The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly

by Alice Ross

  ALICE ROSS

  The Trouble

  with

  Great Aunt Milly

  About the Author

  Alice Ross used to work in the financial services industry where she wrote riveting, enthralling brochures about pensions and ISAs that everyone read avidly and no one ever put straight into the bin.

  One day, when nobody was looking, she managed to escape. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy, romps designed to amuse slightly more than pension brochures.

  Missing Blighty (including the weather - but don't tell anyone), she returned five years later and now works part-time in the tourism industry.

  When not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog, or standing on her head in a yoga pose.

  Also by Alice Ross

  The Very Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor

  Under the Willow Tree

  Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty

  Countryside Dreams

  An Autumn Affair

  A Summer of Secrets

  A Winter’s Wish

  Lovelace Lane

  The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane

  The Big House on Lovelace Lane

  The Wedding on Lovelace Lane

  Christmas on Lovelace Lane

  New Arrivals on Lovelace Lane

  The Birthday on Lovelace Lane

  The Cotswolds Cookery Club

  A Taste of Italy

  A Taste of Spain

  A Taste of France

  The Cosy Castle on the Loch

  Spring

  Summer

  Chapter 1

  As sad as he was, James Pinkerton couldn’t resist a smile. It was all so utterly and completely bizarre. Indeed any stranger walking into the village hall now and observing the sea of pink party hats, the doddery DJ and the trays of Pina Coladas, would be forgiven for thinking it was Great Aunt Milly’s birthday rather than her funeral. But, never one to shrink into the background, his eccentric relative had gone to great lengths to ensure her send-off would be one everybody remembered.

  ‘Excuse me, dear. Would you like to dance?’

  James whipped his head around and found himself face-to-face with old Mrs Oates, Great Aunt Milly’s neighbour. She appeared to have gone to quite some effort for the occasion: her bird-like frame swathed in crimson chiffon; the crevices of her crumpled face harbouring several inches of peach face-powder.

  Having neither the inclination, the co-ordination, nor the prerequisite amount of alcohol inside him to accept her offer, James began frantically rummaging in his brain for his well-thumbed portfolio of ‘polite reasons to decline dancing invitations’. Quietly congratulating himself on the speed at which he selected one which was not only feasible, but which might also generate some sympathy from the doddery octogenarians around him, he cleared his throat, adjusted his pink coned party hat – bearing a beaming image of Great Aunt Milly - and twisted his features into a rueful expression.

  ‘I would love to Mrs Oates, but I’m afraid my foot is -’

  Mrs Oates, despite her eighty-seven years, was evidently unaccustomed to having her offers declined. She rolled her beady blue eyes.

  ‘Oh, do come on,’ she commanded, grabbing James’ hand and tugging him, with a disconcerting force, from his orange plastic chair and through the assembled throng with all the effectiveness of a Sherman tank. They reached the tiny dance floor, already overflowing with a mass of bopping OAPs, just as Lulu’s Shout began blasting out from the enormous old speakers – part of the ancient kit dragged along by the decrepit DJ.

  ‘Ooo, one of my favourites,’ squealed Mrs Oates, before demonstrating a series of break-dancing moves involving, much to James’ consternation, much elbowing and kicking of everyone – himself included - within a three-foot radius.

  Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot whilst struggling with the concept of how to bring his arms into the equation without looking a complete plank, James wondered, as Mrs Oates leapt an impressive height into the air, if anyone had had the foresight to put the ambulance service on stand-by. Such anxious thoughts were evidently not occupying Mrs Oates’ mind.

  ‘Come on lad. Let yourself go a bit,’ she shouted - significantly louder than Lulu.

  A few minutes later, James, relieved in equal measure that a) Lulu’s warbling had ceased and b) no summoning of the emergency services had been required, steered Mrs Oates back to the seating area. Her American Tan pop-socks, having put up an admirable fight during her dance routine, now languished about her bony ankles.

  ‘How old are you now, lad?’ she demanded en-route.

  A dart of apprehension shot through James. With his well-honed sixth sense, he had a strong suspicion of what would follow.

