The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  “It’s from a solicitor. In Leeds.”

  Right. Probably not junk mail then. I sit quietly, watching her read. A few seconds later she glances at me, clearly surprised, but says nothing. Her eyes back on the letter, she continues to study the solicitor’s words, and looks to be concentrating hard. She places the first sheet face down on her knee and moves onto the second page. I lean forward, peering up to watch her eyes moving from side to side as she scans the words. That action, the subtle proof of reading, proper reading as opposed to the pretend looking at the page that I do, has always fascinated me. I don’t interrupt.

  Sally places the second page on top of the first, and turns to look at me.

  “Who’s James Parrish?”

  I stare at her, perplexed. James Parrish? I’ve never heard of a James Parrish. I shrug. “I’ve no idea. Why?”

  Sally taps the letter with her index finger. “Well, he must know you. He’s left you half his business in his will.”

  I can only blink, totally baffled. This I absolutely did not expect. I’m not sure what exactly I did have in mind, what I did think might be lurking in that posh envelope, but an inheritance from a mystery benefactor? No. No way.

  I must have made that last observation out loud, because Sally answers me, “Yes way. And actually, it’s more than half. She picks up the first sheet again to double check. “Yes, it says here. ‘A two thirds controlling interest’. Looks like you’re someone’s boss.” She smiles now—her grin broad. She’s clearly happy for me. “Hey, get you.”

  I shake my head in absolute disbelief. “That can’t be right. I’ve never even heard of this James… James what?”

  “Parrish,” Sally puts in helpfully. “The late James Parrish to be more accurate, who owned Parrish Construction. Sounds like a building firm. Anyway, they’re based in Berwick-upon-Tweed. In Northumberland. And this solicitor, Mr”—she turns back to the second sheet to check the signature—“Mr Stephenson, he wants you to make contact with him so he can put you in touch with the executor of Mr Parrish’s will. Apparently that’s a Mr Cain Parrish. Are you sure you’ve never heard of this lot? Some long-lost, distant relatives or something?”

  For reasons I’m not entirely sure of and not about to analyze now, I’m starting to panic. This is just so bizarre. I shouldn’t take it out on Sally, but there’s no one else handy right now.

  “No, I fucking haven’t heard of them. It must be some sort of a hoax, a sick joke. Perfect strangers don’t leave their businesses to other bloody strangers in their wills. It’s fucking ridiculous. Give it here.”

  Unfazed by my outburst, Sally hands me back my letter, and I tear both sheets right down the middle. I’m about to go for it again, but Sally’s hands are on mine, stopping me.

  “Honey, I don’t think this is a hoax. And if it isn’t, it won’t just go away because you tore up the letter. At least try the phone number. We can find out if the solicitor is genuine easily enough.”

  My hands are shaking, and she easily extricates what’s left of the letter. She stuffs the four pieces of paper back into the envelope and pushes herself to her feet. She extends her hand down to me as I sit still slumped against the wall of the school hall. I’m dazed, confused and entirely out of my depth.

  “Come on. Head’s office should be empty by now. We’ll call this lawyer chap from there, more private. Then we can have another think.”

  Unresisting, I take her hand and scramble to my feet. Sally keeps a tight, protective hold on the envelope as we both pick up our bags and make our way along the corridor to the head teacher’s office. I shuffle along behind Sally. I’m still reeling as the possible implications start to cascade around my head, crashing into each other. What if it’s true? Will I have to do things? Difficult, complicated, papery things? Will I have to tell people what to do? Can I just refuse to take my inheritance? Surely no one can make me…

  As Sally predicted, the room is empty. She shoves me into Mrs Boothroyd’s vacant chair behind the desk. “Do you have your phone?”

  I nod then dig in my bag for it.

  “Right.” Sally pulls the tattered sheets from the envelope and lays them out carefully on the desk. She grabs a yellow highlighter pen from Mrs Boothroyd’s desk tidy container and uses it to color in a row of numbers at the top of the right hand portion of the first sheet. “That’s the phone number. It says it’s a direct line, so this Mr Stephenson might answer. Or maybe his secretary. Get dialing.”

