Mr. Brinkworth threw down his pen and leaned back in his chair with the ostentatious self-satisfaction of a man who’s just finished The Times crossword and wants everyone to know about it. Daniel raised his pockmarked face from his scribblings and all but applauded his brilliant mentor.
“No need to see a brief, mate,” said Edward. “I’m not agreeing to it. I’ve got to think about Mum’s wishes. If she’d wanted me to be turfed out after a year she’d have said that.”
“I’m not agreeing to it either. I intend to prove that my mother’s will is the product of a criminal plot. If you won’t admit that, we’ll have to see what the court makes of it.”
Waiting for the solicitor to assimilate my words, I felt a peculiar sensation in my lower abdomen; a delicate fluttering, as though a small bird was trapped inside me and was trying to escape. Its wings beat, then stopped, beat, then stopped. It was quite different from the feeling you get with an unsettled stomach or from hunger—more teasing and ticklish. Perhaps, I thought, it was a side effect of the adrenaline that primes a person for battle. I shifted my position in the chair and crossed my legs, hoping that that would make it stop.
“Miss Green,” said the solicitor, picking up a brass paper knife and tapping it irritably on the file before him, “Daniel’s notes of my meeting with your mother record that she gave me very specific instructions regarding the contents of her will. Perhaps I could quote a section to you, ‘Client wants to leave estate equally to son and daughter, open brackets Edward and Susan close brackets. E lives with her. Client thinks E will need time to make alt living arrangements. HB explained to client poss of giving son life interest in family home. Client said sounded like excellent idea and thanked HB for his advice.’ So you see, your mother was quite clear in her mind that she wanted your brother to be able to stay put in the short-term.”
“Quite right, mate.” Edward raised his thumb approvingly.
The fluttering was there again. Images of hummingbirds, dragonflies and giant hawk moths flew through my mind. A supreme act of will was required to chase them away and focus on the flaws in Mr. Brinkworth’s argument. I tensed my abdominal muscles and straightened my spine.
“But it’s not just in the short-term, is it?” I countered. “Edward can stay there for as long as he likes. My mother may have appeared to be clear in her mind, but she’d recently had two strokes. She was vulnerable to pressure. Did you know about that? Did you take the time to find out about the state of health of the frail, elderly woman who was consulting you?”
“Whether or not I knew about the strokes is irrelevant. Your mother, I recall, was a very astute, very lucid lady. The fact that her wishes don’t accord with your own does nothing to cast doubt on her mental capacity.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” agreed Edward.
By now the miniature vivarium in my abdomen was becoming a distraction and annoyance to me. I shifted position again, perching on the edge of the seat and leaning forward. I was anxious that, in my agitated physical state, Mr. Brinkworth and Edward might wrest control of the meeting from me. I must confess I began to lose my composure.
“Look, Edward,” I said, turning to my brother. “Just keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got something useful to contribute to this discussion. In fact, if you want to contribute, why not just come clean about your part in this? It’s obvious you got Mum to make the will. Did you think up the plan alone, or did you get Mr. Brinkworth to help you?”
“Yeah, me and the brief, we’re down at The Bull’s Head together every night. Sleeps over at mine if he’s had a skinful. What do you think, Suze?” he said with a sneer on his face. “For your information, my involvement is this—Mum told me a few weeks ago that she was writing a will. That’s the whole story. That’s the beginning and the end of it. I’ve never met this guy before, never been to this place before, never told Mum to write a will, never said I wanted to stay in the house after she died. Do you want to make a note of all that, Suze? And you, too, Danny Boy?” Here he turned briefly to the unfortunate minion, who blushed once again. “Mum must’ve just wanted to help me out. And maybe she wanted to thank me for being there for her over the years, and not just swanning off down to London.”
“Being there for her, that’s a joke,” I said, standing up in a final attempt to subdue the fluttering. Edward must have taken my rising as an act of aggression and stood up to face me—an instinctive reaction, I’d imagine, after the number of pub brawls in which he’s engaged. I’m a petite five foot one; Edward, although undersized for a man, is a good six inches taller than me. I took a step back. “She couldn’t get rid of you,” I continued. “Every time she hoped you might finally be making a life for yourself you’d go crawling back home. You didn’t do it for her, you did it so you could lounge around and live rent-free. You’re a parasite.”
“Miss Green, Mr. Green...”
“Crap,” Edward shouted, jabbing me in the chest with his finger. “I took her to the supermarket. I mowed the lawn. I did jobs around the house. And I kept her company. Who looked after her when she was ill? What did you do? Visit every few months, just so you could tell yourself you’d done your duty. No wonder she decided I deserved a bit more than you.”
“I was closer to her than you ever were. I spoke to her on the phone once a week, without fail. I knew everything that was going on in her life. It’s just that, unlike you, I’ve got a job.”
“Enough.” Mr. Brinkworth slammed his palms down on the desk. “If you don’t put a stop to this behavior immediately I’ll have to ask Daniel to escort you from the premises.” The minion shrank into his seat.
