The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  The door to his flat was ajar. He opened it wider with his foot and stepped aside to allow her into a small hallway, sealed off on all sides by a series of doors. Ellen entered the lounge via the final door and found herself staring at a huge plasma TV screen on the opposite wall, where a number of impossibly beautiful Australian youths, male and female, were agonising over the mysterious disappearance of their drama teacher. Both of her children were totally absorbed by it. Megan was stretched out on the settee, her head supported by a pillow. Harry was lying on the floor on his stomach, elbows protected by a cushion and head resting in his cupped hands. He got to his feet and came over immediately to give her a hug. For her part Megan mumbled something that sounded like ‘Hi’ and waved a hand in a vague sort of way, needing to be prompted before she sat up and made room on the settee.

  Ellen sat between the two of them, an arm around each, and tried not to dwell on the fact that she would not be seeing them for another twenty-four hours. This was their time together and she filled it with the usual questions. How was Megan’s whale project coming along? Had she remembered to hand in the form and the cheque for the residential trip in June? Had Harry thought to check lost property for his missing trainers? They both answered distractedly, peeling their attention incrementally away from the screen for no longer than it took to answer. This was precisely why they were not allowed to watch any soaps at home. Some of the rubbish they would lock onto, given half a chance, defied belief. It took real willpower not to get up and switch the damned thing off. She forced herself to remember that this was not her home.

  She watched for a minute or two. A different character had appeared, this one with slightly crooked teeth and what could only be described as a mullet. She remembered the days when the villains were instantly identifiable because they always wore black. Now you simply looked for the one who was just a shade less than drop-dead gorgeous.

  ‘Best to give ’em ten minutes or so,’ called Jack through the serving hatch. ‘You won’t get much out of them till it’s finished.’ In which case, why let them watch it? ‘Come in here,’ he continued. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  Ellen gave their hair an affectionate ruffle and got up from the sofa (which also wasn’t cheap). She squeezed past the children, pausing briefly in front of the mirror and running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tease it into something more presentable. Then she dropped her hand to her side as she realised Jack was watching her through the hatch. He slid open the partition door and she took a seat at the dining table, cross with herself for a moment’s carelessness. Jack never needed an excuse to leap to the wrong conclusion.

  ‘Here, I’ll just get those.’ He reached across her and plucked the Pizza Hut boxes from the table. He went over to the bin, found it full and thrust them into a corner of one of the work surfaces instead.

  ‘I’d have cooked them something,’ he said, opening a cupboard and taking a bottle of wine from it. ‘You know, something a bit more nutritious, only with all the short notice and everything . . .’ Absolutely, thought Ellen. Half-ten this morning she’d rung him – how could anyone be expected to rustle up a few vegetables in that time? She reminded herself that he was doing her a favour. Now was hardly the time to take him to task about the TV, their diet, what time they needed to go to bed. Nine o’clock. Absolute latest.

  ‘You’re not opening that for me, are you?’ she asked, as he took a corkscrew from the drawer and inserted it into the neck of the bottle.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Only . . . not for me, please. I can’t. I’m driving.’

  Jack put the bottle between his knees and gave a sharp tug to free the cork. Then he reached up to one of the overhead cupboards and withdrew two glasses.

  ‘One glass won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘I’m not offering you the bottle.’

  ‘No, honestly.’

  He placed the glasses on the table and poured with an exaggerated raising and lowering motion. Then he handed one of them to her.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  It was always this way with Jack.

  So . . . is that a yes or a no?

  No.

  Was that a yes?

  No.

  Sounded like a yes to me.

  It was a no.

  I’ll take that as a yes then.

  Jack to a T.

  Ellen took the glass from him and sipped gently. He looked intently at her, gauging her reaction.

  ‘Mm . . . nice,’ she said. Nice! God, she was such a philistine. Oh to be able to talk with authority of bouquets and vintages and such like. Jack smiled, as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘I should hope so. Cost enough.’

  He flashed his grin, the Jack grin, and the years rolled back like waves. She looked again at his Sussex University sweatshirt, which they both knew he would never have worn as a student. He’d have died rather than subscribe to some bourgeois sense of collegiate identity. In those days his T-shirts had been ablaze with provocative slogans and calls to arms. They never hinted or whispered – they screamed. They spat. They assaulted the senses, spraying vitriol and condemnation indiscriminately. Abortion? FUCK THE POPE! Chechnya? FUCK THE KREMLIN! Rwanda? FUCK THE HUTUS! The cause was immaterial. Effect was everything.

  When she finished her Business degree, he quit his own Creative Arts course and went with her, even though it had twelve months still to run. If you believed Jack’s version, he’d outgrown the course anyway. There was nothing more it could teach him. It was staffed by mediocre wannabes who weren’t and never would be, social inadequates who had sold out to the Establishment years ago and were more concerned with tenure than getting out there and creating something. He didn’t need them.

  Only Ellen suspected the truth – that he had jumped before he could be pushed.

  ‘So – this Cheltenham trip. What’s all that about?’