  I shake my head. I don’t think I can do this.

  “You can do it.” I must have been thinking aloud again, or maybe it was my expression doing the talking for me. In any case, Sally’s having none of it. She uses her best teacher voice and sternest expression to spur me into action.

  “Just dial, and when someone answers say you want to talk to Mr Stephenson. And when you get him on the line, just say who you are, and that you’ve got his letter. And that you’re puzzled about why this Mr Parrish left anything to you in his will. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Yes. So do it. When we’ve heard what he has to say, we’ll think again.”

  “It’s a mistake, got to be…”

  “Abigail! Dial the bloody number.” Sally has her teacher face on, and voice to match. Feeling not unlike one of her unruly year fives, I give in and obediently start to tap the sequence of numbers into my phone. I have to do it slowly, carefully, but I can manage. After a few seconds, I hear the ringing tone.

  At least the number seems genuine.

  Barely two rings later the phone is answered, “Good afternoon, Charles Stephenson.”

  The crisp, male voice sounds very efficient, very—legal. I’m at a loss what to say now, despite Sally’s coaching.

  “I… I…”

  “Can I help you?” Mr Stephenson sounds marginally less official now.

  “Hello. Yes, er, I— My name’s Abigail Fischer. You wrote to me…” Not terribly articulate. Still, I’m quite relieved to have managed to string a couple of words together.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Fischer. Thank you for getting in touch. Yes, you’ve taken some tracking down, I can tell you.”

  His tone is becoming chattier by the second. He does indeed sound genuinely pleased to be talking to me. If it weren’t for his comment about tracking me down I might even start to relax, just a little. Even so, maybe I can explain—whatever—and all this will be straightened out. Feeling slightly more confident now, I try for assertive, and failing that, I might settle for polite.

  “Mr Stephenson, I think you must be mistaken. I don’t know Mr Parrish. There’s no reason for him to leave me anything in his will. I think you must have got me mixed up with someone else.”

  Mr Stephenson seems quite unmoved by that prospect. “We don’t usually get this sort of thing wrong, Miss Fischer, but I do have some checks I could make with you, if that would reassure you at all?”

  “Oh, right. Yes please.” This should settle the matter.

  “Your full name is Abigail Louise Fischer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were born in February 1991, the tenth to be exact, at Bradford Royal Infirmary?”

  “Yes.” My heart’s sinking now.

  “Your mother’s name is—was—Rachel Fischer. I understand she passed away three years ago.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “My condolences for your loss, Miss Fischer. You previously lived on the Ravenscliffe estate in Bradford?”

  “I, yes. We did.”

  “Then I’m reasonably certain we have the right Abigail Fischer. My client is the executor of the late Mr Parrish’s estate, his nephew, Mr Cain Parrish. Mr Parrish—the executor, not the deceased—asked me to invite you to meet with him and myself, at your convenience. Would you be able to come to our offices in Leeds, Miss Fischer?”

  Meeting? Executor? Deceased? Offices in Leeds?

  Despite Mr Stephenson’s amiable tone, I am overwhelmed, seized by a blin
d panic. I hit the ‘end call’ button. I drop my phone onto the desk with a clatter and gaze up at Sally who is just putting the finishing touches to piecing the letter together again. She’s re-attached the halves of the pages with sticky tape. The result is a bit crumpled, but passable I suppose.

  “So, what did he say? Are we in the building trade then?” Her smile is bright, expectant.

  Is she entirely mad?

  I glare at my grinning, deluded friend, my body bristling with hostility and barely repressed panic. Attack is the best form of defense, I’ve heard, so I opt for that as a strategy. “No we’re bloody not. He wants me to go to Leeds to meet him and some other bloke. The nephew of James Parrish.”

  “Right. When are you going then?” She’s not letting up.

