Where There’s a Will

by Beth Corby

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ he disagrees, giving me a sincere smile. ‘If anything, I’m honoured that you’ve told me – you’ve given me a real answer to a difficult question and I respect that.’

  I hesitate, but I might not get this opportunity again any time soon. ‘Then can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s your advice? I mean, to someone in my position.’

  ‘You mean from my position of great wisdom and years?’ he chortles.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He thinks for a moment and I’m grateful that he’s taking my question seriously. ‘I’d say be brave. Don’t let people make you feel insignificant – always remember they don’t have the right. Then I’d say get out there; decide what you want to do and damned well do it. If it’s writing, then get any old job to tide you over while you write. If finding out about life will make you a better writer, then do that. Don’t settle for a second-rate life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I truly mean it.

  He nods almost imperceptibly and as we sit back to allow the next course to be placed in front of us, I notice Alec watching us with an inscrutable expression. Embarrassed, I examine my carefully filleted fish, draped on an island of wilted spinach in beurre blanc and caper sauce – it looks like a dish made in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  Donald clears his throat and I turn my attention back to him, then jump as Grandpa Albert lays his hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Hannah, but she’ll come over if I don’t.’

  The four of us, including Alec, look down the table at Grandma Betty, who’s staring at us with alarming intensity. I bet she hasn’t blinked since we sat down.

  ‘We’re only talking,’ I tell Grandpa Albert, and he nods wearily, though I catch Alec’s eyebrow darting up sceptically in my peripheral vision. I guess it was quite a deep conversation, but still.

  ‘I realise that, but she doesn’t like it. Perhaps if we discuss the food for a moment or two?’

  ‘Of course, Albert,’ says Donald magnanimously. ‘Tell me, what do you think to my excellent chef? He’s on loan from a neighbouring dignitary’s household . . .’

  The rest of lunch passes peacefully, with excellent food and Donald and I carefully confining ourselves to general topics and including Grandpa Albert. Getting up from the table, and surprised I’m not wedged between the arms of the chair given how much I’ve eaten, I file out with everyone to congregate in the entrance hall.

  Donald claps his hands to get our attention, but rather than drawing nearer, I pull back because Grandma Betty keeps checking where I am, which is unnerving. I find myself next to Alec and Grandpa Albert again. Grandpa Albert grins, while Alec regards me with deep wariness. I glare purposefully at him and his expression hardens into one of suspicion. I feel a dart of irritation. What is his problem?

  Donald claps his hands again. ‘Come on everyone, there’s nothing like a walk to aid the digestion, so let’s take a short tour of the neighbourhood. Come, come,’ he urges, indicating everyone’s coats on the pegs. ‘You must see the gardens, and the church is well worth a visit.’

  Shrugging into his coat, Donald picks up a walking stick, and Lauren hurries to take his other arm, clamping on like a limpet that’s just been told its rock is about to be repossessed. I watch her fawning and preening, and guess she must have been seriously rattled by Uncle Donald’s interest in me at lunch, perhaps even experiencing a taste of what it’s been like for me for the last twenty-five years, but I can’t help hoping Donald sees through her nefarious motives. Lauren laughs exuberantly as they head outside, but as Donald checks to see if we’re all following, his eyes meet mine for just an instant. I’m relieved to see them filled with wry amusement at Lauren’s behaviour. I smile at him and drop to the back of the crowd. I find myself next to Grandpa Albert and Alec again. I don’t seem to be able to shake off the man!

  We follow the crowd down the drive, and watch Uncle Donald use his stick to point out various historical features, nearby landmarks and, for Betty’s benefit, dense areas of shrubbery. Grandma Betty sniffs irritably, her mouth pinched in disgust as if she’s sucking an old fluff-covered sweet from the bottom of her pocket.

  ‘So, Alec,’ begins Grandpa Albert as we stroll towards the church. ‘You’re Donald’s personal assistant. Is that an interesting job?’

  ‘It’s never dull,’ says Alec, glancing at me. Yes, I’m eavesdropping, so sue me!

  ‘I didn’t think it would be, but you like working for him? He’s a good employer?’

