After the remaining bits in his apartment were packed and prepared for shipment to America, Vienne called from London to tell me it was time to meet and execute bequeathing tasks. What they found inside his will, she said at nearly a whisper, was not at all expected and she begged me to come at once. Vienne never begged anyone for any reason and when I asked her to explain she simply said, “Hurry” before hanging up. There were surprises left behind, she said, surprises that would alter our perception of Damon forever. I booked the flight arrangements then and there, concerned more for the tone in Vienne’s voice than anything our elder brother wrote into his will.
I MANAGED TO sleep for most of the flight from Dulles, finishing the last drops of morning coffee by the time we broke out of the cloud layer inbound for Heathrow. Vienne had flown in from Spain two days earlier and she was waiting as my taxi squeaked to a halt in front of an imposing hotel off Sloane Square—very British, very grand. Damon’s solicitor, a tall, scarlet-faced man called Liam Fields-Donnelley, met us two hours later at his firm’s offices on the east side of London near the boundary of Whitechapel. While we waited on a junior solicitor laying out documents in tidy groups on a splendid oak table, I reminded Vienne of the neighborhood’s notorious past as Jack the Ripper’s hunting grounds. I said so mostly to pass the time but she didn’t seem to care. A moment later Donnelley arrived and with him was the first step of my sudden, bizarre odyssey.
“Yes, well,” he began as he traced a finger along the lines on a page of notes before him, “we have concluded most of your brother’s affairs with his employer—the artifacts he left as legacies to the university.”
We waited again as he shifted his eyes between folders as though he needed to convince himself all was in order. On a wall behind us a massive clock the size of a stop sign—transparent to show off its polished brass gears—clunked and clicked the seconds away, and from it the only break from silence I knew was wearing thin on Vienne’s patience. Donnelley seemed to know it, too.
“Oh, and Damon’s personal effects in Spain have been boxed by our Madrid representative’s local agents as well; they were given access to his apartment by way of a surprisingly cooperative former girlfriend, I’m told.”
Vienne waited through a last pause as Donnelley shuffled the release papers she would be required to sign, until at last he drew from his folio the reason and purpose that brought us all the way to England.
“Your sister saw the contents before you arrived, Mr. Morgan, but the bulk of his estate and its disposition, such that it is, can be finalized now that both of you are here. The document is rather crude by professional standards, of course, but British law recognizes and accepts its authenticity, regardless that he was not a subject of the Crown. You may review at your leisure and then provide signatures to indicate acceptance.”
“It’s only us,” Vienne said softly, turning sideways in her chair toward me. “Except for the artifacts that went to that college, plus money and some jewelry for Isolda, everything he had passes to you and me.”
I looked at her and shrugged but she leaned over and placed her hand on top of mine.
“This might be a bit of a shock, okay?”
Another surprise—another secret; I hate them still.
Donnelley took the silence as his cue.
“I should note the properties themselves carry current-market value, of course, but the bank accounts and precious metals are relatively static, provided you move them without long-term delay. We can recommend a well-regarded finance institution to guide you with these sorts of matters, Mr. Morgan.”
“This is why you needed to be here,” Vienne whispered as she slid the papers across the table.
I went down the handwritten list line by line and it seemed like a cruel, impossible joke. Had it been played on me by Vienne or on us both by a dead brother with a unique, misplaced sense of humor? It couldn’t be real, I decided with a frown, as the contents stared back at me from the noticeably creased paper.
On the page, a single column of items paralleled a precise value in British pounds and US dollars that added to a subtotal before being divided, half to Vienne and half to me. I saw stock, annuities, and rotating investment accounts in Switzerland, Germany, and Belize. Further along, he listed locations of safe deposit boxes in several countries holding considerable gold, some silver, and cash in varying currencies that alone totaled to nearly $2.4 million. Damon gifted sole ownership of his Malaga apartment to Vienne (which I regarded as her reward for having kept in touch better and more frequently than I), but near the middle of the list there was something else: a simple line that described a clean deed for a private dwelling on eight acres in the Denbighshire countryside Damon left specifically to me. It was time to consider how little we knew about the life our elder brother led, and how it could be that so much had been acquired by one who once cared so little for material wealth. No matter the method or mechanism, Damon left this world a wealthy man.
