The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Wearily, he dragged his attention back to his computer. Ever since his ‘epic fail’ with the pitch document for McAlpine, Brett had had him churning out market research, trawling through the internet and London newspapers looking for data on property transactions. It was perfectly obvious that no one, least of all Brett, needed this stuff; that it was a task Jason had been given to fill his time and keep him out of trouble. But he couldn’t really complain. It wasn’t as if he had a burning ambition to work at the sharp end of his father’s business, and at least the research gave him time to pursue the one aspect of London life that did interest him: music.

  He’d discovered that a number of jazz venues within a ten-mile radius of Cranley Estates’ offices held open auditions for new performers on a fairly regular basis. Jason had played piano at a couple of tiny, coffee-shop gigs back in Sydney, before his depression had returned with a vengeance. The mere act of sitting at a keyboard soothed him, the way that lighting up a cigarette or sipping a glass of whisky or sinking into a hot bath soothed other people. But performing, on the rare occasions when he found the courage to do it, filled him with a sense of contentment and wellbeing and fulfilment that nothing else on earth could compare to. Having a room full of people applaud him for doing what he loved most in the world – no matter how small a room – was like having a brilliant surgeon restart his heart.

  Surreptitiously opening the website for Joe’s Diner in Borough Market, and clicking on the ‘Performers’ tab, Jason allowed his mind to wander deliciously into fantasy as the rain drummed on the windowpane.

  ‘Buying restaurants now, are we? I didn’t know we’d diversified.’

  The secretary’s voice was like a jug of ice cubes down his shirt. Jason jumped, accidentally shutting down his screen altogether in his clumsy attempts to close the web page.

  ‘Was that a porn-slam?’

  Michelle looked at Jason archly. She was clearly joking with him. Ever since the day of his botched presentation, when Jason had accused his father of sleeping with her, he’d noticed Michelle’s attempts to make-nice. Part of him wanted to respond in kind. She seemed a sweet girl, and had always gone out of her way to be kind to him. And technically, he supposed, there was a possibility he was wrong about her and his father. But then he remembered the way they’d looked at one another that day and he knew he hadn’t been.

  ‘I don’t look at porn,’ he mumbled, refusing to meet her eye.

  ‘I know. I was only kidding. You just looked so guilty when I came in.’ Michelle grinned. ‘Planning a night out, were you? There’s nothing wrong with that. You should get out more, a bloke your age.’

  ‘Says who? My father?’ Jason snapped.

  Michelle bit her lip awkwardly. ‘I’ve been to Joe’s,’ she said, trying to move the subject on. She’d only come in to check the printer, which had been playing up lately, and wished she hadn’t. ‘It’s a fun place. We could go together one night if you like.’

  Jason couldn’t take the fake camaraderie a moment longer.

  ‘He’s just using you, you know.’ Swivelling around on his chair he fixed Michelle with a searing, intense stare. ‘He’ll take what he wants until he gets bored and then he’ll sack you and move on. You’re probably not the only one he’s ch-cheating on my mother with even now. You’re not special.’

  Michelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked as if she’d just had acid thrown in her face.

  Jason knew he was being cruel. It pained him, because he wasn’t a cruel person. But he wanted to get through to her, to jolt her out of her complacency, or blindness, or whatever it was that made attractive, fun, decent young women like her fall for his bastard father.

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ she said eventually. The words were challenging but her tone was quiet and defeated. ‘What makes you think you know?’

  ‘That there are other women, you mean? Besides you?’ asked Jason.

  ‘That we’re having an affair,’ said Michelle. ‘What if I told you that you were wrong?’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe you,’ Jason said, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘Brett’s sleeping with you because you’re there. Unfortunately, when it comes to my father’s extramarital tastes, that’s all he needs. Availability. He’s not looking for some perfect woman. He already has that in my mother.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t think so,’ Michelle snapped back defiantly. But her lower lip was wobbling. Jason could see his words had hit home.