  Alec hesitates. ‘Yes, most of the time,’ he says mysteriously.

  ‘Most of the time?’ asks Grandpa Albert with gentle curiosity.

  ‘I’d say about ninety-five per cent of the time it’s great. He’s in a good mood: full of the spice of life, all ideas and excitement.’

  ‘And the other five per cent . . . ?’

  ‘. . . is bloody awful,’ says Alec with a big grin, the smile transforming his face, but then his eye catches mine and his expression falls as if at the flick of a switch. He looks away from me. ‘He has these wild schemes, some of which are clearly ridiculous, and if they don’t work out, he sinks to the absolute depths of despair and behaves like the worst toddler you’ve ever seen!’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ mutters Grandpa Albert. We gaze after Grandma Betty, none of us quite daring to comment. ‘But you get on?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s been wonderful and looked out for me when people didn’t always have my best interests at heart; a generosity I hope I return,’ he says, his eyes meeting mine in warning.

  What is his problem? It’s not my fault that Donald and I got on well. Or is he jealous of any competition? Honestly, I reckon he and Lauren are a match made in heaven. Throwing him one of my dirtiest looks, I hurry in through the church gate to catch up with Mum and Dad.

  Strolling alongside them, I focus on Donald’s commentary and watch as he strikes out with his walking stick to show yet another item of interest, narrowly avoiding Aunty Pam. Suspecting an element of intent was involved, I pay more attention as Grandma Betty leans over to examine a gravestone, and sure enough, Uncle Donald’s stick swipes perilously close to her bottom. He clears his throat noisily before speaking to Uncle Nigel, and I’m certain he’s covering up a snigger as he leads us all into the church.

  Arriving back at The Laurels, we hang up our coats and I slump into one of the drawing-room chairs. Everyone else gravitates toward a sideboard where afternoon tea is laid out, and they all fall on the wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches, decorated cupcakes and pretty biscuits as though they haven’t recently eaten a massive four-course lunch. Though now I think about it, I am a little peckish . . .

  It’s amazing how much dainty food you can put away. I put my plate aside, feeling like I’ve swallowed the sofa, and survey the room drowsily.

  Everyone is relaxing in the luxury Donald has been careful to provide, listening to his risqué stories, and Lauren is hanging off his every word, but oddly this doesn’t seem to bother Grandma Betty. I watch the cake stands empty and the light begin to fade, and I’m almost dropping off when, on the dot of four, Grandma Betty stands up, placing her cup and saucer on the tray, and gives Aunty Pam a meaningful look.

  ‘Yes, it’s getting late,’ says Aunty Pam, cottoning on. ‘Long drive,’ she adds, elbowing Uncle Nigel sharply.

  ‘Er, yes,’ he agrees, jerking awake.

  I pull myself upright, feeling strangely sad about leaving Donald and The Laurels.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ says Mum, taking up the refrain and going over to kiss Donald on the cheek. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us.’

  Donald is clearly taken aback by my family’s abruptness, but he recovers quickly. ‘My pleasure,’ he says as Alec helps him up, and the way Donald shuffles to his feet shows the day has taken its toll on him.

  Grandma Betty squares up to him with a forbidding expression, and I suddenly want to put myself between them. ‘Well, Donald
. I suppose this is goodbye.’

  ‘It could be au revoir?’ He smiles cheekily.

  ‘I think you and I can agree that we shan’t be repeating this nonsense.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps “bugger off” would be more apt,’ he says mildly, and I stifle a giggle.

  ‘A simple goodbye will do, Donald,’ says Grandma Betty, shooting me yet another disapproving look.

  ‘Then I guess it’s goodbye, Betty,’ he says, his tone oddly mournful.

  ‘Goodbye, Donald.’ Grandma Betty eyes him suspiciously as if waiting for the punchline, but he just smiles blandly, so she humphs and stomps off to collect her coat from the hall.

  Of course Lauren rushes forward next, gushing and pouting, and everyone else forms a queue behind her as she kisses him ‘mwah, mwah’ on each cheek.

  I’m one of the last to say goodbye, and I smile at him, suddenly shy.