I looked at Vienne and then to Donnelley but they said nothing. There was no mistake, hoax, or misapprehension; without others to whom he felt an obligation, and except for a handsome legacy of cash and the bits of jewelry he left to Isolda, Vienne and I were his sole beneficiaries. Because of Damon’s relative youth and healthy condition, Donnelley noted, his risk of death by any means beyond unforeseen injury was low. The work was certainly benign, too; rummaging around in galleries, nodding at auctions, or brushing away the layers of dirt at an active dig site with a toothbrush could hardly be described as thrill-inspiring. However, Donnelley explained, the money Damon’s exceedingly rare (and private) collection could bring was considerable and steps were taken. I wondered why he thought to create a will and testament at all, and when Donnelley continued the answer was easy to see.
Many of the pieces our brother gathered over the years, with the understanding he would gift them to the university, carried significant historic value, compelling his employers to ask for a valid will. They did so to avoid difficulty if Damon suddenly died in a car accident, for example, or by some other tragic event. Their own obligation to protect their interests was no less important than his, it would seem, and an understanding between them made a formal will and testament inescapable.
“You are now fully apprised of your brother’s last wishes and those parts of his estate he wanted passed to you,” he continued. “The documentation will be copied and sent along sometime next week. Are there any questions before we finalize the transfer authorizations?”
I looked on in silence to absorb the changes coming at both of us. The money, at least, was not entirely without explanation; collectors and brokers who take five-star hotels and private jets for granted know an expert eye is worth the trouble and expense, if only to help them establish a price when each piece is in turn sold to others. I admit the actual dollar amount was well beyond anything we imagined, but the fortune Damon amassed from doing for the wealthy what they couldn’t do for themselves was at least understandable. I smiled and shook my head sadly at what I didn’t know about my own brother’s admirable financial condition, but it was the property that grabbed my attention.
“This place,” I said, pointing to the words on Donnelley’s paper. “It’s in Wales, isn’t it?”
“That is correct,” he replied with a polite, automatic smile. “The property itself is located near Llangollen, which lies about fifty miles southwest from Liverpool; a bit touristy for my taste but quite lovely. Damon noted your fondness for the family’s Welsh heritage, which may have compelled him to leave it with you.”
I had been to Cardiff and Swansea on two brief occasions but my knowledge of our paternal ancestral home was sorely lacking. It didn’t seem to bother Donnelley, so I asked for more detail, hoping he might know why Damon was interested in real estate. His answers didn’t help explain Damon’s idea of appropriate inheritances but another source, he insisted, might. Jeremy Collingwood, a local solicitor in Llangollen, was retained when Damon bought the land and
that made him the logical person to assist should I decide to sell the property outright or hold it against market fluctuations for a better, more advantageous opportunity.
“Damon never mentioned owning property anywhere, let alone in Wales,” I said, frowning.
Donnelley returned one of those sympathetic “sorry, but you’re asking the wrong person” smiles as he handed me a business card.
“This is Mr. Collingwood’s contact information. His firm was engaged as your brother’s agency, so he would be far better suited to fill in the blanks.”
I suddenly felt exposed and alone. Vienne only shrugged with raised eyebrows that signaled her agreement with Donnelley’s suggestion. Time was no issue, since my boss insisted that I take as much of it for bereavement as needed, but a journey to look at a cramped little hut on a muddy field in Wales would require a better reason than Damon leaving it to me in his will.
“Look,” I said at last, “can’t we just put it up for sale right now and take the best offer?”
“Certainly,” Donnelley replied. “What you do with your property is entirely your affair. Our part is ensuring you understand and take custody of those items in accordance with British law and your brother’s wishes.”
I looked at the card in a frantic search for an excuse not to go. I had no desire to fight with real estate people and I knew enough to know I was out of my depth in selling Damon’s land on my own. I also knew what she was thinking before I asked and when I turned again to Vienne, the face of disappointment returned.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I mumbled.
