by Hilary Boyd
“Umm . . . Sophie, I’ve got some very bad news.” She took a deep breath. “Your dad . . . he had a heart attack last night . . .” She paused again, but Sophie said nothing. “He died in the night . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
There was what seemed like an interminable silence at the other end of the phone.
“Sophie?”
“Dead? He can’t be. He phoned me.” She sounded relieved, as if this proved Karen was mistaken.
“Phoned you? When?”
“Not sure . . . I was out and didn’t see the missed call till it was too late to ring back. He didn’t leave a message.”
“Oh.” Karen felt almost sick. Harry, possibly in pain and desperately needing help, had obviously tried to contact his daughter when she herself had ignored his shouts and callously gone to bed.
“Did he die in his sleep, then?” Sophie’s question was so matter-of-fact, as if she hadn’t grasped the fact that this was her father they were talking about.
“I think so.” She hesitated, her whole body shaking with the lie, yet at the same time fervently persuading herself that it could be true. Harry might have just been shouting at her in the way he often did recently, merely wanting her attention. Then dozed off from all that booze and had the heart attack later in the night—when he was, in fact, asleep. She told herself that it might not have made any difference if she’d gone to him when he called, dragged him upstairs, tucked him in. Then he might, she told herself, have had the heart attack right there, next to her in bed. “I left him watching golf and went to bed. I tried to get him to come up with me, but he didn’t want to. You know what he’s like when he’s had a few. When I woke up around three, he wasn’t in bed. I went to look for him and he . . . well, he was already dead.”
Silence.
“Sophie?”
“He can’t be dead.” Karen heard a wrenching sob. “Daddy can’t be dead . . .”
“Oh, Sophie . . . I’m so sorry . . .” she felt helpless at the other end of the phone and, for the first time in her life, truly sorry for the girl. “Are you alone? Is there someone you can call to come and be with you?”
“Umm . . . no, Daisy’s here . . . she’s asleep.”
For a while Karen just listened in silence to the tearing sobs. She wanted to cry herself, to let go, join her stepdaughter in her grief, but her eyes were dry as a bone. True, her heart was palpitating like a wild thing banging against her chest wall, as if desperate to get free. But it was guilt that had set it off, not sorrow and the pain of loss. Had she been the cause of Harry Stewart’s death? This was the question that refused to go away.
“What shall I do?” Sophie wailed. “I don’t know what to dooo . . .”
“Maybe you should wake Daisy?”
There was silence, then a long sniff. “Yeah . . .”
“Shall I ring you later?” Karen was hoping that at least Harry’s death might foster some sort of rapprochement between her and his daughter. Sophie could be both funny and clever when she chose, and had inherited a lot of her Greek mother’s feisty Mediterranean temperament, which meant she would suddenly explode, ranting on for hours about something that annoyed her. Karen admired that side of her. What she didn’t appreciate was the hostile brat act—a role ill-suited to a woman just turned thirty. But Harry’s lifelong indulgence of his daughter had taken its toll. With the result that Sophie was still mooching about, toying with various career paths, from dress designing to jewelry making to running a stall on the Portobello Road selling second-hand clothes. None of which lasted for more than a year and all of which cost money, rather than making it. Daddy’s money, of course.
“I’ll come down. I should be there,” the girl said.
“OK . . . although there isn’t anything to do, really.” There was masses to do, of course. A funeral to arrange, people to inform, solicitors to consult, bank accounts to close, utilities to transfer into her name—Harry had taken care of everything to do with money—the list was endless, but the thought of having to cope with an hysterical stepdaughter on top of everything else was more than Karen could bear.
“I want to be there. I want to see Daddy one last time. You can’t stop me doing that.” Her voice took on a childish and familiarly belligerent tone.
“I’m not trying to stop you, Sophie. Of course you can come. I was just saying—” Karen sighed. There was no point in continuing, it would only escalate into a row.
