by Imogen Clark
Now I was confused.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, but she didn’t reply.
Instead she stood up, brushing the crumbs from her lap on to the grass, and looked at her watch. ‘I have to go or I’ll be late for my second shift but I’ll see you again soon. And expect a call from Marlon. Thanks for the picnic. And . . .’ she paused. ‘Well, thanks for everything, Leah.’
I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but I said, ‘You’re welcome,’ anyway.
50
GRACE – NOW
‘Mother!’
Grace could hear Hector’s voice searching her out, but she did not respond for a second or two. She inhaled slowly, deeply. She needed a moment of preparation before going to see what he wanted. She wished he wouldn’t bellow so, or call her ‘Mother’ for that matter, an affectation that he had acquired at boarding school and never seemed to have totally shaken off. It made her feel about a thousand years old and she’d asked him to call her something else – even Grace would be preferable – but Hector didn’t seem to be able to lose the habit, even though he was now thirty-five.
In the three months since Charles’s death, it would be fair to say that Hector had been unbearable. To begin with, Grace had assumed that her son’s bad-tempered rudeness was just a symptom of his grief. Where Clio had been tearful and a little lost at Charles’s unexpected demise, Hector had been angry, as if his father had somehow cheated him out of something by dying so unexpectedly. That was the way with an aneurysm, or so said the very young and exhausted-looking doctor who came to inform them that unfortunately they had been unable to resuscitate Charles. Charles had gone to bed in the afternoon with a migraine and never woken up. By the time Grace went in to check on him at dinnertime, his greying complexion suggested that it was already too late to save him, but she had called an ambulance and the paramedics had tried to revive him all the way to the hospital. But it was to no avail. Charles had left this world with the kind of high drama with which he lived in it.
Clio seemed to be dealing with her grief better than her brother, having had an intense but brief period of deep mourning that quickly slipped into a more general malaise. This had also passed quickly, and now she was apparently researching university courses despite being more than ten years older than the average student. It was almost as if her father’s death had released something in her that had hitherto been trapped.
Grace had taken her husband’s death with the stoicism that she applied to everything. It had been fifteen years since he had left Melissa and returned to her, and in that time she had got used to living with his betrayal. Sometimes weeks would go by without her thinking about it at all and, despite it all, Grace still loved him. She couldn’t help herself. He was still her Charles, impetuous and fun-seeking, never really taking life too much to heart. She hadn’t told him that she knew about his other life. Speaking out would only disturb the status quo and that was a dangerous game with very high stakes; not one that she was prepared to play. In his turn Charles had never mentioned anything that had happened in Whitley Bay, steadfastly avoiding all subjects that might trip him up, and reversing elegantly out of any blind alleys that he inadvertently turned into. He really was very good at covering his tracks, Grace had come to realise, and she could almost admire the skill with which he had managed to keep his two lives separate. Despite all this, however, her grief at her husband’s death had been profound and deeply painful, but she had marched bravely on, trying to keep things at the Hall as normal as possible. Business as usual: that was the way.
And Hector? Well, he had responded to his father’s death by shouting. He shouted at her and Clio. He shouted at the staff. She had even heard that he’d shouted at the poor vicar’s wife, who generally wouldn’t say boo to a goose. And now here he was shouting again. Feeling suitably prepared, Grace went to find out what he wanted.
She found her son in his father’s office. He was sitting on the floor surrounded by coloured files and sheets of typewritten paper. If they had ever been in any kind of order, that was now most definitely a thing of the past.
‘Ah, Mother,’ he said as she went in. ‘Do you know anything about this stuff of Dad’s? I thought all the important paperwork was either in the estate office or at the solicitor’s, but I’ve just found this file.’ He kicked a black box file with his foot. ‘And it’s full of papers that I can’t work out. It seems we own a house on the coast. In Whitley Bay, of all the godforsaken places. Lord only knows what that’s about.’
Grace’s heart fluttered and she put a hand to her throat instinctively. ‘Yes. Your father bought that house years ago. For . . .’ She hesitated. She shouldn’t bring up Ray. Hector would want to know why no one had ever thought to mention an uncle, and she wasn’t nearly as good as Charles had been at lying.
‘For an investment,’ she continued, pleased that she had managed to think of something on the spot that sounded more or less plausible. ‘I’m sure there’s no need to do anything about it just yet. I’ll mention it to the solicitor next time I’m there.’
She bent down and started to gather up the paperwork.
‘An investment property in a third-rate seaside town? I can’t see the point of that. It needs selling,’ said Hector dismissively.
‘Actually, Whitley Bay is very nice,’ said Grace, oddly feeling the need to defend the house.
Hector wasn’t listening. He flicked Grace away as if she were an over-attentive waitress, shuffled the papers from one pile to another and continued to riffle through the rest of the file’s contents.
‘I’m going to go round to the land agents’ on Monday and see what they think,’ he said. ‘It’s important that I get up to speed on everything so that I can step up, now that Dad’s . . .’ Hector swallowed hard and looked resolutely down at the paper-strewn floor.
