* * *
“Well, ent this nice,” said my aunt, squeezing my arm through the thick toweling of my robe.
“It is, it’s lovely,” chimed the cousins from my other side.
“Your uncle Frank’s treating us to a girlie weekend to celebrate my birthday. I’m sixty-three, you know.” She opened her eyes wide, as if it was a revelation even to herself. “No one believes it when I tell them. Everyone thinks I’m in my early fifties. It’s because I’ve always looked after myself. ‘Keep young and beautiful,’ as they say.”
“You’re doing brilliant, Mum,” said one of the cousins.
“Hope we look as good at your age,” said the other, turning to examine herself in the mirrored wall behind her. Aunt Sylvia smiled, satisfied that her remarkable youthfulness had been registered.
“Are you totally recovered from your funny turn at the funeral?” she asked me. “It must all’ve bin too much for you, poor thing. It was for me, too. I almost keeled over myself, but then again, I’ve always bin a very emotional person. ‘You wear your heart on your sleeve, Sylvia,’ Uncle Frank always tells me.”
I explained to her that I’ve never had any difficulty keeping my feelings in check, and that I’d simply been suffering from physical incapacitation.
“There’s no shame in being taken queer at your mum’s funeral, you know. Everyone makes allowances. Like for Ed’s shocking behavior at the wake. We don’t hold it against him, do we, girls?”
The cousins shook their heads in unison. “No, Mum, not at all.”
“He didn’t know what he was saying,” said Wendy.
“Bin drowning his sorrows,” said Christine.
I had to endure several long minutes of my relatives’ inane prattling about the funeral and wake, including an analysis of the character, behavior and dress sense of each of the mourners, before they eventually paused long enough for me to explain that the sole reason for my joining them at the spa was to discuss the circumstances surrounding the signing of my mother’s will.
“Did she write a will, love?” said my aunt.
“You must know she did. You witnessed it.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. When was that?”
I told her it was a few weeks before my mother died. Aunt Sylvia did the best impression of a thoughtful frown that is possible to achieve when your forehead’s been paralyzed with botulinum.
“Edward’s friend Rob was the other witness,” I prompted. “Presumably he signed the will at the same time as you.”
“Oh, Rob, yes, it’s coming back to me now. Lovely man, real gentle giant. I could tell he took quite a shine to me. Gave me his business card with his personal number on the back. I think I’ll get him to come over and take a look at our place. Our gardener’s good at mowing and weeding, but he just ent got any artistic flair. I keep telling Uncle Frank I want a gazebo and a sunken garden, and he keeps saying, ‘Anything you want, bab,’ but then I’m so busy I never get round to organizing it. You’ve reminded me now. I’m going to give that Rob a bell when I get back home.”
I could see it would require a supreme effort to keep my aunt’s mind on the matter in question.
“So who asked you to be a witness?” Again, the barest whisper of a frown.
“Let me think. Yes, I remember now. Ed rang me the day before. That sticks in my mind ’cos it was the first time he’d ever called me. Not one for the family stuff, is he? I thought it was going to be bad news, ’cos your mum had had those two strokes recently, but then he said no, he just thought I might want to come over for a chin-wag. Said your mum seemed down in the dumps and needed a bit of cheering up. Knew I could always lift her spirits. That’s what everyone says to me. ‘Sylvia,’ they say, ‘you always bring the sunshine with you wherever you go.’ Well, that’s how you should be, isn’t it? No point spreading doom and gloom. Do you remember Great-aunt Gladys? Face like a sour lemon? Nothing was ever quite good enough for her. I remember once...”
“Did he say anything else on the phone? Did he mention the will?”
As she was about to reply, what appeared to be a very glamorous psychiatric nurse—her starched white coat and air of clinical efficiency contrasting with her clownishly exaggerated makeup—emerged from the foliage and bent over Aunt Sylvia.
“Mrs. Mason? Sorry to disturb you. It’s time for your manicure now, if you’d like to follow me.”
“Ooh, nonstop here, isn’t it?” my aunt said with a giggle.
Time was ticking away. I didn’t want to waste the money I’d spent on the half-day pass, so I put the Tristram and Coote’s book back into my briefcase and followed my aunt to the treatment area. She was already perched on a stool in front of a small table, on which her pudgy fingers were splayed.
“Getting your nails done, too, are you, Susan? I have mine done every two weeks, without fail. Uncle Frank always likes me to look my best.”
“No, I’m not. I’m quite capable of clipping my own fingernails. About Edward’s phone call and the signing of the will...” I pulled up a stool next to my aunt.
“Well, I’m pretty sure Ed didn’t say anything about a will on the phone. But I remember he was quite insistent that I come over soon. Said he didn’t want your mum to sink any lower. So I said I’d come the next day, ’cos I wanted to do a bit of shopping in Birmingham, anyway. I was looking for a fascinator to go with an outfit for my friend Jacquie’s wedding. The shops in Worcester aren’t up to much. That’s the only thing I miss about Birmingham, the shops. And I was due to visit your mum, anyway. We liked to meet up regular.”
