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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Waterfront Series
- Sprache: Englisch
A family, a fortune and a year that will change their lives forever. At the age of ninety-five, Sarah Blakemere signs her final will and testament, pleased with how it will throw the cat among the family pigeons. She has left her luxurious home in Mandurah, Western Australia, to two female relatives in the UK, on the condition that they live in the house together for a year. After that they can sell and split the money, but if either of them doesn't last the full year, the next person on the list will be invited to try for the inheritance. Will the experience do as Sarah had hoped and shake Portia and Fleur out of their ruts? And when they find another surprise bequest from Sarah, what will they do with it? Life-changing decisions lie ahead .
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Seitenzahl: 427
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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5
Sarah’s Gift
ANNA JACOBS
Contents
Chapter One
Western Australia
Sarah Blakemere sat in the shade of the patio, sharing a glass of white wine with her friend Thomas, who lived across the marina from her.
‘I need to write a new will,’ she said abruptly.
‘Really? What brought this on?’
‘I had an email from my nephew’s wife in England last night. Jim died suddenly two days ago, poor boy, and him only seventy, too.’
‘Two years younger than me. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I feel sorry too. I remember him as a little boy. I’d made him my heir, so now I need to find another one. At ninety-five, I can’t have much longer to live myself, however hard I try, so I shall need to do the will straight away.’
She grinned suddenly. ‘I’m still aiming for one hundred, though, longer if I can. I do enjoy life, even with the limitations of old age.’
He raised his glass to her. ‘You’re the most vibrantly alive person I’ve ever met in the ways that count most.’
She clinked her glass with his and took another sip of wine, then stared down into the pale liquid. ‘I wrote the present will just after my Dan died. I still miss him. Well, I miss all three of my husbands, to tell you the truth. Lovely men, they were.’
He waited patiently, knowing she liked to tell stories at her own pace. He’d heard most of them before but he was happy to listen to them again, as she listened to his.
‘My nephew has left his wife well fixed financially, so Josie doesn’t need anything from me, but it’s an annuity that stops when she dies, which isn’t important when you have no children. Anyway, she’s not a Blakemere born. That matters to me. I want my money to stay in the family.’
She took another sip of wine. ‘Josie said Jim was worried about his two nieces. She says they both sound to be leading very dull lives with jobs that have no futures. The two women live at opposite ends of the country and have never even met one another, even though they’re first cousins, because their fathers were estranged. Jim could never get his brothers to make up their differences.’
‘It’s sad when families do that.’ He had his own sadness about the woman he’d lost, had never wanted to marry anyone else. Families and their relationships could be difficult to navigate round.
‘Yes, it’s very sad. The younger niece, Portia, got in touch with Jim after her father died, in case he didn’t know about it, which was very thoughtful.’
Another pause, then Sarah said, ‘I thought I might leave everything to the two of them jointly and try to stir them up a bit while I’m at it. They sound to be merely existing, not living life with relish.’
‘Don’t they have husbands or families?’
‘I got someone to check them out. Fleur is forty-four, divorced a couple of years ago. She has two more or less grown-up children. The daughter is at university doing media studies, whatever that may mean, and only just coping. The lad has nearly finished an apprenticeship as a cabinet maker and is apparently very promising.’
She paused to take another sip. ‘Portia is younger, only thirty-two. She was in a relationship for about a year, but they split up last year. No children. No new guy in her life. Josie says she’s rather guarded in what she reveals about herself. She’s working in an office but is trying to study for a childcare qualification. She doesn’t sound happy.’
‘How will leaving them money stir them up? They’ll only thank you mentally and contact a real estate agent here to sell this house for them, then settle down quietly again.’
‘Not if I can help it! I shall make it a condition that they come to live here for a year and clear out my things and the family archives before they can sell the house.’
He frowned and was silent for a few moments. ‘As a former lawyer, I have to say I’m not sure you can do that legally.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s what my current lawyer says too. So I’ve written a letter to each of them.’ She gave him another of her wicked grins. ‘I’ve piled on the emotional pressure, trying to make them feel they owe it to me to do this in return for such substantial legacies.’
‘Do you think it’ll work?’
‘Yes. They’re very good letters, even in their first draft. Well, I’m fairly certain my request will make a difference. I’ll make sure Josie knows what I’m doing and will back me up in case they turn to her for advice.’
‘Have you forgotten that they’ll need a visa to come here? Will they be granted one, do you think?’
‘That’s the beauty of it. Both of them were born here so they have dual Australian and British nationality. They’ll have no problem getting into the country, or staying here permanently if they want. Strange how the Blakemeres have been to-ing and fro-ing between the UK and Australia for several generations, isn’t it?’
‘It’s surprising how many families do that. Uh-oh! You’ve got that look in your eyes. What do you want from me?’
‘I’d like you to witness the will, if you don’t mind, Thomas. I’m having it couriered here tomorrow.’