Grace’s heart ached for her son, but he seemed to have forgotten that although she had put him in charge of running the estate a year or so before, the Hall and the estate all belonged to her, as did the house in Whitley Bay and any other assets that Charles had held in his own name.
‘There’s no need to sell just yet,’ she said lightly, hoping to put him off. ‘I think the house has tenants in it anyway.’
‘Well, if there are, they don’t pay any rent,’ said Hector crossly. ‘I can’t find any record of a single payment since Dad bought the place back in the eighties. I think we should just serve an eviction notice on whoever’s there. Get them out. It’s no good having bits and pieces scattered all over the shop. Nightmare to manage as well. I mean, who the hell wants to go to Whitley Bay?’
‘It’s doing no harm, Hector,’ Grace said. She was starting to feel alarmed and a little irritated by her son. There was no way that she would allow him to sell the house out from under Leah, but she needed to get Hector to accept this without giving him an explanation. He might be running the estate, but she could and would pull rank on him if he forced her to do so. ‘Let’s just leave everything as it is for now.’
‘But Mother, you must see that it makes no sense to hold on to it,’ he said, and Grace heard the tiniest note of condescension in his tone.
‘I see no such thing, Hector. Please do as I ask and leave the tenants alone,’ she said sternly.
Hector tutted loudly and muttered something inaudible under his breath.
51
LEAH – NOW
‘Hi,’ said a hesitant voice at the other end of the telephone line. ‘It’s me.’
It was Marlon. He’d not rung before so his number had come up as unknown, but I recognised his voice straight away and my heart turned a little somersault.
‘Hello, Me,’ I said.
‘It’s Marlon,’ he added.
I was smiling at him down the phone now.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Oh. Right. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Are you?’
‘What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine too.’
He sounded so flust
ered, all his usual confidence missing. I imagined that this was the phone call in which he was going to ask me out and so, whilst I was feeling a little bit angsty, I was clearly nowhere near as far off my comfort zone as he was. I decided to enjoy it and go with the flow.
‘The thing is,’ he continued. ‘The thing is, you know we went on a, what was it you called it? A “not-date”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . .’
He hesitated and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. I mustn’t do that, though. I might put him off his stride and I really, really wanted him to ask me out. I pressed my lips between my teeth to stop me giggling and waited for him to spit it out.
‘Well,’ he tried again. ‘I was wondering whether you’d like to go out with me. On a real date this time. Not a “not-date”.’
There was a pause. I could hear him holding his breath. It was so sweet. But who was I kidding? I’d been just as anxious waiting for him to call and ask me out as he was doing the asking.
‘I’d love to,’ I said, to put him out of his obvious misery.
‘Oh!’ he said, his voice full of surprise as if he’d been expecting me to turn him down, even though it must have been as obvious as an orange in a box of bananas that I was interested. ‘That’s great. So, when’s good for you?’
‘That depends on what we do,’ I replied. ‘If we stay local to me then pretty much whenever you like. If we go out of town, I’ll need to get a babysitter, so that might take a bit longer.’
I had absolutely no idea who to ask to babysit as I so rarely went very far. My mind was already scanning for daughters of friends who were older than Poppy and who she might be prepared to tolerate when he said, ‘I’ll come to you. Saturday?’
I punched the air and did a little dance on the spot.
‘What’s that noise?’ he asked.
Shit. ‘Oh, it’s just the kids messing about. Yes. Saturday could work.’
‘Right, then. I’ll pick you up around seven.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, hoping he couldn’t hear my grin down the phone. ‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Great!’ He sounded so excited. ‘And Leah?’
‘Yes?’
‘Shall I wear my wave-jumping clothes?’
‘Oh, ha ha!’
He hung up and I grinned for twenty minutes straight. How quickly things had turned around for me. In the space of six short weeks, my life was looking totally different. I had a new best friend who felt as if she’d been part of my life forever, and now I had a geeky but totally adorable boyfriend. Well, maybe that was jumping the gun just a little bit, but that was how this would turn out. I could feel it. Things were all ticking along beautifully.
And then I read the letter.
I’d been out since eight that morning, doing back-to-back cleans, and all I wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine. I’d sent Poppy to the chippy to avoid having to cook and put Noah to bed half an hour earlier than usual by altering the clock. It was a cheap trick, but I didn’t do it very often and Noah need never find out. Now Poppy was upstairs doing (or at least pretending to do) her homework and I turned my attention to the letters on the kitchen table. They were mainly circulars and marketing rubbish that would go straight into the recycling. The last one, though, was an actual letter. It was addressed to Mrs M. Allen. I looked at the envelope for clues but there was nothing so, feeling curious, I opened it. Mum had been gone for fifteen years and I couldn’t remember the last time there was any post for her.
Dear Mrs Allen, the letter began. We act for the titleholder of your property.
What? I didn’t know much about the law, but I was pretty sure the titleholder was the owner, and I was the owner. This was my house inherited from Mum when she died. With a racing heart, I read on. The titleholder now wishes to realise their asset and therefore you are hereby given notice of the requirement to leave the said property by 31 August. If you fail to leave the property by that date, we shall apply for a court order to that end.