“And when you visited Mum, what happened?”
“Nothing special really. Your mum didn’t seem particularly down, as far as I can remember. A bit vague, maybe, but then she was after the strokes, wasn’t she? Only to be expected. We had some lunch and a cup of tea, and then I headed off to town. Do you know, I trailed round every shop in Birmingham, but do you think I could find a fascinator in chartreuse? Not for love nor money could I.”
“Yes, but what about the will?” I said.
“Well, after we finish our lunch Rob turns up. He’s very tall, isn’t he? I’ve always liked a tall man. So Ed tells your mum Rob’s here now, and she looks a bit confused. And then he says, ‘Remember, you need two people,’ and she says, ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. Where is it?’ And Ed goes out of the room and comes back a minute later with a big brown envelope. Then he says he’s got to go out and he’ll leave us all to it. That was the last time I saw him until the funeral. Your mum says she wants me and Rob to witness her signature, so she gets out a document and signs her name and I sign mine and Rob signs his, then we all have that cup of tea and I tell Rob about the gazebo and sunken garden idea and that’s when he gives me his card. Such a charmer.”
“Did my mum say anything about the terms of the will?”
“What color would you like today, Mrs. Mason?” the psychiatric nurse interjected. “We’ve got some fabulous new polishes that came in yesterday. I think you’ll be very excited when you see them.” She presented my aunt with a rack holding a multicolored array of tiny bottles.
“Ooh, it’s just like a sweet shop, isn’t it? I don’t know what to choose. It’s like asking me whether I want Turkish delight or sugared almonds or violet creams. I love them all. I’m feeling drawn to flamingo, or maybe watermelon. What do you think, Susan? I’m hopeless at making my mind up. My girls are always saying, ‘Mum, it’s ’cos you’re just so positive about everything.’ Positive to a fault, that’s me.”
“I don’t know. I have no opinion on the matter. Just close your eyes and point to one.”
“What a good idea. Like a game. Let’s just leave it to fate.”
She closed her eyes and jabbed a finger at the display. Her face fell at the sight of the natural-looking shade that fate had chosen for her.
“No, I think I’ll go for fl
amingo instead. Trust your first instincts, I always say.” She pulled a lurid bottle from the rack.
“That’s an amazing shade. What a marvelous eye for color you’ve got, Mrs. Mason,” said the psychiatric nurse, as though my aunt had formulated the nail polish herself.
“The will,” I said. “Did my mother say anything to you about the terms?”
“Now, what did she tell me? Just that she’d been mulling over what was going to happen after she was gone. That she wanted everything to be fair, you know, between you and Ed. So there wouldn’t be any arguments. She knew you two were like chalk and cheese. I think she said she’d been talking it over with someone to get it straight in her head. Can’t remember who. It might’ve been the vicar. He was always calling round. Met him a few times when I was visiting. Lovely, but a bit of a sissy boy, if you know what I mean. You can tell, can’t you? Hardly paid me any attention at all.”
“Did she say she was going to give Edward a life interest in the family house?”
“A what, love?”
“A life interest. It means he can live there for as long as he likes.”
“I don’t know anything about that. She didn’t mention ‘live interests.’ Or maybe she did and I wasn’t concentrating. Are you feeling a bit cheesed off about it? Is that why you’re asking me all these questions?”
“I’m not ‘cheesed off,’ I’m furious. There’s no reason at all why Mum would do that. It’s obvious Edward’s tricked her or bullied her. I’m getting hold of her medical records and interviewing everyone who knew her. I’m going to prove that Mum was confused and vulnerable. And that she wasn’t the sort of person who’d do something so manifestly unjust.”
Aunt Sylvia turned her attention away from her garish fingernails and looked me in the eye. For once she had a solemn expression on her face.
“Susan, maybe you just need to accept what’s in the will. Your mum must’ve had her reasons. Who knows what goes on in other people’s heads? Why waste your time digging around in her personal affairs? Sometimes it’s best just to accept the hand you’re dealt in life and make the best of it. I know that from experience. Otherwise you just upset yourself. And other people.”
“All done, Mrs. Mason,” said the psychiatric nurse, putting away her equipment. “Do you like them?”
“Ooh, I do. I’ve got hands like a movie star now, haven’t I?” She beamed, wiggling her fingers.
* * *
When we got back to the sun loungers, the cousins announced they were bored. It was half an hour until their first appointments (inch-loss body wraps—evidently it hadn’t occurred to them simply to exercise or eat less) and neither of them had thought to bring a book to read. Assuming they’re able to read, that is. They proposed that we all retire to the hot tub for a change of scene.
“Think I’ll give it a miss, girls,” said my aunt, stretching out and closing her eyes. “I’ve just had my nails done and I need a rest.”
