The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  Wendy and Christine sauntered into the kitchen together, half an hour later, dressed in identical fluffy pink dressing gowns and slippers. I wondered what their husbands made of the lack of differentiation in their appearance and personalities. Christine was slightly meaner, but that was the sole distinction I’d managed to ascertain between them. Following the obligatory exchange of Christmas well-wishing, Wendy grabbed two champagne glasses and filled them with Buck’s Fizz, which the sisters knocked back remarkably quickly.

  “The kids loved their presents from Santa,” said Aunt Sylvia to Wendy and Christine.

  “Oh, good,” said Wendy. “I’ll go and see them when I’ve woken up properly.”

  “I should hope so, too,” said Christine. “We spent enough.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, which was another help-yourself affair, there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing at all. Aunt Sylvia placed the pre-prepared limbless bird in the oven, then snipped the tops off a few packets and emptied them into appropriate receptacles. The only job of any substance that needed to be done was the laying of the table, which my aunt instructed Wendy and Christine to do. It was as if she’d asked them to build the table themselves. Before they finally capitulated, there was a good ten minutes of “Why can’t you do it?” and “It’s not fair.” I offered to lay the table myself, but Aunt Sylvia was adamant that I mustn’t do a single thing. I was thoroughly bored. I suppose I could have chatted to the husbands, but I wasn’t quite that desperate.

  I decided to put on my coat and go for a walk. I headed down the lengthy driveway and along a country lane, having no idea where I was going but relishing the crispness of the air. It was a bright, cloudless day. I made it as far as the local village, where the congregation was emptying from a small, medieval-looking church. Several old ladies wished me “Happy Christmas” and we exchanged pleasantries about my pregnancy and imminent motherhood. I found a bench on the green and sat down in the sunshine. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. I felt quite calm and happy. Normally on Christmas morning I’d be deeply involved in the never-ending frenzy of basting, chopping and stirring. Perhaps this Christmas would turn out to be a good one, after all. Perhaps this was how and where I’d spend the festive period from now on; doing nothing, just relaxing. I opened my eyes and saw a grubby white Transit van approaching. It looked just like Rob’s. But it couldn’t be. Why would Rob be in Aunt Sylvia’s local village? I watched as the van indicated left and turned along the lane that led to my aunt’s house. I had an ominous feeling.

  * * *

  “Happy Christmas, Suze,” said Edward, blowing a kiss. He was ensconced in an armchair in the lounge, where all the adults were now congregated, with his stockinged feet up on a padded footstool. He looked very much at home. I turned to Aunt Sylvia, who shrugged sheepishly.

  “It was Wendy and Chrissie’s idea,” she said. “They thought it’d be nice to have the whole family together, and to forget about any past misunderstandings. I didn’t tell you, love, ’cos they wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

  “And we couldn’t invite one of you and not the other,” said Christine, innocently. “That would be favoritism.”

  “He’s apologized about what was said at the funeral, haven’t you, love?” she said to Edward. “It was all down to stress, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Auntie,” said Edward, with his best naughty-boy grin. “I was a bit tired and emotional. Ah, and here’s my chauffeur.”

  “Happy Christmas, Susan,” Rob said, entering the room through the door from the conservatory. “Your aunt invited me over with Ed. Thought it sounded fun. We’ve only come for lunch.”

  “It will be fun,” said Aunt Sylvia, a little desperately. “Everyone always says, ‘If you can’t have fun at one of Sylvia’s dos, you can’t have fun anywhere.’ Only problem is, it’s thirteen for lunch now. Oh, well, we’ll just have to count the baby. That makes fourteen.”