*
Sophie, with her usual penchant for drama, took on the role of Chief Mourner with much more zeal than Karen had the energy to muster. She didn’t doubt Sophie’s genuine sadness at the loss of her father, but the way she languished, damp-eyed and sighing, on the sofa for most of the day like La Dame aux Camélias, while Karen rushed madly about trying to choose a coffin, put an announcement in the paper, organize sandwiches, select hymns for the service sheet, order flowers, ring round Harry’s hundreds of friends and previous work colleagues, etc., etc., was irritating, to say the least.
And Sophie’s funeral hat could not have been larger without lifting her bodily off the ground, her heels higher without toppling her into the grave on top of her father, the bags under her eyes blacker without making a case for hospitalization. Karen knew she was being mean, thinking these things, but Sophie seemed to assume she was the only one grieving. She barely gave a nod to Karen’s very real distress.
It didn’t matter that Karen had been on the point of leaving Harry—which Sophie obviously didn’t know—she was mourning for the only man she had ever truly loved.
*
“How are you coping?”
It was two days after the funeral and Reverend Haskell was seated beside her on the sofa in the sitting room. Karen had avoided being alone with the vicar since her husband’s death, but this morning he had just dropped by unannounced and she’d had no choice but to ask him in.
“I’m OK,” she said.
A strained silence followed, where William looked at her intently—waiting for the dam to burst on Karen’s grief perhaps—and Karen studiously avoided his gaze.
“Such a fantastic turnout at the service, he was obviously a very special man . . . and much loved.”
“He was.”
The reverend shifted about on the cushions. She detected a strange contradiction in the man. He was able to focus and be very still, very intent when people were talking, almost as if he’d stopped breathing. But alongside this she also sensed a powerful physicality, a sort of impatience at being contained.
Just go away, she pleaded silently, twisting her fingers together in her lap, waiting for him to get up. Leave me alone. But that was obviously not the plan.
“I know you must be in shock, Karen. It was so sudden . . .” He paused. “And Harry was such a life force. You’re going to miss him terribly.”
She didn’t reply. Why should I? I didn’t ask him to come round. And although she was being truculent, knowing he meant well and was only doing his job, she couldn’t help resenting the intrusion. Life was tricky enough, with Sophie still showing no signs of going back to London. And worse, she was beginning to take over in the house. Small things, like buying a new machine for the coffee—one of those super-trendy, press-button pod things—which produced lukewarm, tasteless coffee in mug-sized portions, but did it instantly.
“Thought we needed an update,” Sophie had said, proudly, the machine already unpacked and installed when Karen got back from the solicitors. Maybe, Karen thought, she’d been waiting, dying to prod them into modern life, but hadn’t dared when her father was around. She obviously thought her stepmother was fair game.
“How does it work?” Karen had asked, looking around for the old filter machine, but seeing no sign of it. She was trying to be kind to her, keep antagonism to the minimum, but she had assumed Sophie would go home after the funeral.
“Karen . . .” She heard the vicar clear his throat. “I know you think I’m trying to drag you into the church. And it’s true, Harry was very kee
n for me to reach out to you. But honestly, I understand if you aren’t religious. I’m not here to put pressure on you. I just want to help.”
She looked up at him, finally, and saw the genuine kindness in his light-blue eyes, his eyebrows knitting together in a concerned frown. She felt her own eyes fill with tears, the first since Harry had died.
“He used to be a good man . . .”
William nodded, but he said nothing.
Karen took a deep breath. The need to talk to someone, even if it was the vicar of a church with which she had no affinity, suddenly seemed overwhelming. All the prevarication she had gone through this last week, in the face of so many kind condolences—yes, what a wonderful man; yes, he was such a character; yes, so funny, so kind, a one-off; yes, he will be sorely missed; yes, yes, yes—had become such a terrible strain that she had begun to feel as if she were frozen in the lie. And if she didn’t spit it out soon, it might be too late, and the truth would be submerged forever in everyone else’s construct of her husband.
“He drank,” she said bluntly.