“Come on, Susan, it’ll loosen you up,” Wendy said. “We’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”
I’ve never felt the desire to share a bath with anyone, let alone two such awful women. As I was declining the invitation, Wendy deftly untied the belt of my robe and Christine pulled it off my shoulders. Their efficient teamwork was probably the result of years of debagging less popular children at school. As my robe fell to the floor they looked at my belly, then at my face, then at my belly again. I hadn’t realized it was quite so obvious.
“Mum, Susan’s having a baby,” said Wendy. There was an expression of horror on her face.
“But she can’t. She’s forty-five,” said Christine.
“Ooh, that’s brilliant. I couldn’t be more chuffed. That means I’m going to be a great-aunt,” said their mother, always finding the personal angle. “Sounds very old, though, ‘great-aunt.’”
The cousins were determined to get to the bottom of it. They thrust their little faces in front of mine.
“How did it happen?”
“Was it an accident?”
“How far gone are you?”
“Isn’t it dangerous at your age?”
“Sit down, girls, and let Susan give us the whole story,” said my aunt.
Before I could tell them to mind their own business the glossy woman from reception sidled over.
“Miss Green,” she intoned. “Just a gentle reminder that half-day passes expire at midday, but you’re very welcome to upgrade to a full-day pass if you’d like.”
There was much more that I wanted to discuss with Aunt Sylvia, principally her views on my mother’s mental capacity prior to the signing of the will—although bearing in mind her own questionable capacity such an assessment might not hold much sway in court. Further probing of my aunt, however, would have to wait. I was prepared neither to subject myself to the cousins’ intrusive questioning nor to squander any more money.
“What a shame, I have to go now. It’ll have to wait until next time,” I told my eager relatives. I grabbed my robe and briefcase and bolted for the door before any of them could restrain me.
“Don’t be a stranger, Susan,” Aunt Sylvia called after me. “You’ll have to spend Christmas with us now that your mum’s gone. We’re going to take you under our wings, ent we, girls?”
“Don’t go. It’s not fair. I want to hear all about the pregnancy,” called Wendy.
“Stuck up madam,” I heard Christine mutter.
10
That evening I made detailed notes on my discussion with Aunt Sylvia. I’d need to draw up a witness statement in her name, and I wanted to ensure that my recollection of what she’d told me was unswervingly accurate. Wherever possible I’d use her own words in any such court document, but would correct her ungrammatical speech and peculiar colloquialisms to make her evidence more persuasive. I wouldn’t want the judge to think they were reading the testimony of an imbecile.
From the modicum of pertinent information I’d managed to sift from Aunt Sylvia’s ramblings, I’d now established beyond doubt that Edward’s involvement in the will went beyond his simply being informed by our mother of its existence. He knew where the will was kept before it was signed and had unfettered access to it. Not only that, but he had personally organized its signing by our mother, and its witnessing by his best friend, Rob, and our easily befuddled aunt. His desire to get Aunt Sylvia over to the house as a matter of urgency spoke volumes. In the circumstances, it’s inconceivable that he wasn’t aware of the contents of the will. I can imagine his breathless excitement and sweating palms as he handed over the brown envelope to my mother, knowing he was minutes away from securing what would, in effect, be a guarantee of virtual sole ownership of the family home. I’m not surprised he left them all to it. He would have worried that his febrile eagerness would show on his face, which might cause our mother to hesitate and question what she was about to do.
I wondered why Edward had been so determined to secure a life interest. I’m not a vindictive person. If my mother’s estate had simply been divided between the two of us, as it should have been, I wouldn’t have thrown him out onto the streets the day after her death (however much pleasure I might have taken in doing so). No, I’d have given him a couple of months to find alternative accommodation while I cleared and readied the house for sale. He could easily have found somewhere to rent temporarily pending that sale, after which he’d have had a sufficient sum from his share of the proceeds to buy a flat in a reasonable Birmingham suburb, or even a modest house in one of the less desirable districts. It seems that that wasn’t good enough for dear mollycoddled Edward. He was installed in a very comfortable, carefully maintained, four-bedroom semidetached house on a quiet road in a sought-after area, with all essential amenities—including a pub, off-license and betting shop—only a short walk away. He was happier to plot and scheme rather than drop a rung or two on the property ladder. This d
espite the fact that, having regard to the amount of remunerative work in which he’s engaged since leaving college, he should, by rights, be living in a cardboard box under the railway arches.
Fortunately, my case against Edward was now taking shape. It was as if I’d scratched away the top layer of grime from the surface of an old painting. A hazy image was beginning to form before my eyes. I’d work on it until the complete picture was revealed, however monstrous it might turn out to be.
* * *
Finishing my notes and closing my portfolio, I heard a knock at the door and a sheepish “Hi, Susan, it’s only me,” through the letter box. It was Kate, once more in her pajamas (as was I), but this time with the addition of slippers and dressing gown, and with a bottle in hand.
“Look, it works down here. I can get a signal,” she said, waving the receiver of a baby-monitoring device in the air like a winning raffle ticket. There was a low hiss, a faint rustle and a momentary flicker of red-and-green lights across the screen. “I can listen out for them upstairs while we share a bottle down here.”
The Cactus Page 11