  “I’m not.” Me neither.

  “Why not? What do you have to lose apart from your bus fare? You could go and listen to what they have to say. It might all make more sense then.”

  I stare at her for a few moments, my sudden rush of angry defensiveness evaporating in the face of the sheer idiotic impossibility of this madness. My elbows propped on the desk in front of me, I cover my face with my hands.

  “None of this makes sense, and I can’t see how it ever will. I don’t know anything about building, or about running a business. And I definitely don’t know James Parrish. So no, it stops here.”

  I glance up at her as Sally opens her mouth to argue again, no doubt to bombard me further with her brand of supreme good sense. I should listen, hear her out. I should take my time, think this through, try to work out why Mr Parrish wanted me to have a share of his business. There has to be an explanation. But if there is, I don’t want to hear it. The more cornered I feel, the more stubborn I usually become. It’s always been a failing of mine. That and a belief that if I refuse to acknowledge something, tell myself it’s not happening, it will eventually go away. It worked with my leukemia—it’ll work on Mr bloody Parrish.

  I shove my phone back in my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Look, I’ve got to go. Would you mind telling Dave I didn’t feel well and had to go home early?”

  I don’t wait for her answer, but I trust Sally to cover my back at work. I’m out of there, and I deliberately leave the wretched, much abused letter behind on the desk. I want none of it.

  Chapter Two

  The red light is flashing on my answering machine as I let myself into my flat. Sally most likely. She’s already tried to reach me twice on my mobile phone since I dashed out of Mrs Boothroyd’s office, but I switched it off. I’m in no mood for more talking, for more sound advice. I ignore the red light and head for my kettle. I need coffee. Good and strong. And sweet.

  I drink my coffee while it’s still too hot, scalding my tongue in my rush for caffeine.

  The phone in my flat rings again as I’m dropping my empty cup into the sink. I let it go to the answering service, expecting to hear Sally’s voice telling me to pick up.

  “Miss Fischer. This is Cain Parrish. Again. Please return my call. Now. I left my number previously, but here it is again.” It’s not my friend. This is a male voice, deep, clipped, sounding distinctly irritated.

  He reels off a string of numbers, but I’m not listening. No need, I won’t be returning his call. I delete the message, and the previous one without even listening to it. So much for Cain Parrish.

  He’s persistent though. I get—and ignore—seven more calls during the course of the evening. Each time he leaves a message, and each time I delete it. After the second call, I turn my phone to silent, and my mobile stays switched off, just in case.

  * * * *

  The following morning I get up early as usual. I’m due at school by six-thirty to do my rounds disinfecting the toilets and hoovering the staff room before anyone else arrives and I like to have time for a shower in the morning before I leave. I use the ten minutes or so I spend under the steaming spray to contemplate what to do now, how to extricate myself from this nonsense. Talk about random! None of it makes any sort of sense—the letter, the quiet certainty of that lawyer, the belligerent persistence of Mr Parrish.

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I clean my teeth then comb through my long, straight hair. These days, thankfully, the strident color has softened from the carroty redness of my childhood to a more muted blonde with a hint of ginger, which seems more fitting in adult life. Strawberry blonde, I think it’s called. My eyes, a nondescript blend of hazel and green stare back at me from the glass. I recognize that look, that expression of apprehension. I see it often enough in my mirror. Today I have good reason. Today I feel cornered, hunted. Tracked down and caught.

  With a quick shake of my head, I try to throw off this crushing sense of foreboding. It will get me nowhere. And I really need to get to work, whilst I still have a job. The hours aren’t brilliant—six-thirty until nine in the morning, then three o’clock until six-thirty in the afternoon, five days a week, and seven till one on Saturdays. I do have all day free for other things in the week I suppose, so I shouldn’t complain. I daresay there must be a queue of people down at the JobCentre who’d happily take my job. They’re long days though, and I don’t get the school holidays off because that’s when most of the heavy maintenance work gets done.