  I was livid. My cousins were well aware of the dispute between Edward and me, and the fact that we’d disliked each other for years. Their motive could only have been to provoke me further. Aunt Sylvia, who seemed very keen for me to stop the court case, probably thought I’d soften in my resolve if I saw my brother face-to-face. I wondered why Edward had gone along with it. I’m sure he had as much desire to spend time with me as I had to spend it with him. Once again, the motive can only have been provocation. Unless, that is, he was simply lonely at Christmas. Poor little orphan Edward. And what was Rob doing here? Had he just come to cheer my brother on? I could sense that everyone was awaiting my reaction.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” I said.

  In desperation, I joined the children in the snug. I feigned interest in the computer games they’d received for Christmas, hoping they wouldn’t notice my shaking hands and the tremor in my voice. They were quite pleased to demonstrate them to me. I was even encouraged by the ten-year-old (Leila) to play a game on her old console. It was inanely simple and repetitive, but I found it oddly calming to my jangled nerves. A few moments later Rob joined us on the sofa and watched over my shoulder as I played. I forgot he was there, so engrossed did I become in the childish game. I can quite see how one might become addicted if one didn’t have an iron will such as my own. In that way, I passed a mind-numbing hour until Wendy stuck her head round the door to say that lunch was ready. I would infinitely have preferred to stay where I was.

  * * *

  “Ooh, isn’t it wonderful having Susan here,” Aunt Sylvia said, scanning the table. “And Edward, too, of course. All my family together at Christmas. I’m a lucky, lucky lady. Let’s have a toast. To Susan. Thank you for joining our little get-together, and all the best for next year. It’s going to be a fantastic one for you. I know it’s scary. I know exactly what you’re feeling. But everything’s gonna work out for the best in the end.” She raised her champagne flute, then took a large gulp.

  “To Susan,” murmured the adults at the table, mostly without enthusiasm.

  “Oh, and to Edward, too.” She raised her champagne glass again and took another large swig. I didn’t partake in that particular toast. Aunt Sylvia had placed me at the head of the table (“I insist, you’re our guest of honor.”). She was to my left and Rob was to my right. Next to Aunt Sylvia sat Edward, and opposite him, next to Rob, were Wendy and Christine. The husbands and children were at the other end of the table. The good news was that we didn’t have to wear our antlers. In any event, I’d slipped mine into the bin the previous night. The bad news was that Aunt Sylvia had produced thirteen Santa’s elf hats from the sideboard. Edward turned his over, trying to make up his mind what to do with it. Christine grabbed it and plonked it over his greasy hair. He looked at me with a smirk, expecting me to make a fuss about my own hat. I didn’t. I simply placed it on my head.

  “That’s one for the family album,” he said, producing his phone from his pocket and taking a photograph of me. I smiled my brightest smile.

  * * *

  “So,” said Christine, as we were finishing our main course. “What’s the situation with Auntie Pat’s estate now? Are you two still arguing about it?”

  “Shush, Chrissie,” said Aunt Sylvia. “We don’t want to talk about all that today. We’re just going to have a nice family lunch.” Her voice, I noticed, was now rather slurred.

  “But you said you were hoping they’d bury the hatchet. We’ve got to get it all into the open if they’re going to sort it out.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me,” Edward said. “I’m just going along with what the brief told me. He says I can stay in the house, so I am. The dispute’s between Suze and the executor. Though there are one or two matters I’d like to discuss with my dear sister before I leave.”

  “Let’s drop it for now, shall we?” said Aunt Sylvia. “Anyone for second helpings, or shall I go and microwave the pudding?”

  “Why is it that you�
�re getting yourself all upset about the will, Susan?” asked Wendy sweetly. “Ed was Auntie Pat’s favorite, so it stands to reason she’d leave more to him in her will.”

  “That’s not true,” I began.

  “Wendy, leave it,” said Aunt Sylvia.

  “But, Mum, you’re always saying Auntie Pat was only ever bothered about Edward. You said Susan must always’ve known that.”

  Aunt Sylvia leaned across and grabbed my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Susan, love. I really, truly am.” Tears were welling up in her eyes. She pulled off her elf hat and blinked them away.