‘Happy to help in any way I can.’
‘Good, because I’ve also named you as the executor.’
‘Only for you would I agree to do that! It’s not a fun job and these two women are completely unknown to me.’
‘You’ll get to know them when they come here. I’m hoping you’ll help them settle in as necessary.’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s what friends are for. But I hope it’ll be years before that happens.’
‘Thank you.’
They smiled at one another for a few moments, then she said, ‘I think we deserve another glass of wine today to seal the bargain, don’t you?’
‘Definitely.’
The following afternoon, the doorbell rang and a man poked his head inside the hall. ‘Friends in Need cleaning service. Anyone at home?’
Sarah went to get a proper look at him. ‘You’re new. Where’s Penny?’
‘She’s had a major plumbing emergency in her own home.’
‘Do you have any ID?’
He pointed to a fancy laminated card with photo pinned to his overall, both items exactly like the ones Penny wore. ‘Actually, I’m the new owner of Friends in Need. Colin Jennings at your service, but I usually shorten it to Col. I won’t normally be doing the cleaning myself, but Penny was upset at the thought of letting you down, so I said I’d do the job today. Is that OK? I have police clearance if you need to check it.’
She studied him for a moment or two longer, liking what she saw. Most faces betrayed their owner’s basic nature to a woman who’d interacted with so many people over nearly ten decades. His face said to her that he was honest and intelligent, but a little wary. Divorced, perhaps?
‘No need for the police, Col.’ She looked out through the open door. ‘What made a man who can afford an expensive car like the one parked outside buy a cleaning business?’
‘I had difficulty getting help with housework after my wife and I split up. Talk about an unreliable service! And some of the people who turned up were distinctly slapdash. I decided I could run a better cleaning service myself and at the same time enjoy a far less stressful working life where I could be my own boss.’
‘You won’t earn nearly as much as you must have done to buy that car.’
‘I’m not money-hungry because my wife had a better job than me so I don’t have to pay her alimony. We’ve simply each taken half the money from the sale of our former house, which has gone up nicely in value. And I’m about to sell that car and add the money to my investments for my old age.’
He broke off abruptly and stared at her, head on one side, looking rather surprised. ‘And why am I confiding in you so easily? I don’t usually mix work and private life.’
‘I must have a magic touch because people often confide in me. Now, let me show you round and tell you what I need.’ Which was mainly cleaning floors and bathrooms. She had trouble kneeling down these days, though she was still fine walking around on reasonably level surfaces.
He waved a piece of paper at her. ‘I have the notes about what your job entails. The previous owner was old-fashioned and kept paper records, but at least she did a thorough job of it. I intend to digitise everything.’
‘Elena warned me she was trying to sell her business and would be retiring soon. These youngsters have no stamina.’
‘She’s sixty-nine, which isn’t exactly young.’
‘It is to me, at ninety-five.’
He smiled at her. ‘You don’t look a day over ninety-four!’
As they both chuckled, she made a decision. ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour before you leave? I was going to ask Penny and it needs doing today.’
‘If I can. What is this favour?’
‘I’ve been writing a new will and it needs witnessing. Would you oblige?’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you sure you want a complete stranger to do that?’
‘I only need your signature not your soul. Besides, I like your face. You stare out of it at the world very directly. How old are you, about forty?’
‘Forty-two, actually.’
‘A mere youngster, in spite of the silver hair.’
He rolled his eyes and frowned at himself in the hall mirror. ‘I’d prefer to keep the face I had at thirty, the one with dark hair topping it.’
‘Wouldn’t we all? I had auburn hair but like you I lost the colour early.’ She gestured to her favourite photo of herself, which she kept on the wall in what she called her ‘rogues’ gallery’.
He didn’t just give it a cursory glance but took the time to study it carefully, another point in his favour, she felt.
He whistled softly. ‘You were a real stunner.’
‘I wasn’t bad-looking. And I didn’t make the mistake of dyeing my hair when the silver crept in. The roots always show within a couple of days, so what’s the point? My second husband disagreed about that, but I ignored him and let it turn silver. In the end he came round, said my face kept me looking young. That’s Graham and me.’ She pointed to another photo of her younger self hugging a man with a big, wide smile.
‘How many husbands have you had?’ He clapped one hand to his mouth. ‘No, I shouldn’t have asked that.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s no secret. I’ve had three husbands. Lovely men, all of them. That’s number three.’
She gave him a moment to look at it then moved things along. ‘Now then, enough chatting. My other witness is coming here in a couple of hours and two people have to see me actually do the signing. In the meantime, I’ll show you round then go and sit outside near the canal with my newspaper and leave you to get on with the cleaning.’
He followed her into the living room, stopping to stare through the wall of windows and let out a soft whistle. ‘Wow, it must be wonderful to live on the water like this.’
‘It is rather nice. This is one of the quieter canals because it’s a cul-de-sac.’
