Blame it on the Onesie: A romantic comedy about work, water and wine

by CJ Morrow

  ‘Let me help you,’ the woman said, offering a hand as Ella struggled to get up.

  Up close Ella could see that the woman was probably in her sixties and the fact that she was trying to help Ella up just added to the indignity.

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’m fine,’ Ella said, wincing as she finally pulled herself from the mannequin’s evil, rigid grip. Her eye was throbbing and already starting to close up. Ella swayed. Suddenly a chair was pushed under her and she was being helped to sit. Could it get any worse? Someone had called for the first aider and the other shoppers were either crowding around her or gawping as they passed. Ella did a double take out of her good eye; she imagined that one of those rubber-neckers was Nathan. Of course it couldn’t be, could it?

  Why is my life such shit? Ella whined inwardly as she attempted to stand up but was prevented by a firm hand on her shoulder, a damp cloth on her eye and a clipboard in front of her face.

  ‘We have to fill in an accident form,’ a disembodied male voice said.

  ‘Must we? Really, I’m fine.’

  But there was no escape, she was forced to give her name, age, address, phone number, even her email address, then recount what happened. It seemed to go on and on. Ella got her phone out and looked at the time. It was now after three.

  ‘I really do have to go now,’ she said, finally able to stand up. ‘I have an appointment, I’m already late.’

  ‘Just sign here.’ A pen was thrust into her hand and Ella prepared to sign.

  ‘I think not,’ a voice said and it was the woman who had helped her up, whom Ella hadn’t realised was still there. The woman then proceeded to disperse the crowd and dismiss the store officials. ‘I’m Shirley Cavendish,’ she said, offering Ella her hand, ‘and you are Ella Taylor.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ella said, realising that half the staff and customers now knew all her personal details. Hurriedly she shook hands while at the same time looking towards the exit. ‘Thank you. I really need to go.’

  ‘Of course. This way.’

  Ella cringed as Shirley Cavendish guided her towards the doors. Once outside, Ella turned to thank her and say goodbye, but Shirley Cavendish wasn’t leaving.

  ‘Are you quite all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I need to get to my appointment. I’m late.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve let Mr Cake know you’ve been detained.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I work for Mr Cake and the Mr Bakers. We spoke on the phone yesterday. I made the appointment for you.’ She offered Ella her arm and Ella just gave in and took it. Together they tottered down the street.

  Once in the offices of Baker, Baker, Baker, Baker and Cake, Shirley made Ella a strong coffee and produced an ice pack for her eye.

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ Ella said, once she was starting to get her composure back.

  ‘The least I could do. I think you will have quite a shiner there.’

  ‘Goes with my luck,’ Ella half laughed.

  ‘Mr Cake will see you when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks. Actually, before I do see him, what’s with the name of this place? Is it a joke? Baker, Baker, Baker, Baker and Cake?’

  ‘Not really a joke. More a bunch of men behaving like little boys. They’re siblings, except for Mr Cake, he’s a cousin. They couldn’t agree on a company name, so they listed themselves in age order.’ Shirley Cavendish shook her head. ‘Ready?’

  ‘I meant their names,’ Ella muttered. ‘They should run a bakery.’

  But Shirley didn’t respond, just led the way towards an office, where Ella was left alone with Mr Cake who stood up to shake hands. He was tall, rake thin and wore half moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. A fringe of steel grey hair ringed his shiny bald head. He peered at Ella over his glasses then waved her into a chair without saying a word. He started looking through the papers in front of him.

  Ella sat and watched him. When he didn’t speak immediately she glanced around the room. It was panelled in dark wood from floor to ceiling and looked ancient, just like Mr Cake. Age order, Shirley had said, so if Mr Cake was the youngest, how old must the others be? A mahogany nameplate in front of him spelt out his name in bold gold lettering; Aloysius Cake. Like the bear in Brideshead Revisited, Ella thought and, while suppressing a nervous giggle, snorted.

  ‘Ahem’ Mr Cake said, looking at her.

