Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I smiled in thanks at the back of the woman’s head.

  My nerves were jangling. I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from whistling the theme tune to Suits.

  I was a solicitor virgin. The experience so far fell somewhere between being summoned to the head teacher’s office and being interviewed by the police. Not that I had ever caused either of those particular institutions any trouble. Even so, I was finding the whole thing extremely nerve-racking.

  I wished I’d brought someone with me for moral support. I had toyed with the idea of asking Marc. A good excuse to ring him, I thought. Mind you, he more than likely would have had experience of the inside of both head teachers’ offices and police stations, so may well have run a mile.

  I dropped my handbag on the floor and clasped my hands together. The desk in front of me was large and old-fashioned with an inset leather blotter and one of those brass reading lamps with a green glass shade. Haphazard piles of manila folders obscured most its surface. Behind the desk was a run of bookcases stuffed to the gunnels with lever arch files. Whoever Mrs Jane Kennedy was, she had certainly picked a very untidy solicitor.

  In the centre of the desk lay an open file. I shuffled forward to the edge of my seat and managed to read my own name at the top of the page. I inched closer still, squinting to read more.

  ‘And you are?’

  The deep voice made me jump so much that I panicked, slid off the chair and down onto one knee. Thus greeting the tall, thin man with dark hair, glasses and a bushy beard in some sort of weird marriage proposal stance.

  I scrambled up off the floor, mortified, and sat back down. ‘Nothing! Just waiting for Mr Whelan.’

  His lips twitched and he gave his beard a scratch.

  ‘I’m Thomas Whelan.’ He extended a hand towards me. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Oh! Sophie Stone.’ I took his hand and pulled up the collar of my coat to hide my glowing cheeks.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, settling himself at his desk. He glanced at the file that I’d had been trying to read. ‘You’ve come about your aunt’s will.’

  I processed this new information, hitherto unaware I had an aunt. Alive or dead.

  ‘My aunt?’

  Mr Whelan blinked furiously, referred back to the manila file and adjusted his glasses.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Stone, your great aunt.’

  Well, that was that then. She had to be one of my father’s relations. There were definitely no great aunts in Mum’s family. There was no one at all in her family. I sighed. I had been hoping… well, I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d been hoping. Maybe that she was an old lady I’d done a good deed for when I was in the Brownies, or something. Although I couldn’t think what I’d done to warrant a mention in anybody’s will.

  But any tenuous link would be better than being a relative of Terry Stone’s. Still, I’d better be absolutely sure.

  ‘Could you… would you mind just running me through the family tree?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Whelan, pushing his chair back and standing up abruptly. ‘But first, have you brought your passport?’

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Why? Where are we going?’ I had been told on the phone to bring my passport when I arranged the appointment and the request had been troubling me ever since.

  ‘Only to the photocopier,’ he chuckled. ‘Need to verify you are who you say you are before we continue with the reading of the will.’

  Thank heavens for that! I had had visions of having to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice to take ownership of some mystery item.

  Identity checks complete, we resumed our positions either side of the desk. The solicitor took off his wristwatch, set it to one side and then, elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together and made a steeple with his forefingers, resting his long nose on the tip.

  ‘This office holds the last will and testament of Mrs Jane Kennedy. She was Terence Stone’s maternal aunt. Your great aunt.’

  I stared at him, mesmerised by the end of his nose which was protruding over his fingers.

  I should stop him from going any further. There was no point in hearing what he had to say. My father had been absent for all of my thirty-two years. Mum and I had managed perfectly well without his or his family’s help, thank you very much, and I knew instinctively that she would resent any intervention at this stage in the game. Besides, why would the old dear leave anything to me? It didn’t make sense, we’d never even met.

  ‘Long and tedious documents, wills.’

  My eyes must have glazed over for a moment. I shook myself and Mr Whelan’s eyes twinkled at me.

  ‘‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I said, scooping up my bag as I stood. ‘My mother is estranged from her ex-husband. I’ve never met Jane Kennedy; in fact, I’ve never met my father.’

