by Gill Mather
She took a look on the Land Registry’s free map enquiry service though it was difficult to know what information to input to find the location of the cottage. She entered ‘Goosefeering’. The map was large and detailed and she moved the plan about on the screen. Suddenly, remarkably as she moved the cursor to bring up different parts of the map, there it was, a small square within a bigger space itself in the middle of a large wooded area. She felt sure it was Little Avail. There was no name and the map didn't provide any OS grid numbers, but it was a start.
Fifteen minute on the LAS website rendered the information that an application could be made to the County Court to acquire the freehold. Well, that would have to wait.
Therefore before noon she called Gordon’s Norwich solicitor Peter Dalton and asked to complete the Transfer there and then. He seemed taken aback to hear from her so soon and started to back-track on his implied promise in his letter to complete as soon as she wanted if she was going to represent herself. He was worried about issues of identity he said. These things normally took weeks. Could she come to the office later in the week with evidence of her ID and they could deal with it then? Roz pressed him for an appointment that afternoon and he agreed though he stressed that he’d need to speak to Gordon first for his final authority therefore she should hold on until he could confirm that he’d been able to do so.
“I’ll take the chance,” said Roz. “I’m leaving now. Call me on my mobile if you need to.” And she left her number with Mr. Dalton’s secretary.
She texted Guy that she was on her way to Norwich regarding the cottage, got her documents together and within a few minutes, she was in her car on the A15. She had to stop in a layby to reply to his frantic text back seeking assurance that she wasn’t on her way to the cottage on her own. Then she had to stop again to listen to a voicemail from Mr. Dalton’s secretary that they’d been able to contact Mr. Dearing who, though very unwell, had given his authority to them to complete the property transfer, and Mr. Dalton looked forward to seeing her at two thirty.
“WHAT’S THE SPECIAL occasion?” Guy looked around the dining room, at the neat, set table, flowers in a vase, wine in a cooler. “It puts me in mind of the first weekend I spent at your house last year. You haven’t got Steph hidden in the kitchen have you?”
“I wish. You might soon wish that too.”
He gave her a big sloppy kiss and a hug, recalling the first few weeks of their relationship.
“So. What’s up?”
“Well, it’s ours. The cottage.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to Gordon’s solicitor’s office today and completed the transfer of the cottage to me. But it’s ours really.”
“But it’s too soon. You can’t have. You can’t have instructed a solicitor yet.” Guy pulled away and frowned at her.
“Well I did. The solicitor’s letter arrived this morning and I sorted it all out. Aren’t you pleased?”
“I suppose so.” He looked at a loss and shook his head. “I just thought we’d have a bit more time to….think about it. These things normally take weeks.”
Just as Mr. Dalton had said.
“But Gordon didn’t have weeks. I went round to his house in Norwich afterwards. He had some friends there and….”
“How very jolly.”
“Guy! He was dying. He was in bed on a drip with a Macmillan nurse and his friends around him. He’s likely to pass away tonight. But he was lucid. And he was so pleased that the transfer of the cottage had been completed.”
Roz pulled further away and regarded Guy resentfully.
“Sorry. Sorry Roz….”
He reached for her arm as she moved towards the kitchen but failed to catch it.
Guy stood there for a minute. Then he sighed and walked slowly into the kitchen. He found her covering the dishes with foil and turning off the oven.
“Don’t you want to have our celebratory dinner?” he asked.
“Suddenly I don’t feel hungry any longer. I’m going to bed,” she said and started to walk past him. He caught her arm.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….I shouldn’t have been flippant.”
“He was dying this afternoon.” Roz had a catch in her voice. “He might even be dead now. That’s why his friends were there. Not for a party as you implied but to see him off. Although he was being very brave. They were having quite a knees up around the bed and he was laughing - in a laboured fashion - but laughing. He’s a brave, generous person. I thought about staying until the end but he urged me to come home and celebrate with you.”
She began to sob on Guy’s shoulder and he gathered her to him.
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” he whispered into her hair. With three small throw-away words, he’d shattered her pleasure and destroyed her happiness tonight.
Realising that tonight was a lost cause, he took her upstairs and put her to bed, then he undressed and got in beside her. She wanted him immediately. He seemed to recall that being associated with death or near-death increased the sexual urge. But she was no more ardent than usual. Which was very ardent.
Roz fell asleep soon after. She must be tired. The drive to and from Norwich would probably have taken two hours each way. Guy slid out of bed and crept downstairs. He piled the beef casserole and vegetables onto a plate, poured himself a glass of wine and ate his celebratory dinner all alone at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, his mood subdued.
That this unusual, some might say, lavish gift should have caused such consternation was inappropriate somehow, though it was of course him creating the waves, not Roz. In his view, it was going to be impossible to properly care for the place. Guy wondered when or whether Roz’s naturally enquiring mind would set off on the same path as his.
But they had the thing now. They should probably make the best of it. Summer was approaching. His own fears were very likely irrational or at least exaggerated. It was usually Roz who claimed a connection with the esoteric. But he couldn't help how he felt. He found the name Little Avail frankly creepy and completely unnecessarily pessimistic, almost irritatingly so. There might as well have been a sign over the door telling all who entered to abandon hope.