“I know,” was Reverend Haskell’s equally blunt reply.
She stared at him. “You did?”
He nodded. “Of course. People talk. That must have been really hard for you.”
“It made him very—”
She heard Largo bark in the hall, then the sound of the front door opening. She quickly blinked the incipient tears away, taking a tissue out of the sleeve of her sweater and blowing her nose.
“That’ll be Sophie,” she said, getting up from the sofa.
The vicar followed suit. “Listen, if you ever want to talk . . .”
She gave him a quick smile as the door swung open and her stepdaughter walked in.
“Oh . . . sorry. Hi, William.”
“Hi, Sophie. How are you?”
Sophie knew the vicar. She had always gone to church with her father whenever she visited. Karen had no idea if the girl was actually religious or not, but it had made Harry very happy.
“You know . . . not so good,” she replied, the smile she’d worn in greeting replaced by a sigh.
William gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm. “At least you’ve got each other for support,” he said brightly, glancing between the two women. “Well, better be off. Remember where I am, both of you.”
“Why was he here?” Sophie asked.
“He came to see if I was alright.”
“Kind of him, considering you aren’t one of his flock.”
“He is kind,” Karen said, remembering the argument she’d had with her husband about the vicar’s goodness.
Sophie threw herself on to the sofa with an exhausted sigh. “When’s Barry arriving?”
“Two thirty.”
Sophie looked pleased. But Karen didn’t tell her she already knew the contents of Harry’s will—Barry Rivers had given her the headlines when she’d visited his Portsmouth office the day before. She, Karen, kept the house for her lifetime, unless she married again. It would be managed by a trust, then eventually go to Sophie. But Harry had left most of his money to charity—the Church and the Institute of Mechanical Engineers both major beneficiaries. Karen would also receive a small annual amount from the trust, but Sophie had been left only a token sum of £10,000. Large by many people’s standards, but probably barely enough to pay off the girl’s credit cards. Maybe he thought he’d shelled out enough in that direction already—which was certainly true—or perhaps he was more astute about his daughter than Karen gave him credit for, realizing that a substantial legacy would only stop Sophie from ever getting her life together.
Whatever Harry Stewart’s reasoning, and however annoying she found the girl, Karen was dreading her stepdaughter finding out the details, knowing she would be relying on a massive payout. And she was sure Sophie would blame her, even though Harry had never, ever discussed a word about his affairs with her.
“How long does it take to sort all the money out, when someone dies?” Sophie was asking, pulling her long dark hair out of the ponytail and shaking it loose around her broad shoulders. The girl was tall—she had at least four inches on Karen—her figure a combination of Harry’s big bones and her mother’s Mediterranean curves. And although she was pretty with her dark eyes and thick, luxuriant curls, her face was not open or smiling, but rather held a wariness that verged on the sullen.
“Not sure. Usually about six months . . . depending if it’s all straightforward.”
“Six months?” Sophie looked horrified. “Why so long?”
“Well, I suppose there’s death duties and investments to sell, the bank, endless legal documents . . . stuff like that.”
Her stepdaughter, picking absentmindedly at a stray thread from the arm of the sofa—Karen had recently had the armchairs and sofa re-covered in a pretty cornflower linen—suddenly eyed Karen suspiciously. “You know, don’t you? You know what’s in Daddy’s will. He must have told you.”
“He didn’t, Sophie,” she replied, truthfully. “Your dad wasn’t one to discuss anything related to money with a mere woman. He never said a word about it, and I didn’t ask.”
Sophie’s face relaxed. “Yeah, he was a bit crap about trusting anyone female with finance.” She gave a heavy sigh. “Oh, well. Just have to wait to find out my fate.”
*
Barry Rivers did not conform to expectations. With his gray ponytail and gaunt, tanned frame, black Nike trainers with his dark suit, he looked more like the manager of a rock band than a country solicitor. Apparently every spare moment of his time was spent on his boat, moored in Gosport marina. Harry had always joked that he felt bad asking Barry to do anything because it dragged the man away from his obsession.