  ‘I’m aware of all that,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘However, it falls to me to ensure that you are fully informed as to your inheritance. Please sit.’ He flapped a hand at the empty chair. ‘Would you like me to read the whole thing or cut to the chase?’

  I blinked my green eyes at him. Was he allowed to say things like that? I sat back down obediently.

  ‘The main bits, please.’

  ‘Righto.’ Mr Whelan extracted a document and a small sealed envelope from the file. He pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. I held my breath.

  ‘Your Great Aunt Jane has bequeathed the bulk of her estate to you. You, Miss Stone, are the main beneficiary of her will.’

  An estate! Visions of strolling through manicured gardens like someone out of Pride and Predjudice, against a backdrop of a Chatsworth-style mansion, on Marc’s arm, were somewhat dimmed with Mr Whelan’s next sentence.

  ‘There’s a bungalow in Woodby and several thousand pounds. We haven’t finalised the amount yet.’

  Woodby? That was a village in the sticks somewhere north of Nottingham. A bungalow and some money. I repeated the words in my head. That was a house and some actual money-in-the-bank type dosh.

  My chest had been getting tighter and tighter with lack of oxygen and now I was all panicky. Breathe, Sophie, in, out, in, out. I probably looked like I was in labour: face all red, and puffing like Ivor the engine.

  A house. My great aunt had given me a house. Of my own. And that meant a home. How long had I been dreaming of my own home? Only all my life, that was how long.

  Mr Whelan’s lips were moving. He was still speaking and I hadn’t been listening. Ninety-two… in her sleep… neighbour. He was telling me about Great Aunt Jane, who had seen fit to leave me all her stuff, and I wasn’t even paying attention.

  I flushed a deeper shade of scarlet and focussed on Mr Whelan’s words, my shoulders bowed with shame. There was so much to take in. I was full of questions, but my brain was like a tangled ball of wool and I couldn’t find the start.

  Mr Whelan was holding an envelope out to me. I took it automatically.

  ‘As I say, there is a condition to the inheritance, but I think it would be better if you read Mrs Kennedy’s letter yourself. I’ll leave you in private for a moment. Can I get you some coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please, two sugars.’

  Condition? I wasn’t sure I could take any more surprises. Life was so much gentler without them. My heart rate was already registering at least a seven on the Richter scale.

  ‘Actually, make it three!’ I called to the solicitor’s retreating lanky form.

  The envelope was cream with a flowery border. My name was written on the front in blue ink, the handwriting loopy and old-fashioned. I stared at it for what felt like hours. This was the first letter I had ever had from my father’s side of the family. The first thing ever.

  The magnitude of what I held in my hands made my body tremble. This was more complicated than a straightforward inheritance from a distant relative. Opening this envelope would mean discovering a whole chapter of my own history. I wasn’t at all sure I was prepared for that.

  And how was I goi
ng to tell my mother? Mum referred to Terry, her ex-husband, and his family as the dark side, and had done so since the day I was born.

  Mind you, finding her husband in the arms of a barmaid – what a cliché – on the day she went into labour was hardly conducive to playing happy families. Mum had chucked him out and vowed never to have anything to do with him ever again. As far as we knew, he lived in America, which was close enough as far as she was concerned.

  This would open old wounds for her and I knew from previous experience the lengths she would go to avoid confronting the past.

  OK. All I had to do was read the letter. That was it.

  I pinched my lips together, slid a finger along the flap to open the envelope and removed the single sheet of cream and flowery paper.

  Dear Sophie,

  The fact you are reading this means that I have finally shuffled off this mortal coil. I have had a long and mostly happy life. My only sadness is that I was not blessed with children and had very little family to speak of.

  The chances are you won’t remember the time we met. You were with your mother in Market Square. You would have been about five. You took my breath away with your dark curls and pretty green eyes. It was so terribly sad that your parents couldn’t forgive each other. I was very cross with my nephew, I can tell you. But it wasn’t my place to interfere back then. Now I’m gone, I can be called a meddling old fool without fear of reprisal.