Nevertheless, he resolved to be positive in the future, at least on the surface. He would speak to Roz in the morning and tell her that he whole-heartedly, without reservation, supported her having taken this property, that he would help her make further improvements and they would spend happy times there. He would promise not to make any further negative comments. Yes. That’s what he’d say to her.
Chapter 3 A Pub Lunch
THE COMPLICATIONS of getting this thing registered at the Land Registry were mounting up. Roz had decided to go it alone, for the time being at least. She was applying for a copy of the Grant of Probate of Gordon’s mother as Gordon’s solicitor hadn’t been able to supply any copy, though it had yet to arrive.
Another requirement was a certified copy of the Lease and the Transfer of the property into her name. Copying the Transfer was simple; getting a decent copy of the huge old Lease less so. She took it to a firm of architects who were able to scan the whole thing all in one and kindly made a couple of copies for her for a reasonable fee. Then she phoned round a number of local firms of solicitors but none of them were prepared to certify the copies as true copies. They said they didn't do that for people who weren't already their clients. In the end she spoke to Peter Dalton and he said he’d do it. She arranged to go and see him for that and also to get him to complete the ID form she needed to convince the Land Registry she was who she said she was.
So far, so vexing. But at the back of her mind, doubts were starting to erupt about this old house she’d taken on. Guy had miraculously stopped being anti- and greeted all her suggestions enthusiastically. She frowned to herself every time she re-ran this volte-face of his. It couldn't be genuine. Could it? But the sentiment had been appreciated at the time and she hadn't openly questioned it..
Despite Guy�
�s stated change of attitude, the second thoughts were piling up. It was dawning on her how hard it was going to be. Just little things like emptying the chemical toilet, having any kind of thorough wash, getting enough supplies to the house for any reasonable length stay. Let alone how for example, if one installed say a septic tank and a proper loo, you would be able to pull the chain with no mains water supply or cold water tank (never mind a hot water tank). As Guy had remarked, it was miraculous how Gordon had contrived to get beds, a cooking range and all the other contents to the house plus the insulation, bespoke uPVC windows, etc. The envelope of documents Peter Dalton had supplied included contractors’ and suppliers’ invoices but it didn't explain how all that work had been carried out to the property? Perhaps they should just leave the cottage as it was, still primitive, if charming, and not bother to try to add any further modern conveniences.
She should have listened to Guy, heeded his warnings. He was always usually right. Now it was too late. Or that’s how it felt. Maybe she would say something to Guy. She didn't like to mislead him.
During the tail ends of their first and only visit, they’d taken a look around the outside and in the shed in particular. Inside, neatly arranged in one corner, was an array of cleaning equipment; mop, sponges, bleach, etc. So Mrs. Pearson wouldn't have had to lug that lot over fields and through hedges at least. There was a motor bike, a sidecar, a small trailer, a sit on mower and a generator, the last of which probably explained how power tools could have been used to put in the windows for example. But what about the petrol to power the generator? And the mower. That had to be conveyed to the property. It was all starting to overwhelm her.
Gordon of course was a very rich man. He would have been able to afford to pay people whatever it took to take the parts and raw materials to the cottage, to start the generator and carry out the necessary different trades and crafts to get the cottage into good order. Guy had said during his little conciliatory speech (it had sounded like a prepared speech at any rate) the day after she acquired Little Avail that he could cope with the generator and the motor bike if necessary and had spent much of his youth tinkering with motors which was quite a surprise to Roz.
Naturally, the fading light on the day of the visit made it necessary to leave and return to the car as soon as possible. They’d been unable to make a serious search for the likely alternative access routes though they had come across a couple of promising points and these seemed to tie in later with Gordon’s Statutory Declaration.
Now the doubts had begun to accumulate, they wouldn't stop. Roz realised she knew precious little about Gordon. She only really had his word for it that he’d known her mother and, had the first contact not been made by letter by the solicitor Peter Dalton, she would probably have dismissed the whole thing as bizarre, a scam even. The solicitor’s involvement lent credibility to the approach and she was seduced on meeting Gordon and subsequently on seeing the cottage for the first time.
Gordon’s past was a mystery. What had he done for a living? How had he become so rich? She’d assumed he had inherited family money but perhaps not. Gordon had died the very night of her completion appointment with Peter Dalton therefore she couldn't ask him. She’d attended the funeral hoping to glean more details. The mourners were a mixed bag, mostly elderly, and at the wake none of them would talk to her about Gordon in any detail. They were old and pushing them would have appeared rude. The friendliest person, the housekeeper, told her she’d only been with Gordon since his retirement and she was hazy about what his job had been.
Roz’s mother, being dead, was unavailable for comment. Roz had in her loft, brought with her from her house in Hertfordshire, a box of papers from her mother which she’d never looked at in detail. She knew she would now have to do so but was putting it off.