  ‘Hannah, it’s been lovely,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, it was a lot more fun than I expected,’ I say truthfully, and out of the corner of my eye I see Lauren roll her eyes.

  ‘I’m glad,’ says Donald, giving me the merest hint of a wink. ‘And I enjoyed our talk at lunch.’

  Before I can reply, Uncle Nigel sweeps me aside. ‘Thank you for having us,’ he says briskly, clearly wanting to get off home, and I turn to find Alec glowering down at me.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ he says, distaste edging his voice.

  ‘Are you? Why?’ I ask bluntly.

  His eyes narrow, but he seems lost for words – or polite ones, anyway. I take the opportunity to stroll over to where Lauren is waiting for me.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she hisses furiously. ‘He’s gorgeous, and you’re being really rude.’ She flashes him a seductive grin over my shoulder.

  I shrug. ‘Manners beats looks every time.’

  ‘So where are yours, then?’ she asks, and shakes her head at me before stalking off after Mum and Dad. She may have a point, but I only gave as good as I got.

  I turn to find Alec watching me. Concerned he may have heard, I follow her out and get in the car, avoiding eye contact with him as he and Donald come out to see everyone off. I give Donald a small wave, but as Dad starts the engine I gasp. ‘Wait! I’ve forgotten my coat!’

  Dad sighs as I open the door and get out. ‘Sorry, coat,’ I call, rushing past Alec and Donald.

  As I come back out they’re waving off the other cars, and I head for ours, but just as I reach for the door handle I feel a hand on my arm. I turn and I’m face to face with Alec. He’s closer than I expected, and I find myself looking into his eyes. They’re as hard as flint, though there’s a hint of jade . . .

  ‘Could Donald have a quick word?’ he asks, his hand flinching from my arm.

  I blink. ‘Er, yes?’ I say, letting go of the door handle and following Alec back to where Donald is waiting.

  ‘Hannah, I just had to ask: what do you call Betty when she’s not around?’ asks Donald keenly.

  ‘What?’ I ask, feeling awkward. I mean, I know what Donald’s asking, but I feel I have to say, ‘Grandma Betty?’

  He purses his lips. ‘Come on. Give it up. What’s her nickname? She must have one.’

  I glance back at our car to check all the doors are closed and lean in a little closer. ‘Lauren and I call her “Blast-off Betty”.’

  Donald barks out a laugh. ‘Marvellous,’ he cries. ‘It suits her.’

  His laugh is infectious, and I can’t help laughing too. Even Alec’s mouth is twitching.

  Donald takes my hand in both of his, looking deeply into my eyes. ‘I’ve really enjoyed meeting you today.’ His sincerity surprises me, and it feels like he’s trying to fit extra meaning into his words.

  ‘Me too. I’ve loved it, and I’ll bear in mind everything you said at lunch.’

  ‘Please do,’ he says. He looks at me for a long moment, then pulls me into a hug. I grip him tight, alarmed by how brittle he feels; like a small bird. I meet Alec’s gaze, my anxiety for Donald echoed in his expression.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to be magnificent,’ says Donald. ‘It’s the best advice I can give you,’ and he gives me one last squeeze before shooing me back to the car.

  As I climb in, I wave and Donald waves back. Alec just stares, arms crossed.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Mum as we pull away up the drive.

  ‘Nothing really,’ I reply. ‘Just saying goodbye.’

  Chapter 5

  It’s been more than three months since I was last standing here in front of The Laurels, and the house and grounds look beautiful in the May sunshine. Despite the gorgeous weather, everyone is looking pretty sombre, but that’s as it should be for a funeral, I suppose.

  Lauren is standing by our parents sniffing daintily and dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. She’s leaning into Mum for support, and I suppress a snort – I don’t remember her being that distressed during the phone call last week.

  ‘Hannah it’s me. Mum asked me to tell you that Uncle Donald died and his funeral is next week.’ No preamble, just that. It was like she’d punched me. Lucky my bed was right behind me because my knees buckled.

  ‘Hannah? Did you hear me? Hannah?’ she’d bleated through my wave of nausea.

  ‘When?’ I finally managed.