She kept an eye on Col when he started working in the nearby part of the house, but quickly saw that he was doing a thorough job, so went back to her newspaper.
When he came out to tell her he’d finished, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any chilled, filtered water, would you? I can’t be bothered to lug a water bottle around with me everywhere but the local tap water is lukewarm in summer and tastes of chemicals.’
Another good point about him. It always amused her to see the younger folk at the shops, walking along sucking at what she thought of as baby bottles. That was what you got for being old – you lived to see a new generation displaying what you considered incomprehensible quirks of behaviour, but which they considered normal.
She got him a glass of water and watched him enjoy every last drop then put the glass into her dishwasher without needing to be told. Another good point.
‘Do sit down. Thomas will be here any minute. He’s always punctual.’
‘I’m not in a rush to go anywhere else, Mrs Blakemere.’
‘Ms. I’ve always kept my maiden name. It originally meant “someone who lives close to a dark pond”.’
A couple of minutes later, her friend rang the doorbell and poked his head inside the hall. ‘All right if I come in, Sarah?’
‘Of course. This is Col, who now owns our cleaning service. Penny couldn’t come today so he kindly filled in for her. Col, this is Thomas Norcott, another of your clients.’
The two men nodded, studying one another in a quick, wary analysis, as males of any species often did.
She waited for them to finish staring and relax a little before asking, ‘Would you like a sundowner, Thomas?’
‘Do you really need to ask, Sarah, darling?’
‘No. I was just being polite. How about you, Col? Can I offer you a glass of white wine?’
He hesitated. ‘It’s tempting, Ms Blakemere, but I don’t want to intrude.’
She flapped one hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Intrude away. You’re about to do me a favour.’
‘Well then, just a half glass because I’m driving.’
‘We’ll get the signing over and done with first, shall we?’
It took only a short time to do that, but as she signed and initialled the will, she prayed it really would change the beneficiaries’ lives. She didn’t like to think of members of her family living in such a tame, colourless way. She had a few things she intended to plan for them.
When they were sitting by the water afterwards, Thomas raised his glass and smiled at her. ‘That will is going to throw the metaphorical cat among the family pigeons for your two great-nieces, you know.’
‘Well, they sound as if they need stirring up. I trust Josie’s judgement about that. My niece-in-law is a very shrewd woman.’
Thomas said, ‘Not everyone has your zest for adventure and mayhem, Sarah. Maybe these two young women would rather lead a quiet life.’
‘I only create moderate mayhem! Josie doesn’t think those two are happy and I trust her judgement. I wish I could see what happens to them if they do agree to come here. Remember, I’m relying on you to keep an eye on them, Thomas, and nudge them a bit, if necessary.’
‘I know. I won’t let you down.’ He raised his glass to her and took another sip.
Then they went on to more general topics of conversation that included Col, who only improved on acquaintance, she decided.
Six months later Sarah collapsed and was rushed to hospital.
Not many people die with a smile on their face, but at almost ninety-six she was a realist and had accepted for the past few weeks that her body was suddenly considering itself worn out and leaving her … well, permanently weary. She hadn’t said anything or gone to see the doctor, because she didn’t want to linger in a hospice, having to be tended to like a baby.
Thomas had noticed the difference, of course he had, but he hadn’t pushed her to talk about how she was feeling and she hadn’t volunteered any information, just hired a little extra help around the house. She intended to die as she’d lived, by her own rules.
Now, lying back in her hospital bed with Thomas by her side, she let out a faint, gasping chuckle.
‘I’ve lived a nice, full life, haven’t I?’
‘Very full.’
‘It’s been fascinating. My only regret … is that I won’t see the effects … of my will. One day, I hope … those two young women will remember me … with gratitude.’
Thomas raised the hand he was holding to his lips. ‘I’m sure they will, my lovely friend. And I’m grateful, too. Your friendship has meant a lot to me.’
She blew a feeble kiss at him, smiled then closed her eyes. She didn’t open them again, just sighed softly into oblivion.
He ignored the hovering nurse and kissed Sarah’s hand one final time. ‘You went off into the sunset with the same courage as you lived your life, my dearest friend. I’ll keep an eye on your relatives for you. Heaven knows I haven’t any other pressing duties. I’m going to miss you dreadfully.’
Only then did he leave her.
Chapter Two
Wiltshire, England
When Fleur Blakemere was asked to sign for a registered letter, she checked the address first to make sure it really was for her, wondering what on earth it could contain to need such an expensive and old-fashioned form of delivery. She looked at the address on the back and realised it was from someone in Australia: Grebe, Manyweather and Titmell. That sounded like a bunch of lawyers to her; they often seemed to have quirky names.
The only person she knew down under was her great-aunt Sarah, but she’d died last month so it couldn’t be from her, because she’d have no reason to leave Fleur anything.