  ‘He does think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m telling you the truth, for your own sake as well as my mum’s. You seem like a nice person.’

  ‘I am a nice person,’ said Michelle.

  ‘Then end it,’ said Jason. ‘Get out while you still can.’

  A few days later, Angela was chopping carrots and parsley in the kitchen at Furlings. The break in the summer heat wave was enough to warrant a hot evening meal, and she’d decided to try out a Jamie Oliver recipe for chicken chasseur.

  Estate agents would probably have described Furlings’ kitchen as being ‘in need of updating’, but to Angela it was perfect. An enormous, cast-iron range cooker, similar to an Aga but about twice the size, fifty years older and covered with a century’s worth of encrusted casserole remnants, dominated one wall. To the left and right of it stood two enormous butchers’ chopping blocks, above which a row of gleaming copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling, like shiny carcasses in an abattoir. The adjoining wall overlooked the lawn and deer park beyond, glistening green after the rain in the soft, early evening light. Mrs Worsley and the cleaning girl did most of the washing-up, but Angela had been known to spend a full ten minutes rinsing out a single cup in the huge, chipped Belfast sink, transfixed by the loveliness of the view. Directly opposite the sink, in the middle of the room, a large round oak table sat lopsidedly on a sloping flagstone floor, worn dangerously smooth and slippery by generations of stockinged feet scurrying back and forth across it. Usually this table was covered in clutter – Logan’s school books, Angela’s half-read newspapers, Jason’s sheet music – but today Mrs Worsley had cleared it to make space for a large jug of slightly overblown peonies, cuttings from the garden that she’d caught Jennings about to chuck in his wheelbarrow and throw away.

  Chopping away at her vegetables, soaking up the cheerful, homely atmosphere of the room, Angela jumped a mile when she felt two arms encircle her waist from behind.

  ‘You should let Mrs Worsley do that,’ Brett whispered, nuzzling into her neck. ‘That’s what we pay her for.’

  Angela spun around, beaming. ‘What are you doing home?’

  Brett invariably spent the midweek nights at his London crash pad. On the rare occasions when he made it down to Furlings before Friday, he always called to let Angela know.

  ‘Do I need an excuse to come and see my beautiful wife?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m just … surprised. Why didn’t you catch the train with Jason earlier?’

  ‘I still had some work to finish up,’ said Brett. ‘I love you,’ he added, kissing her again.

  Angela felt relief wash over her like a gentle wave. Ever since that awful afternoon at the school, when she’d overheard the other mothers gossiping and so embarrassingly fainted, a nagging seed of doubt had been planted in her mind. She didn’t really believe that Brett was cheating on her again. But at the same time, she couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t. Which left her in a sort of awful, silent limbo that had put a strain on the marriage. Neither she nor Brett had acknowledged it, but they both knew it was there. And Brett’s behaviour had been off in other ways, too. He’d been distinctly standoffish with Max Bingley at church last Sunday, for example, and seemed irritated when Angela so much as spoke to the headmaster in passing. Ridiculously, Angela found herself feeling guilty as a result, perhaps because Brett still knew nothing of the fainting incident. As if by winding up on Bingley’s couch that day she had somehow betrayed her husband. Which, of co
urse, was pure nonsense. But the feelings remained, and Angela had gone out of her way to avoid bumping into Max at school this week as a result of them.

  Then there was Brett’s growing obsession with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton and the looming court case over Rory’s will. Brett’s face still darkened ominously whenever Tati’s name was mentioned, which in a small village like this was a real problem. Especially given that Angela ran into Tati almost daily at school, and Logan positively adored the girl, who’d done more to help her with her reading than any of the expensive tutors back in Australia.

  Of course, none of these things added up to much in isolation. But Angela had been unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss with Brett. That the dynamic in their marriage had become skewed, off-kilter, dangerous in some inexplicable way. She felt like an actor in a play, thrust onto the stage but with no idea what her lines were, or even what part she was supposed to be playing.

