Missing Christina

by Whitford, Meredith

  So there we all were, making conversation, sipping sherry, letting Gran show off her new phone, when Uncle Quentin arrived. If you shrank Patrick Stewart in the wash you’d have Uncle Q, although at the same time he manages to look strikingly like Mum. You could tell he’d been crying, perhaps for days, because he had loved Mum dearly, but his dry and businesslike manner stopped us squabbling or drifting too far into sentimentality. He kissed us all, hugged Gran and admired her phone, let Aunt U tell him about her recent operation for gallstones, so graphically that he refused the cherry tart at lunchtime and turned pale when Toby started playing Tinker Tailor, and let Aunt B prattle about the ghastly new estate being built on the edge of her chocolate box village. The F word and the W word hovered in the air, but Uncle G shoo’d them away until after lunch.

  Dad opened the batting. “I’d like to get on with things. I can’t stand much more of this. I’d like to go away soon, to be alone for a little while. I might go down to Cornwall, a friend’s offered me a house there, and it’s somewhere I never went with Tia. So could we plan, please? There should be some sort of memorial service…”

  Yes, we all said, of course a service, but when? We were too close to Christmas and New Year, people were away, blah blah. At last Dad said that he didn’t give a tuppenny stuff if people were away, he’d like the service early next week. He needed closure, he said, then to be alone.

  Well, why not? PoorMatthew said, as he’d told me, that he’d get his people to make all the arrangements, and gratefully Dad accepted. Toby said he’d take care of the music.

  Done.

  As for Mum’s ashes… “Do it now,” Dad said. “We are all here, all her family, and it should be private. I couldn’t bear a lot of people.”

  “When you say now –?”

  “Oddly enough I mean now. Ring up the vicar. Matthew, of course I don’t mean to exclude your people, they were Tia’s friends and –” a glance at Silvia – “really count as family. They could be here this afternoon?”

  “But Jon!” cried Aunt Ursula, “you can’t just do it now, like this, without preparations!”

  “Watch me.”

  I was already watching him, and knew he was strung up to breaking point. So I said of course we could do it this afternoon and I would ring the vicar at once. PoorMatthew sidled out after me and, his shoulders going loose, went into the garden to ring his parents on his mobile, while I rang the vicar. Result: Annie, the vicar, would be here at three; PoorMatthew’s parents wanted to come but couldn’t, and sent their love and prayers.

  So, sharp at three, in that spiteful sort of drizzle English winters seem to specialise in lately, there we were in the graveyard next to the church, in among all the Randall graves of two hundred years. As graveyards go, it’s pleasant, even pretty. Someone, probably Granny, had trained a pink climbing rose over the stone walls and planted rosemary hedges, the vicar’s sheep keep the grass mowed, the church ladies tidy the graves. It had never been a place of fear to us, even as children, and it would not be now, but somehow I knew I would never come here again.

  It was a short and simple ceremony. The vicar read the funeral service and we said the Lord’s Prayer together. A little hole had been dug under the roses. PoorMatthew gave the urn to Dad, who tipped the ashes in. Someone had provided a new, silvery little spade, and we took it in turns to pile earth over Mum’s ashes. Everyone cried. Granny had brought a bare-root rose bush, which she planted in the place. “Yellow,” she said prosaically, “dear Tia liked yellow roses best.”

  “She did,” Dad agreed. “Thank you, Mother.” Then he turned to the rest of us and said simply, “I would like to be alone here for a little while,” then he kissed each of us as we left.

  *

  We had closed the curtains against the dark before Dad came in. He looked grim and tired, yet somehow more peaceful; it was the look he wears when he’s come to a decision. He strode into the drawing room where we were all sitting and making pointless small-talk (and wishing we could just turn the telly on and watch something mindless), and poured himself a Scotch and soda. “Anyone else want one?”

  Yes, we all did.

  “Right,” he said, sitting down in his usual chair by the fire and resting his feet on the dogs. “I hope you will all understand this and not feel – or not feel too badly – that I’m letting you down. But I want – need – to go away for a while. By myself. I’ll take the dogs, of course, but I need to be alone.”

  “Where?” Silvia asked sharply.