She suddenly caught sight of the clock and dropped the letter on the kitchen surface. She’d be late for work if she didn’t leave immediately. The letter would have to wait till later.
She got as far as the carport just outside her unit, then stopped without unlocking her car and spoke aloud. ‘No! I need to open it now.’ If she didn’t find out what the letter was about she’d worry all day. And if she took it with her to open at work, the others would want to know what it was about.
Very well, then. She’d go back and open it, just have a quick look. This was a big decision for her: it’d be the first time in two years with that company that she’d be late. Her new boss didn’t deserve such immaculate behaviour from his customer relations staff anyway, unlike the old one, who’d been a delight to work with. She was thinking of looking for another job.
She went back into her unit and flung her handbag down on a chair. Picking up the large envelope, she cut it neatly open with her kitchen scissors. A sealed letter and a bundle of papers slid out.
The top paper on the bundle was a letter from a legal firm. Ha! She’d guessed that correctly! It was signed by someone called Jeremiah Grebe. Even his first name was old-fashioned.
She scanned it quickly. It said … no, it couldn’t – but it did! She was one of two equal beneficiaries of the entire estate of the late Sarah Blakemere. The bequest included enough money ‘gainfully invested’ to live on comfortably, as well as half of a waterfront house and its contents, situated in a Western Australian town called Mandurah.
She gasped and looked at it again, to make sure she’d read it correctly. Yes, she had. ‘Oh, my goodness!’
A copy of the will was enclosed. She might wish to show it to her own lawyer to verify that it was genuine. She didn’t really have a lawyer, only a divorce lawyer and he wouldn’t be an expert on wills!
Jeremiah had also enclosed a letter from their late client containing a personal request, and would be grateful if Fleur could contact them as soon as convenient after reading it in order to discuss the necessary arrangements.
Necessary arrangements for what?
She sat down abruptly at the small table, marvelling that Cousin Sarah had left her what sounded to be a small fortune, then wondering what it was her great-aunt wanted her to do. She hesitated. Should she read the will first or the letter?
The envelope caught her eye. It had her name on it in the beautiful copperplate handwriting she recognised as belonging to Cousin Sarah, who had sent Fleur’s parents an old-fashioned snail mail letter with the Christmas card every year.
It was a no-brainer. She opened the beautifully inscribed envelope first.
Dear Fleur
I haven’t seen you since you were a child, but I remember clearly playing with you on the beach. You used to build such beautiful sandcastles, I was sure you’d grow up to become an architect.
Ah well, those memories will have died with me by the time you read this, but as you will have found out, I’ve left you and your cousin Portia half of what I own each. Had they lived, your father and Jim would have been my heirs, but now you and Portia are the only Blakemeres left who are close relatives, hence the bequest.
I hope you’ll enjoy my gifts. Money doesn’t always make people happy but it does give them a comfortable life, which is not to be sneezed at. I hope it will give you the chance to do whatever you most wish with your life.
I have been fortunate and had a richly satisfying life and my only regret is not being able to have children.
Now I’ll get to the main point of this letter: I’d like you to do something for me. Legally, I’m told I can’t insist on it, but could you please do it for me anyway?
I would be very grateful if you’d come to Australia and live in my house for a year. I need someone to sort out the family documents and photographs. I could never bring myself to do that job. I ended up in tears whenever I tried, because I’d known and loved so many of the people in the photos. All gone now. I’m the last of my generation.
Some of the photos go back four or five generations and if you and Portia don’t keep them safe, who else will? We owe that to our family.
They’re stored in the office on the ground floor of my home and I did get as far as writing the names of the people I knew on the backs of their photos, as others had done with the earlier ones.
If you and Portia could scan them, the digital copies could then be shared with any other family members interested in our ancestry.
It makes me very sad to think of a stranger from the lawyer’s office clearing out that room and throwing away our family history.
I know it’s a big ask for you to give up a year of your life, but please would you do that for me? All your fares and household expenses will be paid from the estate during this year, naturally.
Afterwards you and Portia can dispose of the house and its other contents as you see fit and get on with your lives with my blessing and gratitude.
I hope you have a happy life. Don’t waste a single minute. The years go past far too quickly.
All my love
Sarah
P.S. I’d prefer you not to bring any other family members with you to Australia. My gift is only for you and Portia in the first instance.
Fleur gaped at the letter, unable to believe what it was asking her to do. She read it again, stopping now and then to think about some detail.
The biggest impact would naturally be the money. After her divorce, her share had been barely enough to buy a small town house. She had been determined not to saddle herself with a mortgage.
Her former husband had used his share to buy a luxury flat for himself, which would have needed a mortgage. No doubt he could afford it. He was still climbing the corporate ladders. Terry rarely bothered to invite his children to visit him and after the first couple of times, James had refused to go again, saying he was too busy with his studies.
