are kind, and he lifts his hand to cradle my cheek. My skin tingles under his fingertips and a blush rushes to my face. ‘Honestly? I had my first suspicion when you came back from visiting Jim and May. You were so indignant and decent, outraged and so obviously caught between laughing at yourself and fury.’ Alec shakes his head, smiling at the memory, but I can’t figure out if we are still talking about Donald choosing me – or something else. ‘But I suppose I knew properly when we were at the ballet. I saw just how vulnerable and honest you were and . . . Smack! No coming back from it.’
My breath quickens. Is he really saying what I think he’s saying?
‘But by then, of course,’ he continues, his hand dropping from my cheek, ‘I’d been rude to you and tried to make you jealous by flirting with Lauren – yes, I admit it now, and I’m sorry, but blimey I paid for it, if that’s any consolation?’ His eyes lock onto mine, beseeching me to understand. ‘Lauren kept ambushing me, and the one time I failed to fend her off . . .’ Alec’s head drops, and I think we’re both picturing Lauren kissing him. ‘Well, let’s just say, I thought you’d never speak to me again.’
I stare at my hands, hardly daring to breathe as I reframe everything from Alec’s sly glances, monitoring my reaction when he spoke with Lauren, to Lauren springing out of her room, disappointed to find it was me. Even her clamping hold on Alec morphs into a desperate attempt to keep him to heel, while Alec, even during the stargazing, never forgot I was there, despite all of Lauren’s best efforts.
I look into his eyes, which are kind and perhaps a little afraid, and . . . everything swims. Black dots flash in my vision. A sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me and I plunge my head between my knees before I faint, throw up or, heaven forbid, both. Did I forget to breathe? Am I swooning, like in one of Donald’s novels? God, how embarrassing.
Alec bends down to my level. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks anxiously.
‘Fine, just give me a minute,’ I rasp. I should be leaping around singing, not staring at the floor trying to keep hold of my lunch.
Alec sits up as Mr Sanderson comes back in.
‘Is she all right?’ Mr Sanderson asks. ‘Is it not all as she expected?’
I try to sit up, but another wave of queasiness sends me back down again.
‘I think it’s just shock,’ says Alec. ‘I’m not sure she expected to inherit Donald’s whole estate.’
Not to mention having Alec almost declare himself. But it’s true, I wasn’t expecting Donald’s whole estate, or to be able to stay at The Laurels. Owning The Laurels! How could that possibly have faded into the background? It just doesn’t seem real. And imagine how furious Donald would be to be upstaged by Alec at this crucial moment! I suppress a grin as I picture Donald ranting about on the ceiling above us, yelling ‘Not now!’ at Alec, and I dutifully focus on the amazing thing Donald has done for me.
‘What were you expecting?’ asks Mr Sanderson, bewildered.
‘Five hundred pounds, like everyone else,’ I whisper, getting my breathing under control.
‘Ah! In that case, I do see. I’ll just get her some water,’ Mr Sanderson whispers to Alec.
While Mr Sanderson is gone, Alec explains
about Judith’s estate and how it’s looked after by a trust. I’m desperate to get him back onto the subject of us, but now’s not the time.
‘. . . so Donald helped me sort it all out, but when it came to his own will, Donald accused me of putting him in a difficult position, because now he had no one to transform in the name of “making a difference”.’
I take some slow deep breaths and finally manage to sit up. ‘So that’s why he arranged the party?’ I ask, cottoning on.
‘Yes, he wanted to find someone to make a difference to, and he found you.’
‘Well, he’s certainly made a difference!’ I say, an edge of hysteria to my voice. With The Laurels as my home, Alec, Jane and Mrs Crumpton as my friends, and a chance to write – everything’s been completely transformed.
Mr Sanderson returns with a glass of water and hands it to me. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Much better, thank you.’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘It never occurred to me that you might not know about the possibility of inheriting the house. If it had . . .’
I smile, still unable to believe any of it’s true.
‘Well, no harm done,’ says Mr Sanderson irritably, and as I sip my water, he starts to explain the complexities of changing over the ownership of The Laurels, paying inheritance tax and filing for probate. I sit quietly and nod every so often. Very little of what he says goes in, but the dull legal monologue is surprisingly soothing, and gives me a chance to come to terms with the wonderful thing Donald has done for me. I’m going to own The Laurels: live there, write and be happy – it’s extraordinary.
‘. . . so all that should be comparatively straightforward,’ concludes Mr Sanderson, raising his eyebrows. ‘A lot simpler than writing the will,’ he adds with a reminiscent shudder. ‘So, when you’ve finished that final task, everything can be put in motion.’