  “Cornwall. Didn’t I say? I’ll be home by the New Year. And of course I’ll be home for Tia’s service, but after that – well, we’ll see. You do all understand, don’t you? I love you all, but just now I need to be alone.”

  “You promise you’ll be home in January?”

  “I said so. Silvia, darling, what are you thinking? That I’ll do something silly? That’s the usual euphemism, isn’t it? I wouldn’t do that to you. Just a few days by myself, to get used to things. You see, I never imagined a future without Tia.”

  “We understand,” said PoorMatthew, and touched Dad’s hand. “As a matter of fact I thought I might take Silvia and Hugo to my parents for a while. Back here for Christmas.”

  “What about Christmas?” Toby said. “I mean, do we want to bother this year?” Mum had always made a lot of Christmas; parties, a big tree, midnight carol service, special lunch, piles of presents.

  “I’d rather forget it,” I said.

  “Me too.”

  “It does seem a shame not to do something,” Granny quietly objected. “Tia wouldn’t want us not to.”

  “Shall we think about it?”

  Yes, we all said, let’s think about it later.

  Another silence.

  “Right, then.” Dad was in what Mum used to call his boardroom mood, crisp and efficient. “Jaques, dear, I’d be grateful if you could go through your mother’s papers and hand any business matters to Gail.”

  “All right.”

  “Excellent. And you’ll have to reply to sympathy letters – perhaps get something printed, but remember it has to be hand-written letters to people we know.”

  “Yes,” we chorussed. From the moment we were old enough to clasp a pencil Mum had dinned into us that thank-you and sympathy letters must be written by hand.

  Dad went on, “Gail will be working for me now and she and my PA can attend to things at work. If anyone at all wants me, I’m away and out of touch, OK? Because if anyone hassles me with work, or sympathy, or anything, I’ll go mad.”

  Yes, we all said, we get it.

  “When will you go?” Silvia asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. Darling, don’t look like that; I really have to do this. I need to.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather come to us, Jon?” said Aunt Ursula, and I saw Dad’s face flicker with revulsion. He thanked her politely, though, and kissed her as he repeated that he needed to be alone.

  “But what about Mother?” Aunt U persisted. “Mother, would you like us to stay with you? Or would you come to us?”

  “How kind you are,” Granny said smoothly, “but I’m too old to travel, even to stay with you, darling. I’ll be much happier here. The garden, you know, and the children. I quite agree Jon should go away for a little while, but the rest of us will manage very well here.” To general relief she added, “And I wouldn’t dream of you or Barbara staying, darling, you’ve your own families and houses to manage, and Christmas to plan. I think we all need a little time to ourselves, in our own ways.”

  “But we’ll come for Christmas, of course –”

  “Of course we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve planned what we want to do.”

  Dad lit a cigarette and leaned towards Uncle Quentin. “I wondered… could we know a little about Tia’s will? I know it has to go through probate, but a general idea –? We won’t talk about money but I thought, if there are small personal gifts, bequests, that sort of thing, it would be nice for people to know. Nothing wrong wit
h that, is there?”

  “Oh no, nothing wrong with that,” said Uncle Quentin, but I had the idea he wasn’t keen. “Tia did leave a lot of small bequests. She was very businesslike, you know. Yes, well, if you all want to do that? Of course I’ll advise everyone in writing, but yes, a general idea won’t hurt.”

  We all agreed, and he trotted away and came back with his briefcase. Agog, not caring, or somewhere in between, we watched Uncle Q take out a thick document and flick over the first few pages.

  At first it wasn’t all that interesting; no surprises. Money to the aunts and each of their children. Except for a few specific bequests, Silvia got most of Mum’s jewellery, and her designer and vintage clothes, with the proviso that any she didn’t want were to go to a theatre’s wardrobe department. Yvonne our housekeeper, Gail Mum’s secretary and a few friends got cash and pieces of jewellery, carefully itemised. Aunt Barbara got her pearl and sapphire flower brooch and matching earrings, Aunt Ursula her turquoise necklace set.