Now, Marie was in her second year at university and James was about to complete his apprenticeship in cabinet making. Neither of them was based at home any longer, though they still visited her occasionally. That meant she was free to do as Sarah had asked and go to Australia – if she wanted to.
What would her children say about this bequest and how would they feel about her going away for a whole year? She wasn’t going to tell them the details or Marie would pass them on to her father, who’d try to shove his nose in.
Fleur picked up the will and read it from beginning to end, even more shocked by the time she’d finished at how much she’d inherit.
The gifts from her great-aunt Sarah included not only the house but a portfolio of blue-chip stocks and shares, and a substantial sum of money, mostly on long-term deposit. The amount the shares were likely to earn for her annually literally took her breath away.
Thank goodness this had happened after her divorce. She’d have hated it if she’d had to share this largesse with that unfaithful rat when they divided their goods. Ooh, Terry was going to be furious about this.
She felt her smile fade. Could she face going to Australia on her own and living for a year in a place where she knew no one, though? She wasn’t at all the adventurous type.
Oh dear, she couldn’t refuse to do it, couldn’t live with herself if she denied a dead woman her last wish, clearly a heartfelt one. And allowing the Blakemere family history to be destroyed would definitely be a crime.
Then she remembered the cousin who was also a beneficiary, the cousin she’d never met because their fathers had fallen out and not spoken to one another for decades. She and this Portia would presumably be sharing the house during that year in Australia. Oh goodness, living with a complete stranger might throw up all sorts of problems. What if they didn’t get on?
She put the kettle on and made herself a cup of coffee, then suddenly realised that she hadn’t phoned work to tell them she wasn’t coming in today. She felt guilty at saying she was ill, but she couldn’t deal with customers’ complaints while she was in this emotional turmoil. Or with her new manager.
That call was made quickly, after which she read Cousin Sarah’s letter again and then sat staring into space, worrying about it.
But she kept coming to the same conclusion. Whatever it took, she had to do as her generous aunt had requested.
Chapter Three
Newcastle upon Tyne, England
Portia Blakemere glanced at her watch as she signed for a large envelope sent from Australia by express post. She had to leave for work, didn’t dare delay her departure to open this, because there was a strong likelihood of coming redundancies in her area and she didn’t want to be seen as a slacker, easy to get rid of.
Flinging it on the table of her tiny flat, she drove to the office, trying to look eager and alert as she walked in.
Nothing happened during the morning and she was beginning to hope that the rumours had been wrong when she was called in to see the section manager just before lunch. Her heart sank as she walked down the corridor to his office.
Oh no! Please, no! Not me! Not again!
‘Ah, Ms Blakemere. Please take a seat.’ He waited till she’d sat down to say in his cold, emotionless voice, ‘You may have some idea of why I’ve asked to see you today.’
She looked at his smug face, resenting his tone and refused to guess at what was about to happen. She wasn’t going to save him from an unpleasant chore. ‘No, Mr Paulson. I’ve been so tied up with my current project I haven’t had time to listen to office gossip.’
‘Ah, well. Right. There is a need for this section of the company to downsize and, ahem, I’m afraid your job has been deleted. As there isn’t another job suited to your skills, sadly we’ll have to let you go.’
She’d guessed correctly but it felt a lot worse to hear it put into words in such a cold tone. Let her go! Sack her, he meant. She hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d cope with being out of work for the second time in a year. She’d been struggling with mild depression for a while, but this would send her even deeper into what she thought of as ‘the darkness’, she was sure.
He waited, then prompted, ‘Do you have any questions?’
Her mind went blank. ‘Not really. I presume I’ll get the redundancy pay I’m entitled to.’
‘Of course. But you’ve only been with us a few months, so it won’t amount to much.’
‘And then I’ll have to find another job, so I’d appreciate references.’
‘Um, yes. We shall, of course, give you a reference as needed. Your work has, um, been very satisfactory.’
She suddenly felt desperate to get away from him. A tailor’s dummy had more life in it than he ever displayed. ‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite.’
He hesitated for a moment and her heart sank. What else could there be?
‘The head of HR feels it’s best to get this sort of thing over and done with quickly, so I’ll just let them know I’ve told you and someone will come across to help you pack your personal possessions. You can then leave immediately.’
Her immediate thought was: make that, they’ll want to check that you don’t take away a single pencil you’re not entitled to and then to boot you out of the door quickly to save hassles and scenes.
He picked up the phone and made a call, saying simply, ‘I’ve informed Ms Blakemere of the situation. Thank you.’
He turned back to her. ‘Someone will be here in a few moments.’ He then sat drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, not even trying to make conversation let alone say anything to soften the blow.
When the HR liaison officer came in wearing a badge saying ‘Thelma’, Portia stood up and left his office, only saying goodbye to him because she might need a reference. All he did was mutter something indistinguishable in response.
She walked back to her desk without a word to anyone she passed. They were mostly avoiding looking at her anyway. They clearly knew what had just happened.