  Ella looked back at him and smiled. She didn’t expect him to smile back; he was far too austere for that. But suddenly he did and his face lit up. Ella found herself wanting to laugh again.

  ‘I must say, Miss Taylor,’ he began. ‘How sorry I am to hear of your mishap in the store.’

  ‘Just me being clumsy.’ Ella shrugged.

  ‘Mrs Cavendish tells me you didn’t sign anything.’

  ‘No, she stopped me. Why?’

  ‘We wouldn’t want you admitting any liability.’

  ‘Oh, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we wouldn’t want them suing you.’

  ‘What? Why would they?’ Ella felt alarmed.

  ‘Oh, I doubt they will. But you can never be sure. And,’ Mr Cake leaned across the desk as if sharing a secret, ‘they cannot be sure that you won’t sue them now.’ He laughed a wicked, knowing laugh.

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ Ella said, not sure where this was going.

  ‘Quite.’ He paused. ‘Now to the business in hand. You have your passport and birth certificate?’

  Ella retrieved them from her bag and handed them over. Mr Cake gave them a cursory glance then rang a brass bell on his desk. Shirley Cavendish reappeared, and took Ella’s documents away.

  ‘Just need to check them,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll bring them straight back.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ella said, feeling a little anxious.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Mr Cake said. ‘After all that’s happened we just need to be sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mr Cake gave Ella the briefest of smiles. ‘I need to ask you a few questions. Are you the daughter of John Albert Taylor, late of Aberdeen, Scotland?’

  ‘I might be,’ Ella said. ‘My dad was called John Taylor, it’s on my birth certificate, but I thought he lived in Australia.’

  Aloysius Cake nodded sagely, but didn’t respond to Ella’s comment.

  ‘Are you aware of any other siblings you might have?’

  ‘No.’ Ella felt sudden alarm. ‘Should I be? Are there any?’ It had never occurred to her that her dad might have had more children.

  ‘Are you a blood relative of Mr Kenneth Stanley Taylor and Mrs Nora Elisabeth Taylor, late of Spring Cottage, Lyffingdon, Wiltshire?’

  ‘Well, I might be. I vaguely remember an old aunt and uncle who lived in some old cottage somewhere.’ Ella shrugged. ‘Is that who you mean? I don’t really remember much about them.’

  There was a tentative knock on the door and Shirley Cavendish came back into room. She nodded to Mr Cake, gave Ella her passport and birth certificate back, then left.

  ‘It would appear that everything is in order and you are who you say you are.’

  ‘Well, actually, you said I was who I say I am. You wrote to me.’ Ella was confused.

  ‘Quite.’ Mr Cake shuffled some more papers and looked earnestly at Ella. ‘The situation is thus,’ he began. ‘You have inherited your late great aunt and uncle’s property.’

  ‘What? What? I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

  ‘You have inherited Spring Cottage, a substantial property needing some updating, in a picturesque village, together with some freehold land,’ Mr Cake read aloud from his papers.

  Ella sat stunned into silence, trying to take it all in. ‘Well… Wow,’ she eventually said. ‘I don’t know what to say. Why me? Why not my dad?’

  Aloysius Cake blinked several times at Ella and appeared to collect his thoughts.

  ‘It’s my sad duty to inform you that your father died
some years ago in a car accident. I thought you knew. I’m sorry.’

  Now it was Ella’s turn to blink. She hadn’t thought seriously about her dad for years. He was just a blurry memory, a face in a faded photo, a sense of relief after he’d gone.

  ‘I thought he was in Australia. That’s what we always thought.’

  ‘Indeed he was, but he came back to the UK some ten years ago.’

  Ella swallowed hard. ‘Did he try to find me?’ she said, more to herself than Mr Cake.

  ‘I’m sorry; his family have never given me that information.’

  ‘His family. What family?’ Ella felt her heart skip a beat.

  ‘He remarried some years ago. There were, no are, four further children.’

  ‘I have brothers and sisters?’ Ella felt both excited and horrified. She took a gulp of air.