  Between nine and three I do my own stuff. I like to draw and paint. Despite the art teacher’s copious red pen, I am quite good at it. I spend great chunks of my time at the city art galleries, admiring the exhibitions there and getting inspiration for my own creations. I can draw anything. I only have to see an item or a picture once and I can recreate it from memory. I’d be a great forger, although I’d struggle with the signatures I expect. But I’m not out to fool or con anyone, I just love re-creating wonderful works of art, and I sell my versions at car boot sales over the summer. It helps to boost my income a little, and the customers seem to like my work. Most of what I make gets plowed back to buy canvases, paints and such like—that stuff doesn’t come cheap. But my hobby pays for itself with a little to spare so I’m content. Sally keeps suggesting I should be more organized, that I should think about setting myself up as a micro-business. She offered to help me and thinks it would give me a reason to sort out my literacy issues. Somehow I doubt that. Even if I could read and write, there’s nothing I’d like less than to do it for a living. I paint for fun, and I mop floors to pay my bills. That’s just me, the way I am.

  And no mystery legacy from some unknown benefactor is getting in the way of that. My comfort zone might not be to everyone’s liking, and Sally clearly thinks I could do better, but if I wanted excitement and challenge, I’d take up bungee jumping. I pour strong coffee down my throat and I’m headed out of the door by just turned six, ready to apologize to Dave for my abrupt departure yesterday.

  * * * *

  Dave’s fine about it, tells me not to worry and hopes my stomach has settled down again now. Not a chance, but I don’t burden him with that. I promise to make up the time, and get stuck into the staff toilets.

  It’s monotonous work, and I can’t help turning the recent series of bizarre events over in my head as I pour disinfectant down the U-bends. Whether I like the idea or not, it seems I actually do now own something. And it occurs to me that it might be a something I could sell. I definitely don’t see myself in the building trade, but maybe I could raise some funds to enable me to do what I really want with my life. Sally’s words have not been entirely wasted on me—I do sort of like the idea of turning my hobby into a business. Perhaps this windfall might offer the route to that. With some money behind me I could hire an admin assistant, get someone else to do the paperwork and place adverts and such like. If I could sell more stuff, maybe on the Internet or by hiring space in other people’s shops, I could build my bespoke portrait enterprise—go from being a hobby artist to a professional one. I could do what I love, and maybe make a living out of it. It would be good to try, surely, and now perhaps I have the means

  At quarter past nine I’
m headed out of the school gate again, my rucksack containing my sketchpad and painting gear slung over one shoulder. I’m still flirting with the tantalizing notion of self-employment and debating with myself where to spend the day. Should I check out the permanent Hockney exhibition at Saltaire? Or perhaps I could head for Cartwright Hall where, according to the promotional video they have running on a loop there, they have mostly British art from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They usually have something a bit more contemporary too. Even though I’ve seen both galleries many, many times, I still love those places. The calm, quiet, contemplative atmosphere is just what I need today to help me think. I finally settle on Cartwright Hall as I head for the bus stop.

  “Miss Fischer?”

  The deep, male voice startles me. Did I forget something? I turn to see who called me, but the school forecourt is deserted. The driver’s door of a black van parked just outside the school opens. I’m standing right alongside and instinctively step back to let the emerging driver pass me on the pavement. I’m still looking around to see who called out.

  “Miss Fischer, we meet at last. You’ve been avoiding me.”

  I lurch around to face the driver of the black van, who is now leaning casually against his vehicle. He’s tall, his hair is dark blond and wavy, maybe a little too long. It brushes his collar, and he’s very much in need of a shave as well as a haircut. He’s dressed in what I suppose my mother would have described as smart casual, expensive-looking black jeans with a thick leather belt, and a gray shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves are rolled up, and his arms are deeply tanned. His biceps bunch and shift under the fabric of his sleeves as he folds his arms across his chest. He regards me silently, offering nothing further by way of introduction. He has no need to, I know who he is.