  ‘Thirty-four, Mrs Oates.’

  ‘Thirty-four!’ She shook her head of rigid curls. ‘And what about that twin brother of yours?’

  James furrowed his brow. ‘Matt? What about him?’

  ‘Well, how old is he?’

  ‘Um, he’s thirty-four as well,’ informed James, biting back a smile.

  An obviously unimpressed Mrs Oates pursed her lips. ‘Hmm,’ she mused as they reached the row of chairs. ‘Thirty-four as well, eh? And still single the pair of you.’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ replied James, with an apologetic smile. ‘Although Matt won’t be for much longer. He’s getting married in a few weeks.’

  Mrs Oates lowered herself into a chair. ‘Well,’ she puffed, ‘glad to hear one of you is normal. But what about you, lad? When are you going to settle down?’

  James cringed inwardly. He’d seen it coming a mile off. Now accustomed to such questioning, however, he forced his lips into his most charming smile and replied smoothly, ‘I am settled, Mrs Oates. Just not married.’

  Mrs Oates eyed him suspiciously, a number of viable explanations for his unimpressive marital status obviously cantering through her mind.

  In an effort to derail her train of thought and the ensuing interrogation, James piped up: ‘Now why don’t I get you a drink? Another Pina Colada is it?’

  The diversion worked beautifully.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. But make sure they put a sparkler in it. And two cherries.’

  James snorted with laughter before turning around and heading for the bar. He’d get Mrs Oates her drink he decided, then head back to Great Aunt Milly’s cottage where he was staying the night with his brother and parents. It had been a long and, despite the lack of funereal solemnity, emotional few days.

  The crowd around the corner bar, padded with what looked like an orange nylon bedspread, was four deep. Given the frailty of most of the mob, James considered it wise to remain on the periphery until it cleared. As he did so, he studied the elderly throng, wondering what he would be like if he lived to such an age. Would he be break dancing at eighty-seven? Would he take himself off on the sky-diving holidays in Turkey Great Aunt Milly had become so fond of recently? Or would he sit shivering in his living room, eating cold baked-beans from the tin, only venturing out on a Thursday to pick up his pension?

  Waist-deep in reverie, a slap on the back jolted him back to reality. He whisked around to find his twin, Matt, grinning at him.

  ‘See you’ve got yourself another woman at last,’ sneered Matt, watching Mrs Oates adjusting her pop-socks. ‘Not sure about the legs, but at least you’re bloody moving on at last.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ replied James, the familiar flame of anger flaring up, just as it did every time someone insisted he “moved on”. Over the five years he’d been subjected to the irritating phrase, he’d perfected his technique for combating the u
rge to punch the deliverer in the mouth. Employing it now, he fisted his hands, savouring the distraction of his short fingernails digging into his palms. When would people realise he didn’t want to “move on”? That he was perfectly satisfied with his life? Not that he would expect Matt to understand. Not once, during his thirty-four year existence, had Matt ever demonstrated the desire to understand anything not directly pertaining to Matt.

  How, James wondered, studying his twin’s profile and the same familiar features he himself saw every time he looked in the mirror: narrow nose, chiselled cheek-bones, wide brown eyes, could two people who appeared so strikingly similar, be so very different. In fact, their only physically distinguishing feature was the way they wore their dark hair: Matt, to complement his sharp suits and cool Advertising Director image, kept his fashionably short and expertly tousled, courtesy of fortnightly trips to his barber, bucket-loads of gel, and forty minutes in front of the mirror each morning. James, on the other hand, only ever loped down to Kinks ‘n’ Kurls when he could no longer bear his fringe falling into his cornflakes. He favoured a longer, dishevelled style, courting the natural waves Matt employed vast amounts of time, money and energy to keep at bay. James’ hair, along with his usual uniform of lived-in jeans and faded rugby tops or fraying T-shirts, had the effect of some of his older veterinary clients rather flatteringly – or, more likely, rather myopically – mistaking him for a student.

