The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly

by Alice Ross

  ‘Now,’ he announced, extracting a document from the envelope, ‘we are all aware, are we not, that we are here today for the will reading of one Millicent Venetia O’Hare?’

  ‘Great Aunt Milly,’ pronounced Matt with a forced laugh.

  While the others smiled politely, James glared at his brother who was, he could tell, bursting with excitement. Indeed, ever since breakfast, Matt had been so excited he could barely keep still and, with striking similarities to the day of their sixth birthday party, had already been told off by their mother for fidgeting on at least half- a-dozen occasions.

  Laying the document on his lap, Mr Gregson produced a pair of half-spectacles from his jacket pocket and positioned these on his nose.

  ‘Now, if we are all sitting comfortably, I shall begin.’

  Matt flashed a delighted smile. ‘The sooner the better, eh?’

  ‘Do be quiet, Matt dear,’ chided their mother through gritted teeth.

  Mr Gregson threw Matt an admonishing glare before pushing his spectacles further up his nose and picking up the document. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I, Millicent Venetia O’Hare of Rose Cottage, Upper Didlington, bequeath to my loyal gardener, Mr Oswald Bartholomew Greene, the sum of ten thousand pounds on condition he use part of this sum to visit his daughter, Sally, in Australia and take her a supply of her favourite pork pies from the butcher’s in Chippington main street.’

  Mr Greene released a long slow whistle. ‘Well, blow me down,’ he declared.

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Mr Gregson, before peering at them all in turn above the rim of his spectacles. He then cleared his throat again and shook the piece of paper.

  ‘To my wonderful friend and neighbour, Mrs Enid Oates, I bequeath the sum of ten thousand pounds on condition she use part of this sum to take Percy Bottomsworth on a date. For this occasion I request that she wear her blue floral dress and take him to the pizzeria in Lower Didlington. ‘

  Mrs Oates’ mouth dropped open. ‘Blimey.’

  ‘Quite,’ sniffed Mr Gregson, before shaking the paper again. ‘To my dutiful and loving niece, Mrs Marjorie Elizabeth Pinkerton, I bequeath my collection of antique jewellery and my beloved Rose Cottage on condition she does not paint the exterior lilac and that she maintains the herbaceous borders.’

  ‘Goodness me - the lovely cottage,’ exulted Marjorie, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘I have always maintained, Mr Gregson, that a pale lilac would set off the hydrangeas beautifully. Although of course I wouldn’t dream of painting it now,’ she added hastily as her husband eyed her through narrowed slits.

  ‘But what about the rest of the estate?’ demanded Matt.

  ‘If you will permit me, I was about to come to that,’ informed Mr Gregson imperiously.

  Matt clutched the arms of the leather chair.

  Mr Gregson cleared his throat again. ‘To my two great-nephews, James Jacob Pinkerton and Matthew Robert Pinkerton I bequeath my share portfolio-’

  ‘Share portfolio?’ interjected Matt. ‘How much is it worth?

  ‘I believe its current value is around the one million pounds mark,’ sniffed Mr Gregson.

  ‘Ha!’ Matt clapped his hands in delight. ‘I knew it. Half a million quid each.’

  ‘Ah-hem,’ coughed Mr Gregson, ‘if you would be so good as to let me finish.’

  ‘Why? Has she left us something else as well?’ enquired Matt, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘If I may,’ intoned Mr Gregson impatiently.

  ‘Do be quiet and let Mr Gregson finish, Matt,’ fluttered their mother.

  Mr Gregson flashed a grateful smile and shook his piece of paper again. ‘To my two great nephews, James Jacob Pinkerton and Matthew Robert Pinkerton. I bequeath my share portfolio-’

  Matt emitted a delighted chuckle, resulting in another heated glare from the solicitor.

  ‘- to whichever of the pair first marries and produces a child, on condition that their choice of bride is approved by my niece, Mrs Marjorie Elizabeth Pinkerton. The portfolio shall be handed over at the end of the first trimester of pregnancy. On no account must this legacy be shared. To do so would go expressly against my wishes.’

  As a stunned silence descended over the group, Mr Gregson once again peered at each of them in turn over the top of his spectacles.