There was a large cardboard box sitting on her desk now. No, not her desk any longer.
‘We’ve provided a box for your possessions,’ Thelma said unnecessarily. ‘You, um, don’t need to return it.’
‘How kind.’ Portia began throwing her things into the box any old how, and was surprised at how quickly she’d packed her stuff. It wasn’t even half full.
‘Do you have a car, Ms Blakemere? I can help you carry your things out.’
The double conversation continued in Portia’s head. In other words, Thelma would see her off the premises.
Aloud she said, ‘Yes, I do have a car. This plant is mine, too, so if you’ll carry the box out for me, that’ll be a big help. I can carry the plant and my handbag. I’ll just put my coat on first.’
She looked round. Had she missed anything? ‘Oh, I nearly forgot my mug.’ She hurried across to the tea-making area in the corridor and came back to add the mug to the box. She didn’t intend to leave anything of herself behind, had hated working here if truth be told.
‘I’m ready.’
‘Lead the way, Ms Blakemere. I presume you’re in the company car parking area next door?’
‘Yes.’
She set off, didn’t say anything as they walked out, just nodded vaguely in farewell as she passed people she was on friendlier terms with. All she wanted to do now was get home and have a good cry.
Someone called out goodbye and good luck, but she didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She’d only been here for six months and it had taken four months before that to find even a lowly job after the previous business she’d worked in had gone bankrupt suddenly.
How long would it take her to find the next job? She hated being on social security, shuddered at the mere thought of counting the cost of each slice of bread again and struggling to find money to put petrol in her elderly car to get to a job interview.
‘This is mine.’ She opened the boot and Thelma put the box in.
‘Good luck.’
She didn’t bother to answer, because footsteps were already moving away. She closed the boot and got into the car, but didn’t bother to look round. It took her a moment or two to pull herself together because she was determined not to cry till she got away from here. Not that anyone would see her if she did cry now. At this time of day she seemed to be the only living creature in the big, echoing space of the car park.
She was thirty-two now. It seemed harder to find these low-level jobs once you were out of your twenties. She did babysitting to earn extra money, but that didn’t bring in enough to live off comfortably.
She didn’t intend to study for more qualifications because she didn’t want to climb any corporate ladders. She’d struggled through a basic secretarial studies course after school and had hated every minute of it. Maybe she should try to get a qualification in childcare because she didn’t want to spend her life in stuffy offices and anyway she enjoyed being with small children.
The trouble was, she was dyslexic and had trouble reading quickly enough to keep up with attending a course of studies in person, let alone do exams in the time specified. She tried not to let people find out about her problem because some seemed to equate dyslexia with being stupid, which was unfair and incorrect.
She didn’t think she was stupid. She’d managed to survive on her own since she left home for the second time after going back to help nurse her father through his final bout of cancer, hadn’t she?
But she didn’t know what to do with her working life beyond earn a meagre living and have some money for her little hobbies.
Oh, who knew anything?
When Portia got back to her tiny bedsitter on the second floor of a shabby terrace of narrow houses, she set the plant down carefully on the windowsill and stood admiring it. It was a really pretty one, had cheered her up a little in that soulless office cubicle, which didn’t even have a window.
She suddenly noticed the big envelope, still sitting where she’d tossed it this morning. She walked past it, didn’t want to read anything, thank you very much.
She went out to her car for the box, dumped it on the table, locked the door on the world and put the kettle on. Now that she could cry safely, she didn’t feel like doing it. Instead, anger was bubbling up inside her.
Not until she was sipping a cup of her favourite coffee did she pick up the envelope and stare at it. It was from some company called Grebe, Manyweather and Titmell. Must be lawyers with weird names like that. She might as well see what this was about. They’d probably mistaken her for someone else – only, not many people were called Portia these days and Blakemere was an unusual surname.
She tore open the envelope any old how. Inside she found a smaller envelope and a pile of papers clipped together, the top one a letter.
She sighed and nearly didn’t read on because she felt so weary and upset, but then told herself not to be stupid and put on the special tinted glasses that helped a bit with reading.
She picked up the single sheet of paper. When she’d finished reading it, she frowned and shook her head instinctively. This couldn’t be true, surely? Was it a scam of some sort?
She read it through again slowly and carefully. Unless this was a hugely expensive practical joke, which didn’t seem likely, it must be true.
The tears did come then, tears of utter relief, tears of joy – well, she thought it was joy, only she hadn’t felt like this for such a long time, so had almost forgotten how it felt to have the everyday burdens lifted completely from her shoulders. Hope danced around her like warm sunshine on a summer’s day.
After a short bout of fierce weeping, she realised she hadn’t opened the envelope, so picked it up, not tearing this one open because it was so beautifully handwritten, a real work of art. She loved beautiful things.
She didn’t recognise the handwriting but somehow she felt sure she would have liked the person who took such care to make a letter to a stranger look exquisite.