  “To Matthew Edward Hyde-Howard,” Uncle Quentin read in his lawyer’s monotone, “for his friendship and for my darling grandson Hugo, my ivory chess set and my Lucian Freud and my Matisse. To my beloved son Jaques, my diamonds, for his future wife, and my Van Gogh and Raphael. To my beloved son Toby, my Andy Warhol, my Renoir and my record collection. To my dear mother-in-law Molly, Dowager Countess Randall, the Watteau presently in her sitting room and my opal necklace and bracelets, and the sum of twenty thousand pounds. To my three dearly beloved children Jaques, Silvia and Toby in equal shares all the rest of my personal possessions including but not limited to books, ornaments, furniture, CDs and DVDs and office equipment except items otherwise specifically bequeathed, once my husband Jonathon has had his choice of such personal items.”

  Uncle Quentin paused for breath and another whisky, which gave Aunt Ursula the chance to say, “Well, really, only five thousand and a necklace! Not that I expected much, God knows, but after all these years –”

  “Tia gave you all that money when you got married,” snapped Aunt B.

  Aunt U puffed up like an angry cat. “Well, I like that! It was exactly the same amount that she and Adrian gave you and that Kenneth of yours to buy a house when you got married! Adrian would have done the same for us, you know that, but he was dead when I married and Tia very kindly said she was doing it for him! Exactly the same amount as you got!”

  “And you didn’t invite Tia to your wedding,” Dad remarked. “What was a house in those days? Five thousand? Ten? Quite a decent place you and Lionel bought – yet you didn’t even ask her to your wedding. So shut your cakehole and be glad Tia left you anything.”

  “Well, really! I only meant – anyway, Tia was in mourning when I got married, it wouldn’t have done.”

  “You could’ve invited her, though. Just to the church, if you like; not the reception. You should have asked her.”

  “I quite agree!” Aunt B said smugly. “And that flower brooch is lovely. Is there, er, anything else, Quentin? That we should know, I mean?”

  “A couple of things, yes.” He was still flicking through the will. “For instance, you, Jaques, are your mother’s literary executor.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, why not? She trusted your judgement.”

  “And I wouldn’t do it,” Dad said, smiling at me, and I understood. A publisher for thirty years, Dad loathes all writers except Mum and all books except the works of P G Wodehouse and Lee Child.

  “OK, then, but what do I have to do?”

  “Talk to her literary agent and publisher, they’ll advise you. I believe there’s the matter of some rights sale coming up. Also Tia’s working papers are to go to some university library; her agent will know the details. Which brings me to another item: Jaques, Tia left you the contents of that house in Devon where she went to write, and the literary and business papers held in the study of that house. You deal with those in your capacity of literary executor. Once you’ve disposed of the contents you’re to sell the house.”

  “I should just mention,” Uncle Quentin added with a beady glance around, “that if anyone tries to contest any part of Tia’s will the whole lot goes to charity.”

  “Of course no one would,” Granny murmured.

  “Could we get on?” Dad asked Quentin. “Because I know we said we’d only talk about these small bequests but there will be financial arrangements to be made now. So perhaps some idea –? What about, for instance, Awopbopaloola and RFR?”

  “Yes, very well. If you’re all happy for me to discuss your inheritances?”

  Lay on, we said. Discuss away.

  “Jon, this house is of course yours by inheritance and will be Jaques’s one day. Tia left a certain amount of money on trust for its upkeep for your lifetime, and I and another member of my firm administer that trust. You also receive, outright, one half of Tia’s holding in both Awopbopaloola and RFR, and some valuable properties. Also a certain income for life unless you re-marry. Tia knew you would not enjoy keeping a second wife on your first wife’s money.”

  “Of course not.” Dad had gone very pale; horrified at the idea of re-marriage, I supposed.

  “The rest of her estate is divided between her three children and Hugo. You also each receive one or two copyrights in her books. I think that’s the lot.” He flapped the will’s pages together. “Gail Lumley and Yvonne Maywell each receive a bequest of cash, as does the son of Doctor Dawn Wright in gratitude for her services to you, Jon. Of course all Tia’s charities get rather handsome amounts too. Molly, your allowance continues, adjusted for inflation.”

  “Who’s Dawn Wright?” Toby asked, puzzled.

  “You know – Dad’s pet quack.”