  “Sorry about what?” I asked, stunned by the turn of the conversation.

  “Sorry she never loved you like she should. Sorry you were always second best. I wish I could’ve done something to make it alright for you, but it was out of my hands. Oh, Susan.”

  “Now, now, Sylv,” said the usually silent Uncle Frank from the other end of the table. “Careful what you say. You know you can’t take your drink. Let other people sort out their problems and you hold your peace.”

  “If I could just turn back the clock,” Aunt Sylvia sniffed. “I’d...”

  Uncle Frank got up from the table, came round to where Aunt Sylvia was sitting and almost lifted her from her seat.

  “Come on, now. Time for a little lie down. The girls can finish serving lunch.” With that he maneuvered her out of the room, my aunt tottering on her spindly heels.

  “What was all that about?” said Christine to Wendy, who shrugged her shoulders.

  “That was an interesting insight into the situation,” said Edward, grinning. “Were you hoping Aunt Sylvia would be a witness for your case, Suze? I’d like to see how you’re going to turn that to your advantage.”

  “I’ve had enough lunch,” I said, standing and removing my elf hat. “I’m going to my room, too. Could someone please let me know when Edward’s left?”

  “Before you disappear,” Edward said, also standing, “I want a word with you about Mum’s ashes and her jewelry box. I want them back. You’ve got two weeks, then I’m going to the police. It’s theft.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Wendy’s and Christine’s beaming faces. This was exactly what they had been hoping for.

  “Go to hell, Edward,” I said.

  * * *

  An hour or so later I was lying on my bed, trying and failing to read a page of Contentious Probate Claims (perhaps I should have brought some lighter reading material for the Christmas period), when I heard voices in the garden. I stood in the shadow, just to one side of the window, and peered out. If I craned my neck I could just about see Edward leaning against a protruding wall of the bungalow a little way along from my room. He was puffing on a roll-up, which he was holding between his thumb and index finger. Rob was standing next to him with a glass of beer in his hand. I cautiously opened my window a crack, my intention being to eavesdrop on their conversation. I’m not a natural snooper, but I felt it was justified in this particular instance; I might well find out something that was beneficial to my case. All’s fair in love et cetera. I had to strain to make out what they were saying.

  “You’re getting soft in the head, mate.” Edward’s voice.

  “I’m not soft. I just think you deliberately set out to provoke her. There’s no call for it. Why don’t you back off a bit?”

  “Because she’s a vicious little madam. You’ve seen what she’s like. She does exactly the same to me, and some. I don’t know why you’re feeling so sorry for her all of a sudden.”

  “She’s six months pregnant and on her own, among other things. And, you know, I don’t think she is vicious. I think most of the time she’s trying to do what she thinks is correct. She just gets it a bit wrong sometimes. It’s the way she is.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are we talking about the same woman? If I’m not mistaken, I think you’ve got the hots for my sis. I know you’ve always had a thing for domineering women. She’d eat you alive, though, Rob. You’re much too laid-back to handle her. Steer well clear, if you value your sanity.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You know I’m trying to get back together with Alison. All I’m saying is cut her some slack. You’ve got your mother’s house. What do you need to rub her nose in it for?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the house, and she’s trying to take it off me, if it’s escaped your attention.”

  “Only because she suspects you were behind your mum writing the will.”

  “And do you think I was?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Too right, mate.”

  My brother took a final deep suck on his cigarette, threw it onto the gravel pathway and ground it under the heel of his cowboy boot. He turned and disappeared through the back door, followed shortly afterward by Rob.