Sarah Blakemere must be one of her father’s relatives but he’d died a few years ago so she couldn’t ask him how they were connected. He’d probably not have told her anyway, because he hated talking about his family.
Her mother was all tied up with a new man she’d met last year and good luck to her. She deserved something good after nursing her husband through terminal cancer.
Portia read the beautiful letter slowly and carefully, gasping in shock at what the writer wanted her to do.
No way!
She’d be terrified of going to Australia on her own, utterly terrified. No, she definitely couldn’t do that.
But this Sarah Blakemere had left her a lot of money, so how could she not do as the woman had asked, begged almost? How was this Sarah related to her anyway – aunt or cousin or what?
Portia sat very still as she slowly realised that somehow she had to dredge up the courage to do it, because Sarah’s gift would make the whole of her life easier – and so much happier.
Only then did it fully sink in that it didn’t matter that she’d been made redundant today. If she was careful with the inheritance – and boy, what a good training she’d had at making every penny count – she might never have to work in a job she hated again.
She might even be able to follow her heart and work full time at what she really wanted to do for the first time in her whole adult life.
She kept wiping tears away, tears of relief this time, and murmuring, ‘Thank you, Sarah. Thank you so very much.’
Once she’d managed to calm down, Portia phoned her mother, who was bubbling with happiness about a coming weekend away with her new guy.
Eventually, her mother listened to her daughter’s news, which always came second, then there was silence at the other end.
‘Mum? Is something wrong?’
‘This Sarah seems to have left out what remains of my generation completely from her generosity.’
Until then, that hadn’t occurred to Portia. ‘I’m sorry. I never thought of that. I was so excited about it because I got made redundant today.’
‘Oh, darling. Not another job hunt.’
‘I won’t need to now. But there’s something else comes with the bequest.’ She explained about the year in Australia.
‘Sarah can’t make you do that. Speak to your aunt Josie about it. I’m sure she’ll know what you should do and support you in it. If I remember correctly, I read in one of my novels that it’s unlawful to put clauses like that into wills these days.’
Her mother seemed to believe nearly everything she read in the romances she’d become addicted to during her husband’s long illness.
‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s lawful or not, Mum. Sarah didn’t put it in the will; she wrote me a letter asking if I’d please do it for her.’
‘Moral blackmail. You’re surely not going to fall for it. You’ve never even met the woman. You left Australia when you were only a few months old.’
‘I am going to do it. It’s only fair.’
‘I see. Well, congratulations on your good luck. I have to go now.’ She cut the connection.
Portia put her phone down. It hadn’t occurred to her that her mother would be jealous, but she clearly was. Yet, her mother had been left the family house and life insurance money by her father, so was comfortably circumstanced. And she was now in another relationship, living with a guy who already owned his own house, so she wasn’t exactly struggling to survive. Now she had Ross, she wasn’t struggling emotionally either.
Was this inheritance going to come between her and her mother? If so, perhaps she should refuse to go to Australia. If it wasn’t a legal requirement, it wouldn’t affect the legacy.
Portia shook her head. No. It was a dying woman’s final request and Sarah’s money would make her whole life easier. She was going to Australia because it was, quite simply, the right thing to do.
But the thought of all that it would entail terrified her. And it upset her to be at odds with her mother, too.
She picked up the phone and rang her father’s sister-in-law. Josie Blakemere was a nice woman, the sort you could confide in. They’d corresponded a few times since her mother had asked her to let Josie know that Portia’s father had died. He had, after all, been related to Josie’s husband, who’d also died.
‘Josie Blakemere.’
‘It’s me, Portia. I just heard from some lawyers in Australia. Did you know about Sarah Blakemere’s bequest?’
‘Yes, dear. She told me about it a few months ago. So kind of her to do that for you.’
‘Is she an aunt or a cousin?’
‘Some sort of distant cousin, I think.’
‘Mum’s a bit miffed about it, says she’s been missed out.’
‘What? She’s only a Blakemere by marriage, like me. Sarah wanted to keep the money and the historical stuff in the family, and I think that was the right thing to do.’
‘Can you have a word with Mum about it? Calm her down?’
‘Not really. She’d just tell me to mind my own business. Families can be difficult, Portia, dear. Sometimes you just have to accept that and let people get on with their thing, while you do what you think right.’
‘Do you think I should go to Australia and do as Cousin Sarah asked?’
‘Of course I do. It’s not unreasonable when her legacy will make you secure for the rest of your life. Don’t let your mother stop you showing your gratitude, dear.’
When she put the phone down, Portia sat staring into space. What a day it had been! From rags to riches – and from love to … what? Jealousy? Greed? She’d never been as close to her mother as her father. They were just so … different.