  “Oh, her. Is that what she’s called? I didn’t know she was married.”

  “You’d have to be desperate,” I agreed.

  “It was very kind of Tia,” Dad said icily, and we shut up. Shut our cakeholes, in fact. Dad stood up, clicking his tongue to the dogs. “I’m going to bed.”

  “But dear, your dinner –”

  “I’m not hungry. Goodnight, everyone.” He shut the door quietly but emphatically behind him.

  Toby stretched back further in his chair and said, “So who’s this Adrian dude you’re all on about?”

  “Toby,” Aunt Ursula looked as if she’d caught him picking his nose, “we don’t really talk about Adrian.”

  “You just did.”

  “Oh for goodness sake!” Granny snapped. “It’s not a secret or a mystery. Adrian was your father’s cousin, and your mother was married to him before she married Jon. He died, you see. 1973 I think it was.”

  “Mum was married before?”

  “If you can call it married,” said Aunt U, “because everyone knows Adrian was a homosexual.”

  Toby sat up so sharply the bones in his neck cracked. At the same time my memory did its work: the photograph in that locket was of Adrian Randall. No wonder his face had looked familiar.

  “We don’t know that he was queer,” Granny was saying, “and anyway he was a very nice boy and devoted to Tia, and he left her all that lovely lot of money – money she’s just left some of to you, Ursula, so mind your tongue.”

  “Was he the chap who founded Awopbopaloola?” asked PoorMatthew.

  “That’s the one.”

  “He was married to Mum?” Toby persisted.

  “Yes, but you knew that.”

  “Did not.”

  I thought about it. Perhaps he, the youngest, really hadn’t known. And, when I came to think about it, it was one of those things I’d known as a vague, historical fact: long, long ago Mum had been briefly married to Dad’s cousin. It was not something that was ever really referred to. Especially because Adrian Randall had been murdered – stabbed to death in the street, one of five victims of a killer never caught.

  “What’s this about the money?”

  “Oh, Adrian was very rich,” Granny happily remembered. “He inherited a huge lot of money f
rom his uncle. This was on the Fyffe side of the family, his mother’s side, you see. Lots and lots of money.”

  “He inherited over six hundred thousand pounds,” Uncle Quentin said. “And that’s in 1967 terms. It would be millions, now.”

  “And he left it all to Mum?”

  “Not all, darling. Some to his mother, some to your grandfather and me and Barbara and Ursula and Quentin, and all the rest he divided up between your mother and Jon. The Randalls never had any money, you know, not real money. Or not once Adrian’s father got his hands on it. He gambled, you see. Adrian wouldn’t even play Bridge.”

  “Starting Awopbopaloola was a gamble,” Uncle Quentin said. “It paid off, of course, but it was touch-and-go for a while. Really I think it was just a hobby for Adrian at first – Jon was in that band, and they couldn’t get recording time – does that sound right? – and Adrian bought this run-down old studio… I told him he was mad.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Toby, eyes gleaming. “We had a gay, rich cousin who started Awopbop?”

  Granny shook her head at him. “Not gay, darling. Perhaps a little in his youth, but if so he put all that behind him when he married Tia.”

  I caught Toby’s eye: don’t laugh.

  “Cool,” said Toby.

  But I found myself thinking about that locket. You carry with you a photo of your husband, your kids, not some poofter who died thirty years ago.

  Six

  Next morning Dad had gone long before anyone else was up. He left his bed neatly made, and a sweet if terse little note on the kitchen table.

  By lunchtime we’d got rid of the aunts.

  By evening Silvia too had gone, taking Hugo to stay with PoorMatthew’s family.

  On Sunday Uncle Quentin returned to London.

  Toby, and Gran and I had nothing to do but watch telly, waste Yvonne’s time, tease the cats, and answer a huge pile of sympathy letters. Toby’s got the best writing of any of us, so we made him do the by-hand ones. Yvonne and Gran dealt with Mum’s personal belongings, while I tackled her business papers. Although she always went away to the house in Devon when she reached the can’t-be-interrupted part of a book, Mum had a study on the top floor of the house, and I groaned when I realised just how much stuff there was to go through – desk, cupboards, shelves, folders, files, ledgers; decades of it.