  James, Matt and their father looked completely shell-shocked. Marjorie Pinkerton clasped a lace handkerchief to her mouth. Mr Greene, not in the least perturbed, appeared to be making mental arrangements for his trip down-under, and Mrs Oates beamed satisfactorily.

  ‘Ha!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s one way to make you boys settle down. Trust Milly to think of something like that.’

  Matt’s smile, which had faltered briefly as he’d absorbed the proviso, began playing about his lips again as the reality of the situation seeped through him.

  ‘Well,’ he declared with a grin. ‘Sorry, James. Nothing to do with me but, as I’m due to marry Francesca in a few weeks, it looks like it’s a done deal.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured James, who was more shocked at Great Aunt Milly’s tactics than his lack of inheritance. Pulling himself together, he managed a weak smile. ‘Well, it looks like congratulations are in order. I’m sure you’ll put the money to much better use than me anyway.’

  Matt’s eyes twinkled victoriously. ‘Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Before another word could be uttered, a strange strangled sound came from their mother who had turned a worrying shade of green.

  ‘Oh, Bernard,’ she whimpered. ‘Would you be so good as to pass me a Chinese vase. I do believe I’m going to be sick.’

  Chapter 2

  Tearing down the motorway to London that evening, Matt couldn’t stop grinning. He’d always been fond of Great Aunt Milly but now he positively adored her. Idolised her. In fact, so much had she risen in his estimation that he was even considering using some of those gorgeous million smackaroos to erect a monument to her. He could put it next to her beloved herbaceous border. Providing – of course, there was any money left.

  What he struggled to comprehend, though, was why the old dear hadn’t just split his and James’ inheritance down the middle - particularly given James’ circumstances vis-à-vis the opposite sex, and the fact that he had always, not surprisingly, been her favourite. While James visited her religiously every two weeks, even staying with her when she sprained her ankle abseiling in Anglesey, Matt only ever saw her at organised family do’s when their mother insisted upon his attendance.

  And there was another thing: Matt had always harboured a suspicion that Great Aunt Milly never approved of him and his high-flying lifestyle. Something about the way she used to look at him - with a glint of disapproval in her sharp green eyes. A glint which had shone perceptibly brighter when his mother had brought her to his new luxury apartment in Canary Wharf; and a glint which had given Haley’s Comet a run for its money when he’d announced his engagement to model, Francesca, six months ago. So why then, had she added that condition about marriage and a kid when she’d known the money would all go to him?

  Still, what did it matter? he concluded, pushing the accelerator of his Porsche to the floor. The fact was, she had added it and he would benefit from it. Perhaps she’d secretly known how much he needed it. Now all he had to do was persuade Francesca to get up the duff and he’d be in clover.

  *

  James stood at the little green gate to Great Aunt Milly’s cottage, waving off his parents’ Volvo. His father flashed him a sympathetic smile and waved back as he spun the car around. There was nothing to be seen of his mother who lay across the back seat suffering the effects of her hangover combined with an acute case of mortification at having thrown up over Mr Gregson’s thick green carpet.

  The burning heat of yet another glorious summer day was gradually submitting to a warm, balmy evening and, as the car disappeared down the lane, James decided to take a stroll around the garden before locking up and setting off home himself.


  The garden, which ran around all four sides of the cottage, had been Great Aunt Milly’s pride and joy and, in full majestic bloom, it was easy to see why. The lush green lawn – a testament to Mr Greene’s diligent care – was framed on all sides by wide flower beds crammed with sweet-smelling roses, irises, lupins, lavender, peonies and marjoram. At the back of the house, in the centre of the lawn, sat a pretty circular pond, home to bundles of bulrushes, floating water lilies - so perfect they almost didn’t look real - and, James noticed as a round of enthusiastic croaking began, half-a-dozen tiny frogs.

  He ambled down to the wooden bench at the bottom of the garden. Sitting down, facing the house, he contemplated the yellow thatch and warm cream walls rioting with ivy. He could understand perfectly why Great Aunt Milly had added the caveat about his mother not painting it lilac – it would spoil the look completely. What he failed to understand, however, was the caveat regarding Matt and himself and marriage and children. It wasn’t even as if she’d been conventionally married with children. Widowed in her late twenties there’d never been any mention of another man in her life, and certainly no offspring.