  Feeling Brett’s arms around her now, however, she instantly relaxed.

  I’ve been worrying about nothing. Overthinking things, like I always do.

  ‘So where is Jason?’ Brett asked casually, picking up a piece of raw carrot and crunching it between his teeth.

  ‘I think he’s in his room, I’m not sure,’ said Angela. ‘Is everything OK?’ she added anxiously.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Brett smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Daddy! What are you doing back?’

  Logan sauntered into the kitchen, looking more pre-teen than ever in a punk tutu skirt and skull and crossbones T-shirt teamed with high tops with the word ‘Grrrrrl’ emblazoned on the side in black sequins. Brett was taken aback by how pretty she was becoming, with her high cheekbones, dark eyes and long black hair flapping behind her like a trail of smoke.

  ‘I missed Mummy’s cooking,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. ‘Are you wearing perfume?’ he frowned.

  ‘No,’ lied Logan, making a hasty exit.

  ‘She was over at Wraggsbottom Farm after school, supposedly helping Laura with the chickens,’ Angela explained. ‘It’s her parent–teacher meeting tomorrow afternoon. Do you think we should say something to Max Bingley about the whole Gabe Baxter obsession?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Brett firmly. ‘It’s a crush, not an “obsession”. And it’s none of Bingley’s business. Anyway, what do you mean “we”? There’s no way I can come. I’ve got far too much on at work.’

  Logan, who’d suddenly reappeared in the doorway, heard the last part of Brett’s comment.

  ‘You’re not coming to my parents’ meeting?’ she pouted.

  ‘I can’t, pumpkin.’ Brett tried to sound conciliatory. ‘You know I’m not a big one for school events. Mum’ll be there, though. And if your grades are good, I’ll get you a toy from Hamleys. What Barbie are you after?’

  ‘Barbie?’ Logan curled her upper lip contemptuously. ‘I’m almost eleven years old, Dad. I don’t want a doll!’

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ asked Brett.

  ‘I want you to come tomorrow,’ said Logan. ‘I’m doing amazing with my reading.’

  ‘Amazingly,’ Angela corrected on autopilot.

  ‘Miss F-H says I’m the best pupil in my whole class and I’ve made the most progress.’ Her dark eyes shone with pride. ‘And I’ve got two stories – two – up on the wall in our classroom. No one else has that, not even Bertie and he’s like Dexter from Dexter’s Laboratory. That means he’s a total brainiac,’ Logan explained, seeing the blank look of incomprehension on her mother’s face.

  In fact, Angela had tensed up, waiting for the mention of Tatiana to plunge Brett back into his usual angry, dark mood. But instead she heard him say in a calm, measured voice: ‘Miss F-H said that, did she? Hmmm. You know what, Logie? I will come tomorrow. As you’ve made such an effort.’

  ‘Really?’ Logan was as astonished as her mother by this turnaround. ‘Brilliant! Can I go and tell Jase?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Once she’d gone, Brett pulled Angela into his arms and kissed her softly. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Work’s been stressful, setting up the new office. And of course, this ruddy court case …’

  ‘I know,’ Angela said soothingly.

  ‘But I do love you.’

  Looking into his eyes, the same eyes that had first met hers all those years ago across the counter of her father’s bakery, Angela could see that he meant it.

  ‘I love you too, Brett,’ she said, truthfully.

  ‘I’m gonna be around a bit more from now on. You know, for Logan. Do more family stuff.’

  Angela smiled. That she would believe when she saw it.

  Jason skipped dinner. When Logan told him Dad was home, he miraculously lost his appetite.

  Afterwards, Brett went upstairs and found him in his bedroom.

  ‘I want a word with you.’ He closed the door behind him.

  Jason said nothing, not moving from his reclining position on the bed, like a possum playing dead. As if by remaining still and closing his eyes he could somehow will his father away.

  ‘What did you say to Michelle the other day?’