  Ellen brought him up to speed with the letter she’d received and her conversation with Wilmot. She found herself avoiding any reference to the cottage and its value. Instead she kept things non-specific, playing the whole thing down as much as possible and trying to create the impression that she had no expectations of any great substance. She wondered why this was. Habit? Had evasion and half-truths become so deeply ingrained in their relationship that deception was now second nature to her? Or was it maybe a touch of embarrassment at the timing of it all? One month divorced, all the legal formalities concerning their financial circumstances finalised at last, and then suddenly here she is, with what could reasonably be described as a fortune landing in her lap. How convenient was that? She knew how it would have looked to her, had the roles been reversed. She didn’t want to see the counters clicking over in his eyes or the inevitable calculations and suspicion.

  Jack, to give him credit, seemed more intrigued by Eudora Nash.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, shaping to top up her glass until she stubbornly placed one hand over it. ‘You may not have heard of her but she sure as hell has to figure somewhere in that shadowy past of yours. Have you talked to Barbara?’

  Ellen arched an eyebrow and he instantly held up one hand by way of apology.

  ‘Oh yeah . . . right. Sorry.’ He turned his back for a moment and put the bottle on the work surface. ‘Still, it’s not like she’s out of it all the time, is it? I mean, she does have her moments, doesn’t she?’

  Ellen put down her glass and made a conscious effort to keep her tone as neutral as possible. ‘When was the last time you spoke with her, Jack?’

  He took a sip from his glass. ‘Your mother? Dunno. Not for a while, I suppose.’

  ‘Things have moved on a lot in the last year or so.’

  ‘It hasn’t been that long . . .’

  ‘How many times have you been to Calder Vale?’ She waited, enjoying his momentary confusion and confident that the point was hers. She knew he’d sooner take holy orders than visit her mother in a nursing home. �
�Half the time, she doesn’t even know who I am, let alone this . . . Eudora Nash. She may have her moments, as you put it, but they’re getting fewer and further between.’

  ‘Yeah, well –’ he said, rubbing at some imaginary mark on his trousers, as the opening for an apology slipped past.

  ‘And even when she’s vaguely compos mentis, what makes you think she’d explain herself to me? You know what she’s like.’

  ‘OK. So what about the Balfours?’ he asked, striking out for clearer waters. ‘Maybe they’d know something. Have you asked them?’

  Here we go, thought Ellen. How long have I been here? Ten minutes? Jack rarely needed an excuse to have a go at Sam. She’d never managed to isolate exactly what it was that rubbed him up the wrong way because there were so many possible contributory factors. Jack was a dreamer – Sam preferred to roll up his shirtsleeves. Sam was capitalism personified – Jack liked to think of himself as driven by purer instincts. Sam had conceived and built Langmere Grove from scratch – Jack had built nothing. And much as he liked to sneer about the millions Sam had made and the luxury retirement villa he shared with his wife Mary in Barbados, the envy announced itself almost every time Sam’s name was mentioned. Maybe it was that easy: Jack wished he had money – Sam had it.

  He was less scathing about Mary Balfour, who had interviewed and subsequently befriended Ellen’s mother when she first arrived at Langmere, but then again it would have been difficult to find fault with someone so generous and kind-hearted. Unable to have children herself, Mary had spent a lot of time with Ellen during her formative years, even looking after her while Barbara was at work. And if Sam had been the one to sponsor Ellen through university and open doors for her, it was almost certainly Mary who was doing the nudging. Jack seemed prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt but wasn’t able to extend the courtesy to Sam. The debt of gratitude which Ellen owed her benefactor clearly stuck in his craw and she’d long since given up on the idea that anything would dislodge it now.

  ‘Sam will be video-conferencing on Friday – I’ll ask them then.’

  ‘Ring now if you like – you can use my phone.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘No rush. It’s not that big a deal. It’ll probably all be cleared up tomorrow. Besides, he won’t know anything.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I just am.’

  ‘Why? ’Cos it’s good old Sam?’ said Jack. ‘You think he wouldn’t keep anything from you?’

  Ellen shaped as if to accept the challenge but decided to let it rest. There was no point once Jack got going. Never had been.

  ‘Look, I know he put you through university and all that but I’ve always said you’re too quick to take everything he says at face value,’ he continued. ‘Me, I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw him.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . you two never did get on.’

  ‘Never gave me much of a chance, did he? He was on my case right from the start. I can understand why you won’t hear a word said against him. I get that he’s been like a father to you but I tell you – still waters, that man. Still waters. Bit like the swan. Anyway, it’s your bed, El. You know what I think.’

  Ellen ignored the mixed metaphors, bit her lip and said nothing. She wouldn’t rise to it. She didn’t need to, not any longer. Those days were long gone, she told herself. Before she left she would sit down and spend some quality time with her children, while she could. Then she’d walk away from it all. Things were different now because she could do just that – walk away. This didn’t have to turn into a clash of wills that would dominate the whole evening.

  But she made one silent promise to herself. When she got home, she would have a long, hot, relaxing bath and pamper herself with bubble bath and oils of every description. Then she’d make herself a hot chocolate, wrap herself in her dressing gown and curl up on the settee with a good book before grabbing an early night in readiness for the journey. What she would not do was brood on Jack’s hints about the Balfours. Nor, under any circumstances, would she phone them. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  ‘Hey! So how’s my favourite girl, then?’