  Now refocusing on Matt’s irksome comment, James concluded that Great Aunt Milly’s funeral was neither the time nor the place to enter into yet another heated debate regarding the “moving on” issue. He therefore decided to bat the remark away.

  ‘I’ll be moving on soon,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘Back to the cottage. I’m completely knackered.’

  ‘Back to the cottage?’ snorted Matt. ‘But it’s only ten o’clock. The night is still young.’

  ‘It’s about the only thing in here that is,’ muttered James, skipping out of the way to allow a stooped, white-haired gentleman carrying a tray of rattling, sparkler-infused Pina Coladas to pass. ‘And we’ve an early start tomorrow, don’t forget. We have to be at the solicitor’s first thing for the will reading.’

  An indulgent smile tugged at Matt’s lips. ‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed, dark eyes twinkling. ‘The will reading. I can hardly wait. How much do you reckon Great Aunt Milly was worth?’

  James regarded his brother in amazement. Matt was so predictable. You only had to be in his company for a matter of seconds before the subject of money pushed its ugly head to the fore as determinedly as an angry spot the night before a big date.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he replied disinterestedly.

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Matt. ‘Well, it’ll amount to a pretty penny, you mark my words. I bet she has a fair old sum stashed away, plus her antique jewellery and the cottage here which, after a little chat with an estate agent I bumped into the other day, must be worth at least one-and-a-half-mill.’

  James discerned immediately that Matt’s “bumping into” actually meant he’d spent days on the phone grilling all the property professionals in Norfolk to gauge the value of Great Aunt Milly’s beloved cottage, which even had the obligatory pink roses clambering about the door.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much it’s worth,’ he observed brusquely. ‘The family’s share should all go to Mum. She is, after all, next in line.’

  Matt gave a knowing grin. ‘Well, that’s as may be, but the old dear happened to drop me a not-so-subtle hint last time I saw her, that you and I could be in for quite a surprise when she popped it. And what could be nicer than a few hundred thousand quid each, eh?’

  James rolled his eyes. He had no interest in a few hundred thousand quid. At that precise moment, he had no interest in anything other than getting Mrs Oates her Pina Colada and returning to the cottage to crawl under the duvet. Spotting a clearing around the bar he was about to dart towards it when a familiar voice, coloured with an unfamiliar drunken slur, loudly pronounced:

  ‘Oh, how lovely –hic- to see my two darling boys together –hic-.’

  Both brothers spun around to find their mother staggering towards them, looking somewhat less immaculate than she had first thing that morning. Her cream blouse, previously tucked into the waistband of her purple cashmere skirt, now hung out with wild abandon; a smear of red lipstick adorned her right cheek; and her pink party hat jutted out at a strange angle from the left side of her salt-and-pepper bob. Holding her upright was the boys’ father who, by the thunderous look on his bearded face, was completely unimpressed by his wife’s uncharacteristic slip of standards.

  ‘I was just –hic- saying to your father, that we rarely see you boys together these days –hic. Wasn’t I, Bernard?’

  ‘I believe you attempted to mutter something along those lines, Marjorie,’ replied Bernard Pinkerton, swooping to catch his spouse as she almost toppled off her four-inch sling-backs.

  ‘I have decided –hic- that we are going to spend more time as a family –hic-,’ she continued, with all the determined resolve of the inebriated. ‘We will go to the zoo next –hic- week. Matt can dress up as a penguin and join in the parade. You love doing that –hic, don’t you darling?’

  Matt cringed. ‘Well I did. When I was four.’

  ‘Or we could,’ she suggested, her voice escalating in line with her enthusiasm, ‘go sledging. James –hic- loves sledging, don’t you, sweetie?’

  ‘I do, Mum,’ concurred James. ‘But I think we may have a slight problem with that one given that it’s July.’

  Their mother’s eyes slid drunkenly from one twin to the other and then back again.

  ‘Oh, my boys,’ she cooed. ‘My two darling boys.’ She then flung out her arms, sending an old man with a walking stick flying towards the emergency exit, before landing with a heavy thud flat on her face on the linoed floor.