  ‘Not blood relatives. They were your father’s stepchildren, they took his name, hence the mix up.’

  ‘What mix up?’

  ‘The oldest stepchild is older than you by several months. We had progressed the inheritance a little way before we discovered no bloodline. That was why we had to be sure with you. But we are confident now.’

  Ella blinked again. This was all a bit too much. Her father had been back in the UK and never contacted her. Why hadn’t he bothered? And he had a whole other family.

  Mr Cake rang his bell again and Shirley appeared with a cup of hot, sweet tea in a bone china cup. There was a biscuit on the saucer. Ella took the tea and mechanically drank it.

  ‘I expect this has all been a bit of a shock for you,’ Shirley said, her face conveying sympathy and understanding.

  Ella nodded silently in response.

  ‘Would you like anything else before we continue? A glass of water perhaps?’ Mr Cake asked, eager to get on.

  Ella shook her head.

  ‘Excellent. Now to your inheritance. Spring Cottage, as I’ve already said, is a substantial property.’

  ‘How substantial?’ Ella cut in too quickly.

  ‘Four bedrooms, several receptions, a cellar, one acre garden. All has fallen into disrepair, due to the time that it has stood empty, but…’

  ‘How much is it worth?’ Ella cut in again, instantly regretting how that question sounded.

  ‘Its value is irrelevant.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure what its value is, but it is irrelevant to you as you cannot sell it.’

  ‘But I thought you said I’d inherited it.’

  ‘And indeed you have. But there are covenants on the property, quite an extensive list. I can go through it with you now if you feel up to it?’ Mr Cake gave her a brief professional smile, which didn’t even show his teeth.

  ‘It’s not much of an inheritance if I can’t do as I please with it. Is it?’ Ella’s voice sounded horribly petulant even to her own ears.

  ‘Shall we go through the list?’ Mr Cake waited.

  ‘Why not?’ Ella flashed him a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘It is extensive. I will, of course, furnish you with your own copy. Failure to comply with any of the covenants means that you can be forcibly removed from the cottage and all monies ceased.’

  ‘That’s a bit severe.’

  Mr Cake drew a breath and started on the list.

  ‘Item one: You cannot sell Spring Cottage. Ever.

  Item two: You must live in it while you own it. Owning it is dependant on your living in it.

  Item three: On your death, it can only be passed on to a blood relative, ideally your offspring, but if no offspring exist or survive then another blood relative, preferably from the next generation.

  Item four: You cannot cohabit in Spring Cottage with any person/or persons other than your spouse or blood relatives.’

  ‘I don’t have any of those,’ Ella cut in. ‘Does that mean that I can’t have friends to stay?’

  ‘No. You may have guests, but not permanent ones.’

  ‘Who would know? Will you be checking up?’

  ‘No, not personally. But these things have a habit of getting back. If I am informed I am obliged to act.’

  Item five: You are responsible for the well beneath Spring Cottage and must ensure...’

  ‘Wait.’ Ella put her hand up to stop Mr Cake continuing. ‘Well? Did you say well?’

  ‘That’s correct. The water for the house and some of its neighbours is supplied directly from the spring beneath the cottage – hence its name. The well provides direct access to the spring. You must ensure that the access is properly maintained.’

  ‘I don’t have to get the water from the well do I? The house does have taps and things? Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Spring Cottage is fully plumbed, but may need updating.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Ella muttered under her breath.

  ‘Item six: You cannot profit from the spring or allow others to profit from it commercially.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘That means you cannot bottle it and sell it.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Ella laughed. This was all a bit ridiculous.

  ‘Spring water, especially this spring water, is purported to have special…’ Mr Cake hesitated, ‘…qualities. And you cannot profit commercially from them.

  ‘Item seven: You must allow access to the well by the appropriate people who may need access at appropriate times.’

  ‘Who are these appropriate people?’

  Mr Cake flicked through his papers and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t say.’

  ‘Who wrote this?’ Ella leaned over the desk to see the list. Mr Cake was reading from what looked like a page torn from an old school exercise book. The writing was shaky, like a very old person’s might be.