  I want you to have my bungalow and what’s left of my savings. On the condition that you agree to meet your father. Just once, that’s all I ask. I hope you can forgive and indulge an old lady’s last wishes.

  Your Great Aunt Jane

  Meet my father. Just once. I shook my head vigorously. Impossible. No way. This Great Aunt Jane had no idea what she was asking.

  I let the letter fall to my lap.

  I remembered Mum and me bumping into an old lady in Nottingham once. She wouldn’t stop touching my hair for some reason and she gave me a five pound note. I had spent the lot on furniture for my doll’s house. A pang of nostalgia twanged at me; that doll’s house had been my pride and joy. The lady had asked my mum so many questions that she had got really cross and stormed off; I remembered having to run to keep up. We had moved house shortly after that.

  It was no use. As amazing an opportunity as this was, Great Aunt Jane’s proviso meant that this was a Pandora’s box that I wasn’t prepared to open.

  I stood up to put the letter back on the desk. The room spun unpleasantly and I felt faint. I squinted along the corridor through the open door.

  Where was that sweet tea?

  five

  Despite my attempts at adding some homely touches with a vase of tulips, some Ikea cushions and four sandalwood candles, the living room still managed to look a bit studenty, with its lumpen sofas, mismatched curtains and drab carpet. The stacks of Jess’s school work and Emma’s ironing pile didn’t help. It was less Elle Decoration and more Coronation Street.

  But right now it was home, and I had never felt more grateful to be in it.

  Jess, in her cow-print pyjamas, looked up from her marking.

  ‘So come on then, tell us all about it,’ she demanded. She moved her Wizard of Oz pencil case and patted the sofa cushion.

  I sank down wearily beside her and swallowed the lump in my throat. It had been a very long day and I was struggling to take in all this new information. It had only been a few days since Marc had broken my heart and my tear ducts were still doing overtime.

  Mr Whelan had instructed me not to make any hasty decisions about the will, but I had been able to think of little else all afternoon. I had only managed to negotiate the time off to go to the solicitor’s by agreeing to return to the office and work late. With every space in the restaurant supplement filled and the main sponsor happy, I finally left my desk at eight thirty. By which time, I was trembling with tiredness and emotional overload.

  I attempted to smile at Jess but my face felt all numb and rubbery with the effort of keeping my tears in check all day.

  I eased my aching feet out of their high heels and wriggled my toes.

  She tapped her red pen against the book on her knee. ‘Tell Aunty Jess.’

  I sighed. ‘It wasn’t a hoax, she was my father’s aunt and I’m the main beneficiary of her will.’

  ‘Babes!’ gasped Jess. ‘That’s unbelievable!’

  ‘I’ll inherit her bungalow and some money.’

  ‘There’s a but coming, isn’t there?’ she said gently.

  I nodded. ‘I’ve got to agree to meet my father. My great aunt even set money aside in the will to fly him over from the States.’

  ‘Oh honey!’ Jess grabbed me and gave me a tight squeeze. ‘It’s like in a film! What if you say no? What if he won’t come?’

  ‘He will. Mr Whelan, the solicitor, has already heard from him,’ I said, ignoring her first question.

  Terry Stone, who had happily conducted the last thirty-two years of his life without displaying a jot of interest in his daughter, had apparently agreed to get on a plane and meet me. It was mystifying. I veered from curious to nervous to plain angry.

  ‘I’m so confused,’ I wailed into Jess’s furry shoulder.

  She released me and gave me an all-knowing look which I recognised as the start of a lecture.

  ‘No wonder,’ she said firmly, drying my tears with her sleeve. ‘You’re very vulnerable at the moment. Marc has just finished with you. You’re bound to think that you’ll never get another boyfriend.’