  But it wasn’t the lack of inheritance that bothered James – he wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with one million pounds anyway. It was more the fact that he felt hurt; betrayed almost. Knowing his situation as she did, for she had been the only person in whom he had ever truly confided, she must have known it would be Matt who would benefit from the clause. And, although she’d never said so, James always suspected that Great Aunt Milly had not been impressed by Matt’s hedonistic lifestyle. So why then, had she added that ridiculous caveat?

  He started as a butterfly landed on his knee. Smiling at its effrontery, he studied its wings – a beautiful shade of lilac veined with shimmering pink. It looked far too delicate to be fluttering about the countryside on its own at the mercy of so many other creatures. But still, he pondered, for all their size and strength, the same could probably be said about a great many people.

  *

  Matt tossed his car keys onto the specially commissioned console table in the hall of the Canary Wharf apartment. Bursting with excitement, he jogged down the solid oak floorboards and poked his head into the living room. Usually sprawled over one of the Italian black leather sofas at this point in the evening, soaking up her daily dose of the soaps, he was surprised to find no sign of Francesca. A low growl from the corner, though, alerted him to the presence of her annoying dog, Mimi – a handbag-sized ball of white fluff whose fringe Francesca insisted on tying back with an assortment of colourful ribbons. Over the eighteen months Matt had lived with Francesca, he and Mimi had developed an understanding: Matt hated Mimi and Mimi hated Matt. With Francesca in the room, they put on a face. As there was no sign of Francesca, no face was required. Glaring venomously at her enemy Mimi snarled, baring pointed little teeth. Matt stuck up a meaningful finger before closing the door.

  Flying back up the hall, he tossed a brief look in the vicinity of the kitchen. This, he knew, was something of a long shot. Unsurprisingly, Francesca wasn’t there either.

  ‘Fran? I’m back. Where are you?’

  ‘In the bedroom.’

  Bursting through the bedroom door, Matt discovered his fiancée bouncing up and down on her elliptical machine directly in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with its impressive view of the Thames. She wore a pair of tiny red shorts – so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on - and a cropped white sports-top, evidently straining to hold in place her surgically enhanced 36D’s. Her dark, glossy hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she dripped from head to pedicured toe with sweat.

  ‘I’ve had a Kit-Kat today,’ she puffed, a look of remorse on her beautiful face. ‘I’ll have to do at least an hour-and-a-half on this bloody machine to burn off the calories.’

  Francesca’s maniacal obsession with her weight normally drove Matt to distraction. This evening, though, it would be nigh on impossible for anything to spoil his good mood.

  ‘Guess what?’ he beamed.

  ‘What?’ she murmured, fiddling with the buttons of the machine.

  ‘Great Aunt Milly has only gone and left me a million bloody quid.’

  All fiddling and bouncing ceased as Francesca’s brown eyes grew wide. ‘A million quid! You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not. A million quid, Fran. Well, it’s for either me or James really – whichever of us marries first. And, given that we’re due to tie the knot in a few weeks …’

  Francesca leapt off the machine and bounded over to him, throwing her sweaty arms around his neck. ‘Christ. That’s amazing, babe. But why did she do that when she knew it would go to you, James being how he is about women and everything?’

  ‘No idea,’ replied Matt, cupping her firm buttocks. ‘But who cares? It’ll be ours soon. Anyway, James wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve plenty of ideas what to do with it,’ sighed Francesca, pushing her impressive breasts into Matt’s chest. ‘We could buy a little place in the country. Everybody’s got one now. And we can go skiing in Aspen. Everybody’s going. Or we could-’

  ‘We can do whatever you like, babe,’ murmured Matt, unzipping her shorts. The small matter of the other condition of the will, he decided as Francesca unbuttoned his shirt, could wait until later …

  Chapter 3

  There was nothing like a run first thing to set you up for the day concluded James as he made his way to the veterinary surgery the following morning. Mentally and physically exhausted, he’d crashed out on the sofa as soon as he’d returned from Great Aunt Milly’s cottage the previous evening. The first rays of sunshine streaming through the living room window had woken him. Feeling better than he had in days, thanks to a decent night’s sleep, he’d donned his running gear and was pounding the country lanes before so much as a cockerel had stirred. Now showered, shaved, breakfasted and dressed in faded black jeans and a blue V-necked T-shirt, he strolled along the main street of the village savouring every inch of his glorious surroundings.