Her older brother was also dead. She decided to ring her father some time soon and find out if he knew anything. It would be awkward. They hadn't kept in touch a great deal since he’d emigrated with his new wife and family. She knew almost nothing of her younger step-brother and sister. She hoped his new wife wouldn't take umbrage. Having formed the plan, she was finding it difficult to get round to effecting it and was dreaming up excuses, such as her father having been quite a few years younger than her mother and therefore probably unaware of her mothers previous history.
Still, she was going to see Peter Dalton tomorrow. She’d only been able to speak briefly to him at the funeral and he hadn't come to the wake afterwards claiming pressure of work. Perhaps he could tell her something.
DISAPPOINTINGLY, IT transpired the following morning that Roz was expected to see only the secretary at the Norwich firm of solicitors.
“If you leave them with me, I’ll get Peter or one of the others to certify them. Maybe you’d like to go and do a bit of shopping for half an hour or so.”
“Actually no. I’d hoped - actually I’d expected - to see Mr. Dalton.
“Oh. Well I’ll see if that’s possible. Could I tell him what exactly you wanted to see him about?”
“About Gordon Dearing. What he did for a living. That sort of thing. General background.”
“Oh. Well I’m not sure. I’ll see….”
“Look I’m quite happy to pay if that’s the issue.” Roz half-laughed. It seemed rather precious of this man to ration himself in this self-important way. “Or I’ll see him out of office hours if necessary if that helps.”
“He’s busy that’s all. A mountain of paperwork. As usual,” the secretary sighed as she hurried out of the reception area. Roz noticed the receptionist pulling a face to the secretary as she bustled past her desk. She felt more than irritated, though of course to be fair, the police could also appear equally exclusive to people.
At length the receptionist told Roz she could go on up to Mr. Dalton’s room. Her tone implied Roz was the recipient of some exalted privilege.
Peter Dalton however couldn't have been nicer. He stood as she entered and apologised for not seeing her before, pleading that the certification of the documents was a routine matter. He hadn't realised she’d want to meet him. He offered her a seat and looked expectantly at her.
“Well,” said Roz, “I was curious about Gordon Dearing. He gave me this possibly valuable asset but I know nothing about him. Or about the history of Little Avail. It’s started to dawn on me how strange it all is.”
Peter Dalton laughed. “I suppose that was Gordon, somewhat eccentric, given to expansive gestures. All the stuff he gave away before he died was liable to inheritance tax you know which the estate is having to pay. Perhaps you hadn't realised. He thought he was making things simpler for his executors, whereas in fact it’s been a bit of a nightmare for the probate department.”
“Do I conclude from your last statement that you’re not part of the probate department yourself?”
“No indeed. Nothing so….well no anyway.”
“So what is your speciality then?”
“I’m what they term a ‘consultant’. Semi-retired.”
“That doesn't tell me what line of legal work you’re in though.”
“Mainly criminal work.”
“General criminal cases?”
“Actually, somewhat specialised. But what can I tell you about Gordon?”
“What he used to do for a living. He was obviously well off. Did he inherit money or did he earn it through some business? Did he really know my mother? Do you know any of these things? Or did he just instruct you to be his solicitor towards the end of his life without any prior connection?”
“Lots of questions. But, to be brief, we used to be in the same line of work. We were both in the….military. That’s how we met, though of course he was a couple of decades older than me. About the same time as he retired, I decided to opt for civvy street. I’d originally qualified as a solicitor in the army and decided to go back to that. Gordon’s stayed with me since then.”
Roz was aware of a distinct caginess to Peter Dalton’s revelations, such as
they were; an economy with words and information. She remained silent for half a minute as she and the solicitor regarded each other. Then she sighed:
“What about my mother? Do you know anything about Gordon’s relationship with my mother or how he accumulated his wealth?”
“About your mother, I’m afraid not. That would have been well before I knew him. But his family were well off. Money was never a problem for him as it was for many of us.”
Roz wondered who or what exactly the ‘us’ would have been but decided she was unlikely to get anything specific out of this Peter Dalton.
“Oh, also, before I go, you mentioned that the assets given away have been subject to IHT. Do you know what value was placed on Little Avail?”
“Er….hang on….” Peter Dalton leafed through the file on his desk and extracted a document. He handed it to Roz. It was a probate valuation of Little Avail.
“Wow,” said Roz, reading the bottom line figure of £100,000, and glancing up a few paragraphs at the mention of lack of services and access having been taken into account in the valuation. And at the back of her mind was the idea that probate valuations tended to be pitched on the low side to minimise the IHT.
“Yes,” smiled Peter. “Would that a boyfriend of my own mother had given me such a property.”
“And, apart from the valuation, do you know anything about Little Avail.”
“Other than that it’s been in Gordon’s family for a long time according to Gordon, no not really. It’s possible that it’s what’s left over from some larger former estate the family owned previously. But that’s just supposition.”
“Why do you suppose that might have been the case?” Roz realised that she was irresistibly, automatically assuming the mantle of an interrogator, firing questions one after another, but she couldn't help it.
