I let Karen and her entourage go first: I wouldn’t put it past her to elbow me out of the way if I took the lead. Hostility is emanating from her in waves, but where at first it unsettled me, now it’s making me more resolute. Mum wanted me here and there’s nothing she can do about it.
‘I’ll wait out here,’ says Anne. ‘Come and get me if you need me.’
I nod. We already agreed it wouldn’t be appropriate for her, a stranger, to be privy to my mum’s final wishes at the same time as her family learns of them. I am nervous about being in the meeting alone, but I know I can walk out any time I want to.
I’m half expecting to be ushered into a vast ornate room with dark walnut-panelled walls and enormous wing chairs for everyone to be seated in, like they do in film scenes when there’s a will reading. Stephen Taylor’s office is no bigger than a box room, though, overlooking a car park, and only two of us can be seated while the rest stand. I am surprised when Karen takes one of the chairs next to his desk and signals at me to take the other.
Taylor appears flustered by our number. ‘Sorry about the lack of seating. We’re not used to accommodating larger groups,’ he says.
His face is so boyishly youthful that I am tempted to ask how long he’s been practising law and does he know what he’s doing? Maybe Mum got a cheaper rate for using someone so junior.
He clears his throat.
‘These days, we usually divulge the contents of a will to family members individually. The practice of will reading by executors only began because the majority of people years ago were illiterate and needed someone to read it for them.’ None of us react to his impromptu history lesson and his face flushes. ‘However, my client, Anita Belling, stipulated she wanted family members all to be present at the same time, so here we are.’
He’s so nervous, I can see a rash beginning to creep from the rim of his shirt collar towards his chin. Then I realise it’s me who’s making him nervous. His eyes keep darting in my direction, but it’s as though he daren’t allow his gaze to settle. I understand: he’s labouring under the belief he knows all about me and why I am estranged from these people. I do him a favour and ease his awkwardness by looking away first.
Taylor plucks a single piece of paper from a foolscap envelope on his desk. Karen shifts forward in her chair, but my posture does not alter. I am not expecting anything from my mother in this scenario: I have thought long and hard about why she wanted me here and I have concluded that it’s probably that Dad left me something when he died and she’s finally passing it to me. Perhaps his treasured collection of ELO vinyl – on the rare occasions he was at home when I was little, he would put his records on for me to dance to and I used to adore twirling around the front room with him, laughing and singing. It was my hallowed time with Dad, when he was my Mr Blue Sky.
‘Well, this isn’t going to take long,’ says Taylor, emitting a chuckle that, on realising its inappropriateness, he tries to cover with a cough.
As Karen shifts again in her seat, he clears his throat to speak.
‘I, Anita Belling, residing in Heldean, Essex, do make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills and Codicils heretofore made by me.’ Taylor looks up, makes sure we’re all paying attention, then continues reading. ‘To my sister, Karen Mary Johnson, I leave my collection of jewellery and the sum of £25,000 …’
My aunt’s face begins to purple. She’s not happy. She goes to say something, but Taylor shuts her down by raising his hand.
‘I give and bequeath all remaining tangible personal property that I own at the time of my death, including the property at 16 Parsons Close, Heldean, together with all unearned premiums on all policies of insurance and pension in force and effect at my death with respect thereto, to my daughter, Cara Marshall, née Belling.’
My jaw drops. There is a commotion beside me, my aunt is on her feet saying something, Gary’s voice has raised too, but I am too stunned to react. I cannot believe Mum’s left me the house.
‘I don’t want it,’ I blurt out.
Taylor’s eyes widen and the commotion next to me suddenly subsides.
‘I beg your pardon?’ says the solicitor.
‘I don’t want it.’
‘But these are your mother’s wishes,’ he says, clearly perturbed that someone would want to turn down a bequest that could amount to hundreds of thousands of pounds.
‘You heard her, she doesn’t want it,’ says Karen sharply. ‘And if she doesn’t, it goes to the next of kin after her, doesn’t it?’