  ‘Hi, Sam.’

  ‘You fit?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘They’re good too. You and Mary?’

  ‘Yeah . . . not bad for a couple of old fossils.’

  ‘That’s great. Listen, is this a bad time?’

  ‘Never a bad time when it’s you, girl. We’ve just come up from the beach. Mary’s rustling up a salad. Here . . . I’ll just switch you to speakerphone and you can say hi.’

  Ellen sank back and allowed the hot water to settle around her shoulders. Sinatra, who had been crooning quietly in the background, now sounded much clearer and Mary could also be heard cooeeing from all of four thousand miles away. Ellen called out to her, summoning up a mental picture of the luxury seafront apartment, still fresh in her mind from her visit four years ago. She and Jack had taken the children for ten days of sun, sea, sand and water sports with accommodation provided and only the flights to pay for. Unfortunately the reality had been more stressful than she’d bargained for. The children’s body clocks were all over the place and Jack, with two young children in tow, had found living with two seventy-plus-year-olds somewhat at odds with the beach-bum idyll he’d envisaged. He made a poor fist of disguising his boredom after the first couple of days and the enforced proximity took its toll on what had always been a fragile truce between him and Sam. By the time the ten days were up, the usual expressions of regret sounded more than a little hollow.

  Now, of course, the children were that bit older and Jack was out of the picture, and Sam in particular had been pressing for her to come and visit again. She spent a couple of minutes fending him off, assuring him that she and the children would be out there the following year, come what may, for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Then she answered his questions about the business, talking him through what had happened in the last few days.

  ‘So-o-o . . .’ he said, the moment she’d finished. ‘We nearly there yet?’

  ‘Nearly where?’

  ‘Well, let me see. You’re fine. The kids are good. Work’s coming along just nicely. So that kind of leaves me wondering what’s so important that you’ve decided to call, when you know we’ve got a conference call anyway in, what, thirty-six hours or so.’

  Ellen chuckled. ‘OK. There was something,’ she said, scooping up a handful of bubbles with her free hand and blowing gently into them. ‘Probably nothing serious but I thought I’d run it past you. Only there’s this name that cropped up this morning. It’s supposed to mean something to me but I honestly don’t remember having heard it before.’

  ‘So what’s the name?’

  ‘Nash. Eudora Nash.’

  There was a pause, almost imperceptible but there none the less.

  ‘Nash, you say?’

  ‘Eudora.’

  Another pause. ‘Eudora? That’s some name. You don’t get many of those to the pound nowadays.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  Sam sighed. ‘Aw hell, girl – you get to my age, you have enough difficulty remembering your own name, let alone someone else’s.’

  ‘What about you, Mary?’ she called, raising her voice. ‘Mean anything to you?’

  ‘She’s gone back into the kitchen,’ said Sam. ‘If you hold for a few seconds, I’ll ask her.’

  There was a click and Sinatra faded into the distance again. Ellen looked at the handset for a moment, wondering why Sam had decided to take her off speakerphone. She waited patiently for twenty, thirty, forty seconds, then pressed the receiver to her ear and listened carefully to make sure she hadn’t been cut off. She was surprised – how long did it take to ask a simple question?

  ‘You still there?’ The speaker was open again. She could hear Sinatra telling everyone that Chicago was his kind of town.

  ‘So what did
Mary have to say? The name mean anything to her?’

  ‘Aw hell, it’s like I said. You get to our age, nothing much sticks any more. With a bit of context, maybe?’

  ‘Context?’

  ‘Like how this name cropped up in the first place?’

  Ellen paused for a moment, uncertain as to how to play this. She was surprised that this element of calculation had crept in. A conversation with Sam was usually the most natural thing in the world. They’d always been so easy in each other’s company. The suggestion that she might actively seek to keep anything from him and Mary was intrinsically ludicrous. And yet . . .

  For the second time in a matter of hours, Ellen went over the events of the morning. And, as with Jack, she avoided any mention of the cottage. She gave the gist of the letter and told him she was planning to meet the solicitor in the morning.

  Sam heard her out. There was a silence at the other end which Ellen found disconcerting. At last his voice came through, clear and confident as ever. ‘Know what I’d do if I were you, girl?’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’d forget all about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘More trouble than it’s worth, by the sound of it. Travel all that way, then find all you’ve got is some vase you don’t even want. That’s if they’ve got the right person in the first place. You’d be amazed how often they get that sort of thing wrong. Better off staying put. Waste of a day, seems to me.’

  ‘Be nice to clear it up though, wouldn’t it?’ she asked, disingenuously. ‘I mean, aren’t you curious as to why she’s leaving me anything at all?’

  ‘Who knows? These widows,’ he sighed, clambering aboard one of his favourite hobby horses down the years, ‘more money than sense, most of them. They leave millions to their cats, for Christ’s sake. Last thing you want is to try working out what’s going on between their ears. I tell you, you’ve got better things to do with your time.’