  ‘It was copied out by your great uncle with, he told me, suitable modernisations. He also said the original resides in the cottage.

  ‘Item eight: You can only spend the capital on the house for upgrading, repairs, furnishings and so on; you cannot squander it on yourself or give it away.

  ‘Item nine: You will only receive the income from leased land whilst you are living in Spring Cottage. The income is to be treated as taxable.’

  Finally Item ten: You…

  ‘Mr Cake, please,’ Ella interrupted again. ‘What income? What capital?’

  ‘In the five years since your great aunt and uncle died the income has accumulated and been added onto the capital they already had. The income is derived from the leases on various parcels of land.’

  ‘But how much is it?’

  Mr Cake flicked through his papers once again, then jotted an amount on a Post-it. He handed it over. Ella looked at it, looked away, looked back at it to make sure she wasn’t misreading.

  ‘But that’s almost as much as I earn in a year,’ she said. ‘And this is just sat in a bank account waiting for me?’

  ‘No. That’s the income, per annum. The capital is considerably more. Even after the inheritance tax is paid and...’ Mr Cake cleared his throat, ‘our invoice for work to date, there is still a considerable sum.’ He jotted it down on another Post-it and handed it over to Ella.

  Ella held the Post-it in her hand and watched it shake.

  Mr Cake rang the bell on his desk yet again and Shirley bustled in and sat down next to Ella and patted her arm.

  ‘Did you know my aunt and uncle, Mr Cake?’ Ella asked once she’d recovered from the shock.

  ‘Yes, I met them on several occasions during the last ten years of their lives. They were very keen to find an heir.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet them; as an adult anyway. I have only the vaguest of memories. I was a little girl, they seemed very old to me.’ Ella thought about the photographs in the albums, they’d looked very old in those photos too.

  ‘I think you would have liked them, and I think they would have liked you,’ Shirley said and smiled.

  ‘Oh you knew them too?’

  ‘Only from their visits here, which were quite frequent towards th
e end.’

  ‘Ahem,’ Mr Cake cleared his throat again.

  ‘Item ten: you cannot build on the land surrounding the cottage, other than to extend the cottage for your own personal use and subject to local planning laws, and you must maintain the garden and ensure the produce is distributed fairly.’ Mr Cake stared at Ella over his glasses.

  ‘Maintain the garden? Is it a great big allotment sized garden?’ Ella said thinking of the photo she’d seen.

  ‘That’s right. Though there is nothing in the covenant to prevent you from hiring help. It only says maintain.’

  ‘And distribute,’ Ella added. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I think you’re expected to give the excess away to those in need. But you’d do that anyway, wouldn’t you. As any good gardener does.’ He smiled briefly.

  ‘But I’m not a good gardener.’

  ‘Now onto the second option,’ Mr Cake began.

  ‘Second option?’

  ‘The less generous of the two, but I am obliged to apprise you of it. If you choose not to take the cottage and abide by the rules as previously listed, you are entitled to a sum of money but you must sign away any claim to Spring Cottage, the parcels of land and the income.’

  ‘Oh. How much?’ Ella sounded mercenary again.

  Mr Cake wrote down the sum on a third Post-it and handed it over.

  ‘That’s two years’ wages,’ Ella’s voice squeaked.

  ‘Miss Taylor, we have everything ready if you wish to sign now.’

  ‘But I don’t know which option to take.’

  Mr Cake reared his head back and stared at her wide-eyed, then composed himself, smiled very briefly but didn’t reply. He produced three copies of a contract and laid them out across the desk in front of Ella.

  ‘Mrs Cavendish can witness if you wish to sign now.’

  ‘But I don’t know which option to choose.’ Two years’ wages would sort out her immediate troubles; give her breathing space to get a new job, allow her to move out of the grotty bedsit. But the cottage might be okay, definitely better long term. But did she want the responsibility? It all sounded very onerous, lots of rules. And the village was miles from civilisation.