The subtext is painfully obvious: it will go to her.
‘I don’t want the house. I don’t want to ever set foot in there again. And I don’t want to stay in Heldean while it gets sorted out,’ I state emphatically.
Taylor’s face slackens with relief.
‘You don’t have to. We can arrange for the property to be sold on your behalf – we have a conveyancing department who can handle the transaction for you. It can take up to a year to settle an estate, but there’s no need for you to stay in Heldean during that time.’
‘That house is my sister’s! It belongs to my family. How dare you try to dictate what happens to it!’ Karen howls at the poor man.
‘It’s your niece’s now,’ he blusters back.
‘She’s no niece of my mine.’ She turns to her husband, who is as aghast as she is. ‘I can’t believe Anita’s done this to me.’
I stand up too. ‘Look, we can sort this out. I don’t want the house. If you want it, you can have it.’
Taylor tries to interject. ‘Wait, it’s not that simple––’
‘Now hang on a minute and let Cara speak,’ my uncle interjects. He throws an encouraging smile my way and I return it gratefully. ‘If our niece wants to give it to us, let her,’ he adds.
Now Taylor is on his feet too, trying to regain control of the proceedings. ‘Actually, I hadn’t finished reading.’
We all turn to him, surprised. His hands twitch as he raises the piece of paper again.
‘Should my daughter, Cara Marshall, née Belling, wish to rescind her right to my estate, the total value, excluding the sum set aside for my sister, Karen Mary Johnson, shall be split equally between Peachick Hospital in London, for the treatment of children and adolescents with mental health conditions, and The Fostering Network, a charity that supports those in the lives of fostered children.’
Overcome with shock, I clasp my hand to my mouth. I don’t believe it. Mum wants to leave money to the institution where she abandoned me and to the organisation that put me back together once I left it? My mind scrabbles to work out why: by recognising their significance to me, what was she trying to say? That she was sorry I needed them in the first place? That she’s made her peace with what happened? That she’s forgiven me?
I lower my hand from my mouth. I don’t need her forgiveness – she should’ve asked for mine. She should have believed me when I said I didn’t kill my brother.
Chapter Eleven
Cara
We miss the next train back to London, then the next one and the one after that. Neither of us is fit to make the journey home yet: Anne is as stunned by my mum’s will instructions as I am. We’ve gone back to the chain hotel where we stayed last night and are sitting in its small, perfunctory bar, me on my second Scotch and Anne sipping on a white wine diluted with lemonade because it is only lunchtime still. Our overnight bags are now in the storeroom behind reception, waiting for whenever we do decide to depart.
Anne hasn’t asked me what I plan to do. Instead, she asks me again if I have any idea why Mum wrote her will the way she did.
‘Not a clue,’ I say, taking another sip and wincing as the fiery liquid burns a path down my throat. I don’t even like Scotch that much, but it was the first drink that sprang to mind when the hotel staffer who served us said I looked as though I could do with something strong. ‘It feels wrong to even consider keeping the money, but Mum giving me a get-out clau
se to give it away doesn’t make my decision any easier. I could easily give it all to The Fostering Network, but that would screw up any chance of reconciling with the rest of my family.’
‘Not to the Peachick as well?’
‘You know how I feel about that place,’ I mutter darkly.
‘You associate it with being removed from your family, but that wasn’t the Peachick’s fault. You could’ve ended up somewhere else, you just happened to be sent there. The job of its staff was to get you better and they did. The Peachick has also helped countless other children over the years, so I think it’s as deserving of the money,’ says Anne sagely. ‘Anyhow, is that what you hope might happen with your family – reconciliation?’
I answer carefully, mindful not to bruise her feelings. Fostering is transient and she and John have always understood and accepted that, but it doesn’t mean they become any less attached to the children in their care and when a relationship grows to be like ours, it takes on a deep familial significance. The last thing I want is for Anne to think that after all she has done for me I wish to replace her with another mother figure, but I cannot stem the feelings of affection I still have for my wider family, however conflicted those are.