The fluttering was now insistent, and it finally dawned on me that it wasn’t just a sensation that something was moving inside me; something was, indeed, stirring. The thought wasn’t a pleasant one. A scene from Alien leaped into my mind—the one where it is revealed, rather dramatically, that John Hurt’s character has become a human incubator. I instinctively slipped my hand below the waistband of my skirt, which I noticed was snugger than usual. Nothing appeared to be breaking its way out.
“What do you need the dosh for anyway, Suze?” Edward continued, oblivious both to my agitation and to Mr. Brinkworth’s entreaties. “You’re always saying what a great career you’ve got in London and what a fantastic flat you own. I’m the one who needs it, not you.”
I hesitated for a moment. I’d had no intention of informing Edward about the pregnancy. It was none of his business, particularly as I intended to cease contact with him once the issue of our mother’s estate was concluded. Besides, there was nothing I could possibly gain. It was clear that Edward’s position was entrenched, and it was highly unlikely that the prospect of a niece or nephew would do anything to change that. On the other hand, telling Richard had been surprisingly fun, like playing a trump card or pulling a rabbit from a hat.
“For your information, Edward, I’m pregnant,” I said.
Edward looked me up and down wordlessly, then ran his fingers through his greasy hair, shook his head and laughed.
“Nice try, Suze, but I’m surprised you can’t come up with anything better than that. D’you think I’m a complete idiot?”
* * *
The meeting with Mr. Brinkworth and Edward hadn’t gone entirely to plan. Perhaps it had been a little optimistic of me to expect the solicitor to admit his negligence or my brother to admit his scheming. Nonetheless, at least we all knew exactly where we stood, and I’d left Mr. Brinkworth in no doubt that I was a woman who wouldn’t stop until she achieved justice.
On the train back to London later that afternoon, I took out the photocopy of my mother’s will and examined it. The provisions were exactly as Mr. Brinkworth had stated, and I could see nothing obviously amiss with the wording. I turned to the final page, where the will had been signed and witnessed. My mother’s signature looked different from how I remembered it, not nec
essarily in its overall shape but more in its character; it was fainter, shakier, written with less flourish and more hesitation than usual. I wondered whether that was because she was confused about what she was signing, or because she was doing so under pressure.
I directed my attention to the identity of the two witnesses, which Mr. Brinkworth, so far, had neglected to make known to me. One was Aunt Sylvia. That surprised me, as she and Edward aren’t natural allies. I could only assume that the contents of the will were kept from her, or I’m sure she wouldn’t have put her name on the document. The other witness was Rob, my brother’s best friend and soul mate. Ha, got you! I thought. If my brother had wanted to cover his tracks and be certain that the will would stand up to close legal scrutiny, he really should have ensured that neither witness was intimately connected to him.
I’d need to interview and take statements from both Aunt Sylvia and Rob in preparation for my legal challenge of the will. In the case of my aunt that wouldn’t be a problem, but Rob might be trickier; I would have to think very carefully how I was going to coax information out of him. I was more than well equipped to put an end to Edward’s little game, but, nonetheless, it might not be a complete waste of an hour or so to meet up with my old university flatmate Brigid (the possessor of a fine legal brain, reputedly, although you would never guess from the state of the body encasing it) and get a little pro bono advice.
I put the document away in my bag and turned to the parcel occupying the seat next to me. I’d had a phone call from the funeral directors the previous week to inform me that they’d made several unsuccessful attempts to contact Edward. They wanted to know when he wished to collect my mother’s ashes, and wondered whether I could either pass a message on to him or pick them up myself. Not being a sentimental person, and also having been preoccupied recently with other more pressing concerns, I hadn’t given any thought to my mother’s ashes. Having been prompted to do so, however, I concluded that it would be far better for me, rather than Edward, to take charge of the matter. If I allowed my brother to do so he’d end up leaving the ashes on a bus or in a betting shop, or would decide to scatter them somewhere completely inappropriate like a beer garden. After the meeting at the solicitors’ offices, therefore, I’d collected from the funeral directors a weighty and rather unwieldy cardboard box sealed with parcel tape.
* * *
It had been strange to be ringing the brass doorbell of the funeral directors’ premises once again, twenty-seven years after I last did so. There was no reason for me to attend there in the aftermath of my mother’s death, as Edward dealt with the funeral arrangements and I felt no desire to see her body. Why would I? Edward had carried out the identification and the doctor had certified her death. While my brother is capable of all manner of nefarious practices, I considered it unlikely that he’d murdered or imprisoned my mother and produced for the doctor the body of a different old lady who had died of natural causes. Standing in the reception area, waiting for my mother’s ashes to be brought out to me, I recalled that I’d felt quite differently about my father.
I was seventeen years old when he died. In those days, I was less pragmatic than I am now—I’d liken my adolescent self to a young plant that has yet to toughen fully—and it felt important to me to see my father’s body. Perhaps it was because my relationship with him had been complex; perhaps because of the nature of his final years and demise. Whatever the reason, a couple of days after my father’s death, I decided to call in to the funeral directors on my way home from school.