  I closed my bedroom window. It was getting dark outside; I switched on the lamp, closed the blinds and sat on the bed. My initial response to the conversation was to question whether the whole thing had been staged by my brother and his friend. I concluded it hadn’t. If they’d wanted me to overhear, they would have stood closer to my window and spoken in louder voices; I’d barely been able to hear what they were saying. Also, they would have said something to encourage me to believe that Edward was innocent in the matter. So, what to make of it all? It seemed, amazingly, that Rob was in the dark about whether Edward had tricked my mother into writing the will. Not only that, but he’d stood up to his friend. There was only one conclusion: he wasn’t in league with my brother, after all. It looked like I’d seriously misjudged him. I wasn’t, of course, impressed with his saying I got things wrong sometimes, but, even so, I felt disproportionately gratified by the turn of events. Delighted, even.

  Then there was the fact that Edward had accused Rob of having a soft spot for me, which he’d firmly denied of course. Only a fool would think it could be true; Rob was single-mindedly focused on his ex, plus he was younger than me; he had friends; he had experience of proper relationships. The idea must have seemed odious to him. I hardly need to tell you, there was no interest at all on my part. He was clearly not my intellectual equal. And he was scruffy. And too tall. What else? I was having trouble remembering all his defects. His van could certainly do with a good wash.

  * * *

  There was a tap on my bedroom door. I opened it; it was Rob.

  “We’re making tracks, now,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “It was a rubbish idea. I should’ve refused when Ed asked me to bring him. I thought it’d be good to see you, and that maybe you and he might, I don’t know. He just can’t see reason where you’re concerned. With everyone else he really is a decent bloke. I hate seeing two people I care about fighting like this.”

  “Tell him to keep away from me in the future.”

  “I’m sorry he’s spoiled things for you. Compliments of the season, anyway.”

  “And to you, too.”

  Unexpectedly, he moved toward me with his arms open, and I allowed him to hold me in the sort of awkward festive embrace that is hard to avoid at this time of year. I can’t pretend it was comfortable. My bump was, of course, an obstacle.

  January

  18

  A new year and a renewed resolve on my part. The legal support acts were concluded, and it was now time for the main performance: proceedings in the Chancery Division of the High Court of Justice. I could have waited for Mr. Brinkworth to bring a case to prove my mother’s will. That, however, would have placed him in the driving seat, which is where I fully intend to be (albeit, ironically, that I don’t drive). I spent the first few days of January poring over textbooks in order to draft the statement of case. The court would be alert to the fact that a claimant is often willing to wound, but afraid to strike. I had no such fear. I set out my contentions regarding mental capacity and undue influence in robust terms, naming bot
h Edward and Mr. Brinkworth as defendants. I was pleased with my work; worthy of a probate solicitor, I concluded, as I printed out and checked the final version.

  In my lunch hour, a week into the new year, I walked the half a mile or so from my office to the Rolls Building on Fetter Lane—a brand-new, glass-fronted edifice that was an outpost of the Royal Courts of Justice. I located the Chancery Issue department on the ground floor, paid my fee and handed over the documents. The bored-looking clerk informed me that the court would serve them on my brother and the solicitor, who in turn would have twenty-eight days to file defenses. I’d have loved to see their faces as they opened their envelopes.

  Recrossing the central atrium underneath the vaulted glass ceiling and exiting the building, I had a feeling of trepidation rather than triumph. I knew my case was legitimate and strong, but I’d have been happier if I’d managed to marshal more proof before I put the matter wholly in the hands of the judicial system. The medical records hadn’t yet arrived, despite numerous phone calls by me and reassurances from petty officials; my witnesses were flaky, particularly Aunt Sylvia, whose irrational Christmas Day outburst was perturbing; and I was yet to find one conclusive piece of evidence of corruption on Edward’s part. Time was now of the essence, though; I was due to give birth in a couple of months and I wanted the matter resolved before then. I was marching to a beat that wasn’t entirely of my own choosing.

  Hurrying down the Strand back to my office, I bumped—literally—into Brigid, who was thundering along in the opposite direction, trailing an overflowing wheeled document case.

  “Twice in two months, that’s a record. What’re you doing in my neck of the woods, old girl?”

  “I’ve just been to the Rolls Building. Proceedings are now underway against Edward and the executor.”