I wouldn’t call it love, more like yearning: I never gave up hope that one day Mum would get in touch, especially after Dad died and she was all on her own, and so I did secretly hope that when Karen saw me at Fairlop’s she would be pleased to see me and end our estrangement and through her I might be able to reclaim a little of what I lost. Now, witnessing how raw her hostility is, I realise I’ve been foolish to think that might happen.
But I do not tell Anne any of that. Instead, I lie. ‘I only care about seeing my cousins, because we used to be close.’
‘It would be nice for you to have family to call on,’ Anne nods.
I reach over and take her hand, rubbing the lined, liver-spotted back of it with my thumb pad. Had I not known that she and John were pretty much the only foster carers willing to take me on, I might have wondered if it had been deliberate that I was placed with them, so the contrast between Anne and my mum would make me forget what I’d lost. Anita Belling was the kind of woman who never went to the corner shop without a face full of make-up and her nails done, whereas Anne saves her dressing up for special occasions, like New Year’s Eve, her favourite night out of the year, when she and John book into one of the big hotels in Manchester for a dinner and dance.
‘I have you and John for that,’ I say, smiling. ‘I’ve lasted this long without them, so if I do decide to give everything away instead of to them and they hate me for it, I think I’ll be fine.’
Anne nods appreciatively and I let go of her hand.
‘I wonder why Lisa wasn’t there, though,’ I muse.
Of them all, she was the one I was least worried about seeing. Although four years older, Lisa always made time for me, was a confidante of sorts, and I hero-worshipped her because of it.
‘I think there were enough spectres at the feast already.’
I laugh, then let out a groan and rub my temples roughly with my fingertips. ‘Why didn’t Mum leave a proper explanation with the solicitor about why she decided to write her will like that? She must’ve realised how upset Karen would be and, in all honesty, I don’t blame her. Mum has nothing to do with me for twenty-five years and all of a sudden she’s leaving me the bulk of her estate. If I was Karen, I’d be pissed off too.’
‘I suspect your mum did leave you an explanation,’ Anne remarks.
‘If she had, surely she’d have left it with Fairlop’s?’
‘Perhaps she did, in a fashion.’
I stare at her blankly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘The keys.’
She’s referring to a set of keys Taylor handed me before I left his office. The sight of them made me gasp out loud, because the key ring bunching them together was a cream ceramic heart with the word ‘Mummy’ etched on it in red, which I bought for my mother with my spending money on holiday on the Isle of Wight when I was seven. She’d been a bit moody all week and I wanted to cheer her up.
I fish the keys out of my coat pocket now and turn them over on my palm. What message was she trying to send by giving me the key ring back? Am I supposed to be grateful she kept it all these years?
‘I think if she’s left you anything else, perhaps something that she didn’t want her sister to be privy to,’ Anne adds pointedly, ‘then that’s where it’ll be – at the house.’
The blood drains from my face. ‘I can’t go back there.’
‘I know you don’t want to, but I’m starting to think the house might be at the root of all this. Why else leave it to you and hand the keys over like that, if she didn’t want you to set foot in it ever again? I don’t mean to sound flippant, but perhaps she thought it was time for you to lay the ghost to rest.’
‘That’s what I’m most worried about,’ I mutter, taking another sip. My glass is almost drained and I’m seriously tempted to order another. A Scotch-fuelled slide into oblivion is more appealing right now than dealing with the mess my mum’s just dumped at my feet. ‘I get what you’re saying, but it’s a bad idea, sorry. I can’t go back there.’
I couldn’t even bring myself to send letters to the house, even though I desperately wanted to write to my parents, asking them to visit me after I moved to Morecambe. The thought of writing down that address made me feel faint and I was angry my parents chose that place over me.
‘In that case, let’s go somewhere you haven’t been before.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’
‘It’s time you visited your brother, Cara.’