Karen had taken him through to the kitchen, and now the three of them sat around the table, mugs of tea already poured, ginger biscuits on a plate in the center, a copy of Harry’s will—bound neatly in a clear folder with a black plastic spine, the document itself typed on cream paper—in front of each of them. Barry gave Karen and Sophie a sympathetic smile.
“First I’d like to say how sorry I am about Harry. You must both be heartbroken . . .” He paused as if searching for the right word. “I represented him for over thirty years, and he was tough alright, but such a gentleman, a real pleasure to work with. And a friend.”
Karen nodded in acknowledgment, but she could feel the tension in the room as Sophie stroked the smooth surface of the folder with the flat of her hand—her nails painted a funereal purple, almost black.
“So . . . down to business. I’m not going to read all the waffle now, all the clauses, etc. We can go through the whole thing in more detail at a later date, when things have settled down. I’ll just give you the gist.”
Barry worked his way through the will slowly, looking up every now and then, his eyebrows raised, checking that the two women understood what he was saying. He explained about the trust which would manage the house, he told Karen how much she could expect per annum, he informed Sophie of the £10,000 legacy. He conveyed the amount of all the various charitable donations. He finished reading and closed the document. Sophie seemed quite calm, she had made no comment when she found out how much she would get.
“So, that’s it, ladies.” Barry sat back in his chair and reached for his now cold tea, drinking it thirstily to the dregs.
“That’s it?” Sophie was frowning, first at the solicitor, then at Karen. “I don’t understand.”
Karen said nothing.
“Which bit don’t you understand?” Barry asked. “I can read it again.”
“You said that Daddy’s left me ten grand . . . that’s great, but it can’t be all, obviously.”
“Umm, yes . . .” Barry opened the document again and thumbed through till he got to the bit about Sophie’s legacy, turning his own copy round for the girl on the other side of the table and pointing to the paragraph. “And the house, of course, which becomes yours on Karen’s death or in the event she remarries.”
&
nbsp; Sophie stared at the page. Tears filled her eyes. “You’re honestly telling me that Daddy has only left me ten thousand pounds? Ten thousand pounds? That there’s nothing else?”
Barry nodded, his expression cautious.
“He can’t have . . .” her voice trailed off.
Karen didn’t know what to say. She reached across the corner of the table and put her hand on Sophie’s arm, but the girl shook her off, turning the full force of her distress on her stepmother.
“This is your doing, isn’t it? You turned him against me. He’d never have thought of this on his own . . . he loved me. He really, really loved me.” She began to cry—loud, dramatic sobs, her head bent on her folded arms.
Barry shot Karen a worried look. “I assure you, Sophie, Karen had nothing whatever to do with your father’s decision.”
Sophie raised her head, glared at him. “What do you know? She wouldn’t have discussed it in front of you. She’s been pouring poison in Daddy’s ear for years now, making damn sure she keeps everything for herself.”
“No,” Barry said firmly. “No, it wasn’t like that. This really has nothing whatsoever to do with your stepmother. We talked about it at some length, me and your Dad. And he told me he thought he’d given you too much money already, and that it hadn’t helped you get on your feet and make a proper go of your life. In fact, it had done quite the reverse, in his opinion. He blamed himself for indulging you.” Barry hesitated, obviously torn between telling Sophie the truth and upsetting her further. “He wanted the best for you, trust me. He just thought that giving you more money would basically ruin your life.” For a moment the only sound in the room was angry sniffling from the bowed head. “He believed in you, Sophie. He loved you so much. He was sure you’d find something that you’d be brilliant at . . . just not if you were too cozy with his money.”
“I don’t believe he would do that to me.”
The solicitor shrugged. “He said it was very hard to refuse you, when you asked him for funds. This was the only way he felt he could do it.”
“I didn’t ask him that often. You’re making me out to be a bloody sponger. I’ve just been through a bad patch these last few years and I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