  My eyes blinked furiously. I hadn’t considered that at all. Was that what Jess thought, and Emma? I was still in that he might change his mind phase. The I’ll be alone for the rest of my life phase wasn’t due to kick in for another week. At which point, I was kind of assuming that Jess and Emma would convince me otherwise.

  ‘It’s natural to look for love from a boyfriend, from your father, from anyone. Who doesn’t want to be loved? But leaving the will out of it for a moment, would you have wanted to meet your dad if you had the chance?’

  I opened my mouth, but Jess continued her diatribe. ‘No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t blame you. It would break your mum’s heart.’

  Jess smiled, a trifle patronisingly if I was honest, and patted my knee. ‘And this inheritance – money, a house – would force you to face up to the future. And I don’t think you’re ready for the future just yet.’ She picked up her red pen again to carry on with her marking.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Emma walked in, handed me a cup of tea and rolled her eyes. ‘Just meet the man, take the money and move on. Simple as.’

  Emma pushed the ironing pile off the comfy chair by the window and dropped into the seat, slinging her long slim legs over the arm.

  I groaned. They were both right. I was convinced that one day I would know exactly what to do with my life and then my nest egg would help me build a fulfilling and satisfying career and fund a home of my own – or our own, if I’d still been with Marc.

  But while I waited for that moment of clarity, I was happy coasting along and procrastinating. If I inherited Aunt Jane’s money, I would have no excuse for not moving out of my comfort zone and getting on with it: a prospect that frightened the life out of me. Especially now I didn’t have Marc to hold my hand. Even I realised how pathetic that made me sound.

  Emma had a point; even though meeting the condition of the will would mean going through a huge pain barrier, inheriting that house would change my life.

  The two sisters were glaring at each other. I decided to change the subject.

  ‘Tell you what, if Great Aunt Jane is anything to go by, I’m in for a good innings,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘She was nearly ninety and still living on her own. The solicitor said she refused all offers of help and was fiercely independent.’

  ‘She sounds as tough as old boots,’ said Emma. ‘Glad someone in your family has some balls.’

  I stuck my tongue out at her. ‘She died peacefully in her sleep. He
r neighbour went round the next day and found her in bed. Apparently they used to phone each other every morning to make sure they’d both made it through the night.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet,’ said Jess, looking up from her books. ‘Will you call me when I’m old, Sis, to check I’m still alive?’

  Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘I doubt very much that you’ll die alone. You’ll probably kick the bucket in bed with a toy boy.’

  Jess smiled primly. ‘Well, you’ll be on your own, so I’ll phone you. Every day.’

  ‘At least I won’t need a Y-shaped coffin.’

  I felt my eyelids droop. I yawned and heaved myself up off the sofa. ‘Goodnight all.’

  Emma pulled a disappointed face. ‘I was going to crack open a bottle and toast your inheritance.’

  My heart sank. I felt a bit churlish not being more upbeat about this unexpected turn of events, but it was too soon to start celebrating. ‘Sorry, Em, can we take a rain check on it for now?’

  ‘Finished.’ Jess snapped the final exercise book shut and put her pen down. Her face fell. ‘You’re not going to bed? Aww, I thought we could all watch Fiddler on the Roof tonight?’

  I suppressed a giggle as Emma pretended to slash her wrists with an imaginary blade.

  ‘You’ll watch it with her, won’t you, Em?’

  Emma narrowed her eyes and glared. ‘Traitor.’

  six

  With scented candles lit and the main light off, the mildew around the bath was hardly visible and I could almost forget that I was in the flat’s grotty bathroom. I relaxed down into the bubbles until only my head was above the water. I transported myself to another world, imagining that I was luxuriating in a roll-top bath like in chocolate adverts, surrounded by acres of marble tiles and piles of fluffy towels.

  Perched next to me, on top of the loo seat, was the letter from Great Aunt Jane. I knew it off by heart now, but reading the old lady’s handwriting still made my heart flutter.

  Mr Whelan’s words of wisdom had made me hang onto it.