Chapter Twelve
Karen
Karen goes straight upstairs on arriving home. Her and Gary’s bedroom is at the rear of the house and if she looks out of the window to the far right, she can see the brow of the sycamore tree at the end of Anita’s garden. Living close by to each other as adults was an ambition they had coveted since they were little and they couldn’t believe how lucky they were to find perfect homes in adjoining streets. Gary and Anita’s husband, Paul, hadn’t been as keen – as brothers-in-law they rubbed along nicely, but they were too dissimilar to be close – but the promise of taking turns babysitting so each couple could enjoy nights out was a persuasive tactic that worked.
Karen grasps the sill to steady herself as a fresh wave of desolation crashes over her. She misses her sister so much it has manifested as a physical pain in her chest. She rubs the area that aches with the heel of her palm, as if that alone might dispel her despair. This grief is nothing like any she has ever experienced – not even her parents dying had made her feel like this. It makes no odds that she had been prepared for it, from sitting with Anita in the consultant’s office as he uttered the words ‘stage four’ and knowing exactly what he wasn’t saying, to organising the service at St Mary’s to her sister’s exact stipulations. The sense of loss is far more visceral, far more brutal, than she could ever have anticipated.
Then there is Cara. Her grip tightens on the sill. The shock of seeing her niece hasn’t abated on the journey home: if anything, she is more shaken up now that some time has passed. She hadn’t imagined Cara would grow up to resemble Anita to the extent she does, but the chestnut brown eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her mouth moved as she spoke – there is no disputing she is her mother’s daughter.
Karen was the third person ever to hold Cara. Her niece was minutes old, still sticky and warm, and Karen was consumed by instant, fierce love for her. She already had Lisa by then, an adorable four-year-old who was the centre of her world, and she was thrilled Anita could now experience that special mother-daughter bond for herself. That both of them ended up being estranged from their daughters is an irony not lost on her now.
Actually, that’s an incorrect summation of her relationship with Lisa, she thinks. It’s not that they are estranged – Lisa attended Anita’s funeral and stayed at theirs – it’s
that they are strained. Any conversations between them are painfully polite, to the point that they feel more like job interviews, with her the prospective employee asking endless questions and Lisa responding like the reluctant candidate who’s decided they no longer want the job. The detachment that now exists between them hurts Karen deeply and she doesn’t know what she did wrong to trigger it.
Suddenly a voice booms up the stairs.
‘Want a cuppa?’ Gary yells.
With a sigh, Karen lets go of the sill.
‘Yes, please,’ she shouts back.
If he’s making tea, that means he’s stopped ranting at last, she thinks. His tirade about the injustice of the will had begun on the steps of the solicitor’s office and continued all the way to the car park and back home and she knew why – Gary was expecting them to be left the house, because publicly that’s what Anita had promised. Her sister had told them she wanted it to be transferred into Karen’s name but for Ryan and Natalie to live in it, rent-free, while they saved up enough money to buy out a half-share that would then go straight to Lisa. In the absence of her own children, Anita had told Gary she wanted her niece and nephew to benefit and he was grateful, because he was frustrated he couldn’t lend Ryan a deposit himself. Still, his annoyance at Cara now getting everything was preferable to having to listen to Natalie crying in the back of the car that she and Ryan were never going to be able to afford their own house now.
How guilty Karen had felt listening to her son urge Natalie not to give up hope. He said that as a family they should look at ways to challenge the will and Gary immediately seized upon the idea, suggesting Anita must have been mentally impaired to want to leave all that cash to Cara, the daughter she had hated for all these years. Karen had to force herself to agree, because not doing so would make them suspicious.
She glances a final time at the sycamore, then heads out of the bedroom. Descending the stairs, she curses her sister for her honesty. Anita could have easily died without saying a word about rewriting her will, but instead she blurted it out and now Karen feels like she’s betraying her family by pretending she knew nothing about it and that she’s as shocked as they are to learn Cara gets almost everything. She hopes her outrage was convincing enough, because Gary will never forgive her for not telling him at the time. He’d have tried to change Anita’s mind had he known.
Shadow of a Doubt Page 5