The last time I’d seen my father alive his unruly mane reached his shoulders and his beard was unkempt. Now, lying in his coffin, he was clean shaven with neatly trimmed hair brushed back from his face. Instead of wearing the shabby clothes in which I’d become used to seeing him, he was shrouded with a silky white fabric, gathered around his neck like a choirboy’s ruff. It’s a cliché to say that the dead look peaceful, but he did, finally. The harmony of the scene was disrupted only by a short piece of cotton thread, perhaps half an inch long, protruding from between the lashes of his left eye. I couldn’t allow that to remain. I gripped the end between my thumb and index finger and pulled. I found, when I did so, that it wouldn’t come. It was clamped between his upper and lower lids. As I pulled harder I had visions of his eye springing open and a ball of wadding coming away in my hand. I let go of the thread, pushed past the undertaker’s assistant who was skulking outside the room and ran. My mother had to call in to the funeral directors the following morning to retrieve my schoolbag.
* * *
Sitting on the train I was curious as to exactly what was in my charge. I slit the parcel tape with the metal nail file I keep in my makeup bag and folded back the lid of the box. Inside I found not the plastic, screw-topped jar I’d expected, but a tasteful rectangular wooden casket. I lifted it out of the box and placed it on the table in front of me. The grim-faced woman sitting diagonally opposite, who I noticed had been engaged for the last half an hour in Googling the various grounds for divorce, stared at the casket, then gave me an odd look. Some people are unable to mind their own business.
I turned the casket around, examining it from every angle. The wood was smooth, polished oak. Attached to the lid was a silver plate engraved in simple lettering with my mother’s name and the dates of her birth and death. It was not unlike the sort of thing I might have chosen if I’d addressed my mind to it. I was surprised Edward had gone to the trouble of ordering such a casket. It goes without saying, however, that if he was really so concerned about the ultimate fate of the ashes he should have returned the funeral directors’ phone calls more promptly. I had no idea what I, myself, would do with the container and its contents. At least, however, they were safely in my possession, which was the most important thing.
* * *
The following afternoon I had an appointment at the maternity hospital. I resigned myself to notifying my line manager, Trudy, about my pregnancy so that my absence would be classified as maternity-related. Early that morning, before my colleagues arrived, I went to see her in her office. I hoped to keep things as brief and businesslike as possible, not relishing the prospect of divulging intimate details of my life. I rapped on her office door, entered and came straight out with the fact that I was pregnant and required the afternoon off.
“Oh, Susan, I couldn’t be happier for you, I really couldn’t,” Trudy said, coming around to my side of the desk and embracing me. Her arms were as strong as navvies’, which I assumed was from the manual labor involved in ministering to small children. The seconds passed, and a sense of panic rose within me as I wondered how I could extricate myself. Eventually her grip relaxed, and she stood back to look at me. “I always hoped something like this would happen to you one day. Just let me know what I can do to help, whatever you need. Oh, this is fantastic news.”
Trudy’s reaction was so out of proportion to the information I’d just imparted that it startled me. As soon as I could escape her pawing and burbling, I returned to the still-deserted office. I straightened my stationery, made sure my piles of paperwork were parallel to the edges of my desk and carried out the usual checks on my collection of cacti. I noted that there was just enough room for one more, if I shuffled them along a little.
That evening, as I sat on my sofa listening to the soothing, mathematical cadences of a Mozart violin concerto, I examined the three ultrasound photographs that had been taken at the maternity hospital. When I’d looked at the monitor, I’d been unable to discern what the sonographer, with her practiced eye, could see distinctly. Now, with the benefit of my reading glasses, I could make out a curled shrimplike organism with a large head, a dark patch suggesting the presence of an eye, and wispy arms and legs. It bore very little resemblance to a human being, but everything was in the right place—or so the sonographer told me as she pummeled my jelly-slathered abdomen with the scanner.
After the ultrasound scan, I’d been pr
odded, poked and verbally probed by a breezily efficient midwife. Contrary to my expectations, she was completely unconcerned when I told her I was forty-five years old.
“Oh, there’re lots of girls in their forties having babies these days,” she said, jabbing a needle into my arm to extract blood. “It’s really not as uncommon as some people think. In fact, there’re as many fortysomethings having babies as under eighteens. I even had a girl in yesterday who was fifty-two. You obviously keep yourself nice and healthy. Just carry on doing what you’re doing.”
There was, however, one little matter that the midwife needed to mention; it seemed that I was likely to be in the high-risk category for having a baby with Down syndrome, although I wouldn’t receive the final calculation of that probability for a couple of days. I really shouldn’t worry myself, as it was still more likely than not that everything would be fine. If, however, having a baby with special needs would be a problem for me, I might want to consider having an amniocentesis test just to be sure one way or the other. There was a small risk of miscarriage attached to the procedure, and I should go away and take some time to think carefully about what I’d like to do. I told her, without hesitation, that it was only logical to have the test; it’s important to have all the facts to hand when weighing up a matter. Plus, having a baby would be a fresh challenge for me (although one to which I knew I’d rise), and I wouldn’t want to be caught unawares by unplanned-for complications. I could tell the midwife was unused to such quick and confident decision-making.
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