“It’s your call, Evan.”
“But you obviously think I should go out there.”
“He left the place to you; this is your decision.”
Vienne watched my reaction with the same hint of betrayal I heard in her voice the day she called to tell me of his death. I didn’t care about Damon’s house, she would argue, simply because I didn’t care enough about him. I felt trapped inside a problem for which the most acceptable solution was a forced march to Wales. In quiet frustration, I saw only the path I wanted most to avoid and one that led to a seasonal tourist trap in Denbighshire.
More secrets, I thought in silence; more surprises. In that same moment one of the forks in the road that confront us from time to time demanded an answer. I’ve thought of those seconds that tick-tocked away to the cadence of Liam Donnelley’s expensive clock and the binary decision point that waited with the patience of a tax collector. I had a chance to go this way or that—to accept or turn away. Had I chosen otherwise and left instructions to sell Damon’s property, the damage would likely have been confined to waiting Vienne out until she got over her disappointment
All of it was avoidable.
Instead, I nodded, and we signed the papers. Donnelley prepared for the transfer of Damon’s UK funds into our accounts. The metals and bundles of cash, plus property holdings and stock options, remained where they were until we decided how and when to deal with them. The prospect of a road trip to Wales, however, went quickly from concept to reality and the logistics question needed an answer.
“I’ve never been up that far but I’m guessing they don’t have much in the way of an airport?”
Fields-Donnelley had done his homework.
“Virgin has trains leaving from Euston Station up to Ruabon or Wrexham, so that option might be favorable to you. You will have to hire a car regardless but it’s only a few miles farther on to Llangollen—less than twenty minutes, I should think.”
Another pause and it was done. Vienne’s flight from London City Airport to Malaga wasn’t scheduled until later in the day so we lunched in Kensington and held onto each other through the awkward moments, trying our best to understand why Damon kept the gifts he left for us in the pages of his will a secret.
We felt gratitude, of course, and maybe some guilt for wrongly presuming his life’s pursuits were more important to him than his own family. Through most of it we spoke about better times when we were young and when childhood memories were still under construction. Vienne wondered what our parents would think had they survived to see that moment, but the question was pointless. After my sister climbed in a taxi to Gatwick, I sat with a hotel concierge in grateful silence while she organized my reservations and mapped out the next day’s adventure in a railway coach bound for Wales.
MINDFUL of the mysteries waiting in Llangollen, I suddenly welcomed a return trip to Wales, one that would take me beyond the borders of Cardiff and Swansea. I guess it’s reasonable to say most people in America couldn’t find Wales quickly on a globe, but once you’ve discovered and seen the country for yourself, it gets inside you and sticks. The place is mostly mountainous and vistas across green valleys are breathtaking in any season. The shoreline is often defined by severe cliffs but also broad, sandy beaches I never knew were there until I walked them. It rains a lot, but when the sun streaks through the gaps between clouds, you stop and watch a while because it’s just that beautiful.
Wales is also an ancient land, inhabited since Neanderthals arrived over 200,000 years ago. Through the Copper, Bronze, and Iron Ages, tribes solidified their position and a distinct culture rose on the foundation of what would become a unique society. Only decades after the birth of Christ, the first Romans arrived and a conquest-turned-occupation continued for nearly 350 years. During this period, the enigmatic Druids were hunted, cornered and slaughtered by General Paulinus’ legions on the island of Anglesey (Mona, in those days), the very soldier who ended the uprising of the fierce, woman-warrior Boudicca of the Iceni. Rome’s dominance over Wales ended when the Empire’s reach outstretched its ability to defend against mounting barbarian attacks at home and all of Britain was abandoned by the early 400s.
Welsh identity developed over a thousand years as the future country adjusted to its post-Roman division into distinct, competing kingdoms. From the Medieval period through the Middle Ages, attacks came from Normans, Picts, Irish, and Viking hordes but the Welsh survived. Despite the effective annexation in the mid-1500s by Henry VIII (whose uncle was Welsh, by the way), a unique culture emerged.