  There was an edge to Brett’s voice that made the hairs on Jason’s forearms stand on end.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he said. ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you,’ said Jason.

  He wished he weren’t so afraid, so pathetically intimidated by his father. His own cowardice disgusted him. Number one hundred and twelve on the list of things he hated about himself.

  ‘Then answer me,’ said Brett. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything she didn’t already know,’ Jason answered cautiously.

  ‘Oh really? And what the hell do you know, may I ask?’ Brett erupted, unable to rein in his temper any longer. ‘You’re a twenty-year-old kid! You don’t know a damn thing. She gave in her notice today, do you realize that? One of the best secretaries I ever had quit a perfectly good job because of what you said to her.’

  ‘You’re blaming me?’ Jason’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, I’m blaming you,’ said Brett. ‘Why wouldn’t I? You told her to quit.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s been sleeping with her!’ Jason blurted.

  ‘I have not,’ Brett hissed. ‘And keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake.’

  The lie hung in the air between them, ugly and obvious. Father and son looked at one another. Brett broke the silence first.

  ‘I love your mother,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I never said you didn’t, Dad.’

  ‘I don’t want you ever to speak of this again. Not at home, not at work, not with anyone. Ever.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jason turned his head away to face the wall.

  ‘I’m serious, Jason.’

  ‘So am I. I said fine, didn’t I?’

  Brett headed for the door. A torrent of emotions, none of them good, pressed heavily on his heart making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Maybe it’s best if I don’t come back to work,’ Jason called after him. ‘I’ll find another job, something local. We both know I’m not cut out for the real-estate business.’

  ‘No,’ said Brett dully.

  ‘Why not?’ Jason sounded close to tears.

  ‘Because I said so,’ said Brett. ‘Because we’re Cranleys. We don’t quit when the going gets tough. And because … you’re my son.’

  He left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.

  Only once the last of his footsteps had died away did Jason allow the tears to flow.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I’m not sure I quite understand what you’re saying.’

  Max Bingley looked at Dylan Pritchard Jones suspiciously. St Hilda’s art teacher was one of the few members of staff whom he had never fully managed to get a handle on. On the one hand, there was no doubt whatsoever that Dylan was marvellous at his job. An accomplished artist in hi
s own right – not always the case with art teachers, especially not at primary level – he was also a natural and instinctive teacher. Patient, committed, inspiring. Someone like Dylan could easily have found a job in a private school that paid many multiples of what he earned here. Max didn’t doubt that he’d been approached by rivals, and he was grateful that Pritchard Jones had decided to stay. Clearly Dylan felt the same way about St Hilda’s, and Fittlescombe, that Max did: that it was unique; somewhere that couldn’t be replicated, still less bettered.

  And yet their common love of the school and of their profession had failed to create a bond between the two men. For all his positive qualities, his charm and affability and the staunch support he’d given to Max’s changes since he’d taken over from Harry Hotham, there was something ‘fishy’ about Dylan Pritchard Jones. Something that, despite himself, Max Bingley didn’t quite trust.

  It was that something that Max saw in Dylan’s handsome, twinkling blue eyes this morning as he danced around the subject of Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.

  ‘Has something happened between you and Tatiana?’

  ‘No!’ Dylan laughed, tossing his curly head from side to side dismissively. ‘Nothing’s happened, headmaster. I felt I ought to come to you privately, that’s all, and talk off the record. Man to man, as it were. She’s very … young.’

  He weighted this last word, implying some mysterious significance.

  ‘Yeeees,’ said Max. ‘And?’

  ‘And young girls can be prone to crushes.’ Dylan spoke smoothly. ‘They’re not always … how should I put this? Their behaviour isn’t always appropriate.’

  ‘I do beg you not to use that word,’ Max said tetchily. ‘It makes you sound like Bill Bloody Clinton. Appropriate. Whatever happened to right and wrong? Has Tatiana done something wrong, Dylan? Is that what you’re trying to say?’