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘No, I mean, when did he die?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A couple of days ago? Does it matter?’

  Of course it does.

  Watching her now, I stuff my hands a little deeper into my pockets, and Lauren’s scorn flashes back to me. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hannah, don’t tell me you’re upset – you only met him once!’

  I drag my eyes away from her.

  Grandma Betty is complaining as she straightens Grandpa Albert’s tie. According to her, ten o’clock is too early in the day for a funeral. She gives The Laurels a disparaging look. ‘And why we have to wait out here instead of in the church, I don’t know. I have a good mind to get back in the car.’ No one says anything, but I can’t help thinking her irritation would have pleased Uncle Donald.

  Mum and Dad are staring down the drive, and Mum’s arm is around Lauren’s waist. She gives Lauren a little comforting squeeze, and I manage to resist the impulse to scowl at them. Instead, I turn my attention to Uncle Nigel, who is polishing his wing mirrors, and Aunty Pam, who’s checking her hair in the passenger window’s reflection.

  Nicholas is the only one who doesn’t seem bored. He’s leaning against his Porsche looking suspiciously smug, and it’s not hard to imagine what he’s thinking about. He smirks at me and I give him my best look of derision, but if anything, he looks even more self-satisfied.

  The distant clop of horses’ hooves draws my attention, and after a few moments a lavish horse-drawn hearse rattles from the shadows of the laurel trees. It’s impressive, with plumed horses and black fretwork, reminding me of old Sherlock Holmes films. It makes a circular sweep of the parking area and halts by the front door, but despite its grandeur I can’t help noticing the pale pine coffin, my eyes welling with tears. How can a person as vibrant as Donald be in there?

  Grandma Betty tuts. I peer up at the sky to stop any tears from falling, but for once she isn’t tutting at me.

  ‘It’s white lilies for a funeral, everyone knows that!’ she snaps.

  Only then do I notice the beautiful, decadent red roses arranged across the coffin lid. Suddenly certain Uncle Donald chose them to piss off Grandma Betty, I hide an inadvertent grin.

  ‘Driver!’ calls Grandma Betty, striding up to the front and pointedly ignoring a small drummer boy who’s busy picking his nose at the coachman’s side. ‘Where are the cars for the mourners?’

  The driver nudges the boy and touches the rim of his top hat. ‘There aren’t any, Ma’am,’ he says, quickly reining in the horses which, unsettled by Grandma Betty’s strident tones, are shifting restlessly.

  ‘Is there any form of transport for the mour
ners?’ she asks, her eyes narrowing, and I have to commend the driver for holding his ground.

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she explodes, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot, suggesting her anger is in part due to her new pinching shoes. She’s spared no expense, buying a complete new outfit, but karma seems to have spotted her fake, shop-bought grief and given her something tangible to be upset about. I can’t help admiring the justice.

  I’m pulled from my musings by Alec’s voice. He’s only speaking quietly to the driver, but it catches my attention as if he’s called me by name. The driver pats him solemnly on the shoulder before passing down a tray of red-rose posies. Taking it, Alec glances at me and I notice the dark circles under his sunken eyes before he looks away. I follow his every move as, drawn and exhausted, he passes between us, handing a posy wordlessly to each woman. Grandma Betty’s obvious repugnance of her posy is pretty funny, but it gets even better as Alec leads her, all pursed lips and outrage, to stand behind the coach. He indicates that Mum and Aunty Pam should stand behind her, and that Lauren and I should file in behind them. The men fall in behind us, and as the driver calls ‘walk on’, Alec follows right at the back, all by himself.

  There is something poignant about our stately progress, going back the way we came on our last visit, with the boy walking in front of the horses striking his drum, leading us towards the church. Tears sting my eyes again, but the moment seems lost on Grandma Betty.

  ‘He’s made us into a bevy of mourning women,’ she hisses over her shoulder. ‘And if he expects me to wail and weep and stagger, he’s got another thing coming!’ She looks forbiddingly at Mum and Aunty Pam. ‘We shall carry out this debacle with some dignity,’ she declares, and promptly staggers around a large, steaming deposit of manure.