I read texts about Welsh history in college due mostly to a private feeling of distance from my heritage. Friends regarded their family ties to Italy, Ireland or any other country as a given and some had relatives in the “old country” they visited regularly. For me, there was no such experience. It seemed as though my identity as an American always allowed for, and even encouraged, a connection to ancestral beginnings, but I was unable to see it. When I climbed in a taxi for the ride to Euston Station, all of it changed.
THE JOURNEY UP was spent mostly in a rainy, gray blur but it went faster than I expected. I remembered hit-or-miss train schedules when I made my first excursions after college. Like many Americans standing at the chasm between youth and the rest of their lives, I wanted to see something of the world before jobs and responsibilities helped time erode the notion into an unfulfilled dream. My roommate’s sister was studying at Christ’s College and a chance to visit (not to mention our glaring lack of continental language skills) made England the obvious choice, so three of us boarded a flight to London. Only wide-eyed kids at that time, we watched the fields of East Anglia speed by, stopping in Bishop’s Stortford and Cambridge to visit friends for a week. Life was a different proposition then but things change and time passes.
When my train eased to a stop at Ruabon, I felt rising loneliness and isolation, unsure if it was only the adjustment to Damon’s death or something more. The leaves had abandoned their trees long before and the cold air hit me when I stepped slowly onto the narrow platform and stood stupidly alone to survey my surroundings and find a taxi without drawing too much attention.
I found my cabbie on the Station Road loop, a cheerful man called Eddie who replied to most sentences with, “Oh yeah?” Not the way we do in America—challenging and hostile—but with a polite acceptance tinged with just enough conversational indifference so
that further discussion was clearly optional. After a short ride west along the banks of the River Dee, he dropped me at the Royal Hotel where, Liam Donnelley had insisted, it would be easier to let them arrange for a rental car.
The sunset was nearly finished beneath rolling, slate skies when I settled and unpacked. After dinner, I lounged in my room and a parade of television programs in Welsh only amplified my long-held resentment at not being taught the language as a kid. The conspicuous quiet of an off-season Denbighshire village at night made sleeping a nearly unattainable goal for one just in from a metropolis where noise is a constant. Without the mild sedatives I usually keep around to deal with strange hotel rooms I could rely only on fatigue to finally send me over.
IN THE MORNING I felt better. After breakfast a short walk in the cool, still air brought me to Jeremy Collingwood’s office off Berwyn Street, and the answers I needed. We exchanged the usual pleasantries but he was profoundly different from the image I’d made in my mind on the ride up from London. In a splendid contradiction to my pre-conceived idea of a rural Welsh solicitor (bushy brows, ruddy complexion, and a heavy cardigan), Jeremy could portray a very convincing, if slightly graying, Omar Sharif.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Collingwood?”
“Almost thirty years now.” He smiled. “I’m from Merthyr, but we came up in the mid-eighties.”
“Just wanted to get away?” I asked.
“I met my wife in Swansea, but she was born and brought up in Ruthin. After our boys arrived, city life became more than she could tolerate so we settled here.”
“It is a beautiful place,” I added.
Jeremy grinned with a nod as an assistant moved deftly past us with a carafe of freshly brewed coffee. His office was a casual, welcoming place by comparison with Fields-Donnelley’s modern corporate spaces filled with trendy Finnish spruce and stainless steel fixtures, but that quality operated against my plan. The moment wasn’t what it was supposed to be and not the place my imagination had formed and nurtured. Jeremy was not what he was supposed to be, either. I needed him to be curt, distant, and suspicious of a clumsy foreigner invading places he didn’t belong. I wanted him to dislike me for no apparent reason and do only what was necessary to conclude our business and then point the way out. If he eyed me with distaste and annoyance, leery of an American arriving with little warning and questionable intent, I would have a decent excuse for abandoning the idea for a fast retreat back to the States. Instead, he was (and still is) one of the easiest gentlemen I ever met.
The Seventh Life of Aline Lloyd Page 2