  Little Crumpton epitomised England at its quaintest - a fact endorsed by the BBC who had recently used it as a backdrop to a TV drama. All the buildings were constructed in natural local stone. Bathed in the brilliant sunshine and set against the background of the cornflower-blue, cloudless sky, they emitted the delicious glow of melting butter. Hanging baskets and window-boxes overflowing with geraniums, clematis, begonias and fuchsia in a riot of hot summer colours, completed the perfect picture.

  James loved living here. When he’d told Mrs Oates at the funeral party that he was “settled”, he’d meant it. He could not, for a single moment, imagine living anywhere else. Not that he’d always been so unadventurous. After completing his veterinary training in Bristol, he’d spent an amazing year travelling around the world before throwing down his backpack in the Australian bush and staying there for six enjoyable months working on a sheep farm. Three months on a game reserve in Africa followed, then a short spell in South America. Eventually returning to Blighty, he landed a fantastic job in a large practice in Bath. But, when his world came tragically tumbling down, the Georgian walls of the city closed in, smothering him until he could no longer breathe under the weight of memories.

  Desperate to escape, and having spotted an ad on the web for “An established country practice for sale due to retirement” – he wasted no time in arranging a viewing and, much to his surprise and relief, fell in love with both the village and the practice on first sight. It was exactly what he’d been looking for. He couldn’t afford it on his own, of course, and could barely believe his luck when a friend introduced him to Anya, a fellow vet, also looking for a business partner. Despite not hitting it off particularly well on a personal level, on a business footing things had trundled along well between Anya and him for the past four years. They were never going to make a fortune but, despite some clients finding Anya’s officious German manner a little intimidating, they did well enough and
doing something you loved for a living was infinitely more important to James than money.

  The practice, built in the same natural stone as the rest of the village, sat at the end of the main street. Its exterior sported a welcoming yellow door complete with gleaming brass letter-box; an enormous hanging basket crammed with orange pansies and trailing lobelia; and a bottle-green sign printed, rather unimaginatively in gold lettering, with the words Veterinary Practice.

  Inside, the building was deceptively large. The door opened directly into the square, stone-floored reception area which housed a desk, four white plastic chairs, a small coffee table piled with magazines, and two large palm plants. All other rooms led off from here – James’ consulting- room to the left, Anya’s to the right. A small cloakroom occupied one of the corners and two other rooms were tucked away along an extension accessed by a door directly behind the desk. One of these accommodated any animals staying overnight, the other they used as an office.

  Unsurprisingly, as it was thirty minutes before opening time, the front door was locked when James arrived, neither Anya, nor Mandy their receptionist, having yet arrived.

  He retrieved the key from his jeans’ pockets, slid it into the lock and pushed open the door. The faint - but not unpleasant - odour of floral disinfectant immediately flooded his nostrils. For all the smell was ever-present, the only time James noticed it was when he’d been away from the building for a while.

  Pulling the key out of the lock and shoving it back into his pocket, he sauntered over to the reception desk and plopped down in Mandy’s blue swivel chair. The appointment book - long ousted by most businesses in favour of a computerised version, but still very much alive and kicking in Little Crumpton - lay open on the desk. The majority of their clients just wandered in but, on the odd occasion someone did make an appointment, Mandy diligently noted it in the book. He flicked the page over to today and noticed, in Mandy’s swirling handwriting, that a grand total of three people had booked in: old Mrs Battersthwaite to have her Yorkshire Terrier’s toe-nails clipped; Mr Carey whose cat, Suki, was as much of a hypochondriac as the old man himself; and some guy called Alex Corr with a tortoise. Nothing of any great interest but then again, pondered James as he stood up from the chair and marched towards his consulting- room, in a job like his, you never could predict what might turn up during the course of the day.