After a while she took a deep breath, checked the email address of the legal firm, who were located in Western Australia, and sent off a carefully written and spell-checked message saying she would be happy to do as Cousin Sarah wished and spend a year in Australia. She could go there as soon as they liked since she’d just been made redundant – as long as they’d be paying her fare.
She then wondered what to do with the rest of the day, but felt so tired she lay down on the bed and allowed herself a short nap.
When she woke, only half an hour had passed but she felt refreshed. She toasted the cheese sandwich she’d packed that morning for lunch and ate it slowly, half-listening to the radio news as she began to make a list of what would need doing before she left the country for a year.
For a start, it’d make sense to give up the flat and put her possessions into storage – well, anything she wanted to keep. No use paying a year’s rent for this grotty flat when she wouldn’t be living here after she got back. She beamed at her reflection in the speckled mirror at the thought that after she got back she’d be able to buy a nice house somewhere in the country. Her dream come true. How marvellous would that be?
But having no home to come back to would feel scary. Well, everything felt scary at the moment. Get over it! she told herself.
When someone knocked on her door just before teatime, she nearly didn’t answer, then told herself not to be silly.
She was glad she had done because it turned out to be three of her former female colleagues.
One brandished a bottle of wine at her, another had a cake on a plastic plate and the third one hugged her.
‘It wasn’t fair to chuck you out like that without even a farewell morning tea, so we brought you some farewell drinkies instead.’
‘We can all enjoy ourselves saying rude things about old po-face Paulson, which he well deserves.’
That little party lifted Portia’s spirits, but she didn’t tell them exactly what she’d be doing, just said she’d heard of a job in London and had a cousin there, so might look into that.
And yes, of course she’d keep in touch.
Well, she probably wouldn’t, she thought as she waved goodbye and locked the door. They were nice women but she had only known them a short time. It was what you said when leaving a workplace: keep in touch. It was rarely what you did, though. She knew that only too well.
She didn’t really feel certain of anything at the moment, except that she had to go to Australia.
She hoped her co-inheritor, the cousin she’d never met before, would be a nice person, otherwise it’d be a difficult year.
She’d get online tomorrow and find out more about Western Australia.
Chapter Four
When Thomas told him that Sarah had died, Col felt very sad. He’d enjoyed quite a few sundowners with her and Thomas, been invited round to her house, always her house not Thomas’s, for drinks around five o’clock in the afternoon.
He’d quickly realised this was because she no longer drove and couldn’t walk more than a couple of hundred yards without getting breathless.
They usually left her place around seven or sometimes later, staying to share a takeaway with her. It depended on how tired Sarah was and he’d been sad to watch as she gradually started to tire more easily.
She and Thomas didn’t seem like the common stereotype (or would caricature be a more accurate term?) of old people when you got them talking. They completely changed his limited understanding of what it meant to grow older. The two of them had such a gusto for life, such interesting views of the world, that he found his own spirits picking up during a session with them.
He needed that to cope with the sadness he’d been experiencing for a while. His marriage had broken up a couple of years ago, because his wife had found someone she preferred. He still missed her, or rather, missed having a live-in companion.
The trouble was, he hadn’t found another woman he wanted to live with and yet he had developed a deep longing for children before it was too late, stupid fool that he was. It was supposed to be women of his age who felt that, but he felt it very strongly.
He didn’t just want children but a proper family such as you read about in books. That was something he’d never experienced. He’d had a cool and efficient mother, a university lecturer who’d never even tried to live with his father. The latter sent maintenance money but Col had only met him a few times because Jeff was American and lived near his own family.
His mother had done everything necessary to care physically for her unexpected son, Col had to give her that. Only, Jane didn’t like anyone to touch her, and had rarely hugged him, let alone plonked kisses on his cheeks the way he’d seen other mothers do to their children.
Strangely, Sarah had done that a few times, scattering kisses on him and Thomas whenever something had particularly pleased her. Her obvious affection for them had felt like a wonderful gift.
After her death he felt bereft. He’d only known her for a few months but she’d quickly become the grandmother he’d never had and he found himself with tears in his eyes more than once when something reminded him of her.
Thomas had come round to his house to give him the sad news and the kind old man gave him a hug when he couldn’t hold the tears back.
‘I had a good old cry too when I got back from the hospital.’
Col blew his nose and mopped his eyes. ‘I don’t usually cry, but she was so … alive.’
‘Everyone needs to cry when life tosses a sadness grenade at them. Will you come to the funeral with me?’
‘Of course. I want to say a proper goodbye. Shall I drive you?’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
There weren’t many people there and that puzzled Col. ‘I’d expected more people,’ he whispered.
Thomas’s smile was sad. ‘The older you get, the more friends you lose. Most of her generation had crossed the bridge to eternity well ahead of her.’
Afterwards they went to a local hotel, where a private room had been hired for the small group of mourners. Drinks were passed round and people sipped while chatting in hushed voices.
After a while, the lawyer tapped his glass to gain their attention.