I read the letter again and then for a third time, but even though I could just about translate the legalese, the essence of what it said made no sense. This was my house. There was no one else who could evict me. I didn’t even have a mortgage. That was one of the things that Mum had always been so proud of.
‘We’re debt-free, Leah,’ she used to say. ‘No one can look down their nose at us because we own our own house outright. That makes us better than all them round here. Most of them don’t even own their own televisions, let alone their house, and them that do will owe the bank a pretty penny, you can be sure.’
I picked up my phone, running a finger down the letter to find a contact number. It was an 0191 number – Newcastle. I dialled, but as it rang out I realised that the office would surely be closed at that time in the evening. It would have to wait until morning.
But I couldn’t possibly wait. I had to know what this was about. Now! Who could be writing me such threatening letters, and on what grounds? It didn’t make any sense. Something wasn’t right here. I could feel my mouth going dry as my mind leapt from possibility to possibility, none of them adding up.
Who could I speak to at this time of night? My mind ran through all the people I could ring, but I drew a blank. No one I knew understood the law, apart from the finer points of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, that is. Nobody would be able to explain this to me and anyway, I didn’t want my private business splashed all over town. People would be talking about my confrontation with Stacey Waters as it was. I didn’t need to add any fuel to that fire.
Then I thought of Clio. Clio had no legal training, I was aware of that, but rich people just knew stuff about the law, didn’t they? And even if she didn’t, Clio was a sensible person to talk to because I wouldn’t have to worry about overhearing my name being whispered in the playground the following week.
I rang her number.
Clio answered on the third ring. ‘Leah, hi!’ As usual, she sounded truly delighted to hear from me.
‘Listen,’ I replied, skipping all pleasantries. ‘Something really weird has happened. Have you got a minute?’
‘Of course. Nothing ever happens to me. You know that.’
I could hear her walking somewhere and then her voice became more echoey, as if she was in a larger room. I could picture her sitting in her raspberry-coloured lounge at the Hall.
‘Fire away,’ she said.
‘So, it’s a bit odd,’ I began, not quite knowing where to start. ‘I’ve had this letter from some solicitors, I think. It’s addressed to Mum and it says they want me to leave my house by the thirty-first of August, but that makes no sense because it’s my house and they can’t just kick me out of my own house and I don’t know what to do. The office is shut, and I can’t talk to anyone until tomorrow and I’m scared, Clio.’
My words came out in an order that barely made any sense to me, but Clio seemed to grasp the essence of what I was trying to say straight away.
‘It’s fine, Leah,’ she said calmly. ‘It’ll be a misunderstanding. We can sort it out, I’m sure. I’m not going to let him evict you so please don’t worry.’
Even though Clio was talking in platitudes she somehow made me feel less terrified. I’d been right to ring her. Rich people knew more about property and legal documents and that kind of thing. It went with the territory.
‘It’s my house,’ I said again, in case Clio hadn’t totally understood my meaning. ‘Mum left it to me. And it was hers to leave. Dad bought it for her when they got married. I can’t understand what the letter’s on about.’
‘It’ll be a mistake,’ said Clio again. ‘Some idiot clerk getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. Of course you’re not going to be evicted. It’s your home. The whole thing is ridiculous. Listen, we can’t do anything about this right now but as soon as the offices open in the morning I’ll ring them and sort it out for you.’ She hesitated. ‘Only if you want me to. I mean, obviously it’s your house
and you should make the call if you want to . . .’
‘No,’ I said anxiously. I gave her the phone number on the letter. ‘Please help me, Clio. I don’t know what to say to them. You’ll be so much better at that stuff than me.’
‘Fine,’ said Clio. ‘So, in the morning I’ll ring them and find out what they think they’re doing, and we’ll get this whole mess sorted out. Does that sound okay?’
I nodded down the phone. I felt about ten years old.
‘Oh, Leah, please don’t worry,’ Clio said so gently that it made me want to cry. ‘It’ll just be a mistake. I’m certain of it. We’ll speak in the morning. Okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice barely audible, even to me. ‘Thank you, Clio.’
When I hung up, I felt slightly less dreadful. Clio was going to sort it all out for me. She knew what to do, who to speak to. She’d be used to dealing with solicitors. She probably did it all the time. Like she said, it would be a mistake and everything would be fine. What other outcome could there possibly be when this was my house?
Something was nagging at me, though, something that Clio said that hadn’t seemed quite right. I tried to rerun the conversation in my head to uncover what it was, but it had gone. Well, there was no point fretting over it now when there was nothing that could be done. I poured myself a large glass of wine and ran the bath deep and hot.
It was when I was drifting off to sleep that I realised what my mind had flagged up. Clio had said, ‘I won’t let him evict you.’
Who was she talking about?
52
GRACE – NOW
The following day Grace and Clio were sitting at one end of the huge mahogany dining table polishing the silver. The table could seat twenty-four guests so they probably looked a little comical, huddled as they were at one end of it. Technically, the polishing of the Hall’s huge collection of silverware came under Marguerite’s list of responsibilities. However, ever since she’d been a girl Grace had found the task remarkably soothing and would happily undertake at least some of it herself, when she had time.