  *

  ‘Goodness, it’s awfully grand, isn’t it?’ gulped Marjorie Pinkerton as the family, in their smartest suits, trooped into the palatial offices of Barr, Brief and Casey Solicitors at eight forty-seven the following morning. ‘Oh, and look at this lovely shiny floor, Bernard. I only hope I’m not ill on it. So dreadful to have come down with a bug today of all days.’

  ‘It’s not a bug. It’s a hangover,’ informed her husband stoutly.

  Marjorie regarded him aghast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never had a hangover in my life and I’m certainly not about to start now. Oh, look – there’s Mrs Oates.’

  Mrs Oates, in a tweed suit adorned with a furry dead animal on its collar, was perched on a bench, tucked away inside one of the corridors leading off from the main atrium. In contrast to the poor animal around her neck and despite the large number of Pina Coladas supped just hours before, she looked as fresh as a daisy as she waved to them.

  Having made themselves known to the receptionist, the group crossed the grey marble floor of the lobby and, having exchanged greetings with Mrs Oates, sat down on the bench alongside her.

  ‘Lovely funeral wasn’t it?’ gushed Mrs Oates.

  ‘Oh, it was,’ concurred Marjorie. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve come down with the most dreadful bug this morning.’

  Mrs Oates’ eagle eyes narrowed. ‘Not a hangover is it?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ countered Marjorie, flushing slightly. ‘I only partook of a couple of sips of Pina Colada during the toasts. Save for a sweet sherry at Christmas, a drop of alcohol never passes my lips, does it, Bernard?’

  The boys’ father raised a dubious eyebrow. Before he had a chance to reply, though, Mrs Oates, having spotted more movement in the lobby, called out, ‘Coo-ee, Mr Greene’.

  Mr Greene, Great Aunt Milly’s gardener, was an earnest man of few words who, as a child, James had always found slightly terrifying. Now, in his dotage, Mr Greene’s knobbly body was attired in what was most likely his one and only black suit, which had served him admirably for all marriages, deaths and christenings over the last thirty years. Despite this proba
ble lengthy acquaintance, though, it was obvious Mr Greene had still not managed to forge anything akin to an easy-going relationship with the suit. He ran a nervous finger along the inside rim of his shirt collar as he shuffled over to join them.

  ‘Mornin’ all.’

  ‘Morning, Mr Greene,’ they chirped back in unison.

  ‘Lovely funeral,’ he remarked, looking at no one in particular, as he came to a standstill in front of the bench.

  ‘Oh, wasn’t it,’ agreed Marjorie Pinkerton. ‘It’s just a pity I feel so dreadfully ill today.’

  Mr Greene nodded his head – bald except for a few grey hairs stretching from one side to the other. ‘Vol-au-vents,’ he declared.

  Marjorie Pinkerton’s eyes, complete with pearly-blue eye-shadow, grew wide. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Vol-au-vents, Mrs Pinkerton. Always set me off, so they do.’

  There followed a brief silence where everyone stared at the floor.

  ‘Oh,’ murmured Marjorie. ‘Well, that’s very, er, interesting, Mr Greene. Isn’t it, Bernard?’

  ‘Very,’ remarked her husband, somewhat unconvincingly.

  Grateful to be spared any further “interesting” revelations from Mr Greene, an audible collective sigh of relief ensued when Mr Gregson appeared from behind a door, and ushered them into his office.

  Mr Gregson was a tall thin man of some fifty-five years whose head of thick auburn hair – without a trace of grey – looked to James suspiciously like a toupee. He wore a navy pinstriped suit, pristine white shirt and navy-and-white spotted tie.

  His office continued the traditional theme, with a thick green carpet, mahogany furniture, a smattering of Chinese vases, and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. Below the window squatted a circular coffee-table and an arrangement of brown leather sofas and chairs. It was here Mr Gregson indicated the party be seated. They did so after exchanging a handful of forced pleasantries: James and Matt on one sofa, their parents on the other, and Mrs Oates and Mr Greene in two of the leather chairs. Mr Gregson then retrieved an envelope from the desk and claimed the third chair.