Sunshine Through the Rain

by Gilly Stewart

  Chapter Four

  Ellen slowly climbed the four broad stone steps to the solicitor’s office. She hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting, and Angus’s words as he left for school that morning had made her dread it all the more.

  ‘I’m not leaving Craigallan,’ he had hissed at her, eyes wide and angry in his thin face. ‘I know that’s what you’re going to see the solicitor about, but you can’t make me leave. Tell Gran and Grandad.’

  ‘I’m just going to talk to him,’ she had said, but he didn’t trust her and she didn’t blame him. Ellen and this unknown man were going to be talking about Angus’s future. She had no idea what those decisions would be, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t like them. ‘We’ll have a discussion when you get home,’ she had promised. He had hitched his school bag on to one shoulder and set off to catch the bus without another word.

  The solicitor’s office was in Dumfries. He had offered to come out to Craigallan to see Ellen, but she had decided it was about time she started taking the initiative herself and had announced she would drive in. So now she was here, in good time, wearing the out-of-date black suit because it was still the only smart item of clothing she had with her, trudging up the thickly carpeted staircase behind Mr McNicol’s broad back.

  He ushered her into a large office. On another occasion she might have appreciated its sparse décor. ‘Please have a seat, Miss Taylor. It’s good of you to come in.’

  ‘No it’s not. I should have come sooner, I know.’

  ‘No point in rushing things.’ His voice was deep and with the dark eyes and heavy jaw, he had a brooding air about him that could have been threatening, but his tone was kind. ‘How are the children? And your parents?’

  They spent a little time exchanging pleasantries, as Mr McNicol seemed determined to do. Ellen found, to her surprise, that this put her at ease.

  Eventually the solicitor took a sheaf of papers from the folder he had ready and said quietly, ‘Right, shall we start?’ He paused and leafed through the pages. ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that Mr and Mrs Moffat had both made a will, which makes our lives a lot easier.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘It’s a fairly standard document. Firstly, you need to know who the executors of the will are. In this case Mr and Mrs Moffat named two co-executors – you and me.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m happy to do whatever you wish me to do, but obviously that will involve payment. If you want to take over most of the duties yourself I’m more than happy to act as adviser.’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t know.’ Ellen was feeling confused, and they hadn’t even discussed the contents of the will yet. ‘I’m very grateful for your help.’

  ‘Very well. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Please do.’

  He smiled at her with apparent sympathy, but that didn’t prevent him from getting down to the crux of the business. ‘The will. In the event of both parties dying, which of course was never expected, their entire estate is left to the three children.’

  ‘That’s what I assumed,’ said Ellen, feeling this was something she could get her head around.

  ‘The estate will, of course, be held in trust until the children are of age. And I’m pleased to say that my clients did, at my suggestion, nominate a guardian if this very unfortunate eventuality should come to pass. I find that people are often reluctant to do so, but it’s always a good idea. Did they discuss this with you at all?’ He looked directly at her from the deep set eyes, catching her unawares.

  ‘Er, no. I don’t think … Well, yes, maybe.’ A memory came back to her of a long ago drunken evening, when Angus was a toddler. Sam’s remaining parent had just passed away and Jess had been bemoaning their dearth of relatives. She had made Ellen promise that if anything should happen to them, she would take care of their baby. And Ellen had, of course, promised, and never thought of it again. You didn’t expect your sister to die when she was in her thirties. Ellen swallowed hard. ‘I think something was said when Angus was a baby. I didn’t think it was serious …’

  ‘According to these documents, you are the sole guardian of all three children. I have to ask you if that is acceptable to you?’

  ‘I … God, I never thought … What do you mean, sole guardian?’ Ellen tried to get her thoughts in order. ‘I’d assumed it would be my parents.’

  Rory McNicol glanced down at his papers, calm and composed. ‘It’s sensible not to nominate a guardian who is elderly. I recall suggesting that shared guardianship might have been preferable, but this was what they decided.’

  ‘Sam was an only child,’ said Ellen, feeling as though she had to excuse her brother-in-law. ‘He had cousins. They were at the funeral, you might have met them, but they weren’t close. And on our side there were just us two girls.’ She gave a shaky sigh. ‘No, if it’s not going to be Mum and Dad, it’s got to be me.’ It was obvious, yet she’d never even thought of it.

  It wasn’t panic that she felt wash over her now, but cold fear. She, Ellen Taylor, determinedly unmarried thirty-five year old, was now solely responsible for three children. ‘This is a bit of a shock. I suppose it shouldn’t be, but it is.’

  ‘I’m sure that a lot of what has happened recently has been a shock. It’ll take time to sink in. We don’t have to decide anything today, there’s no hurry.’

  ‘But … but …’ Ellen gave up trying to put her thoughts into words and sat in silence for a moment. When he offered coffee she nodded, glad of the respite. For the first time since she had received the awful news about her sister, the question in her mind was not Why Jess? but Why me?

  After he had provided her with a cup of very good black coffee, he waited a few minutes before he spoke again. He couldn’t wait forever, she understood that, he had other clients to think of, but she appreciated his patience.

  ‘As I said, you don’t need to make any decisions now, but you do need to know what it is you have to decide.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She took another sip. The caffeine helped.

  ‘The first question is whether you are prepared to accept the role of guardian. You are not obliged to do so. If you feel unable, then the state has a duty to step in.’

  ‘The state? Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.’ She wanted to say, Where are my parents when I need them?

  ‘You need to think about this carefully. It’s a big decision, taking on three children of, what, twelve, ten and … ?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Yes. Seven. It’s a lot to ask.’

  ‘They’re my nephews and niece.’ The words resounded in Ellen’s head. They were her nephews and niece. She was their only aunt. They didn’t know her well, or she them, but there was no choice.

  ‘Yes. Fortunately, the financial situation isn’t as bad as it might be. I understand that the mortgage on the Craigallan property will be paid off, and there is at least one additional life assurance policy that will go some way towards covering the children’s living expenses. It’s a shame they didn’t take out holiday insurance, but as your sister died while working for the NHS, albeit part-time, I understand there will be a small payment there.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Ellen said dully. She hadn’t got around to worrying about money yet.

  ‘I’ll make steps to arrange confirmation of the estate. Once that is sorted out you will have control of the assets, to be used on behalf of the children. Living expenses and so on.’

  ‘I suppose the money should be kept for them, for later?’

  ‘I am reliably informed that children aren’t cheap,’ he said, with the glimmer of a smile. ‘I’m not sure what your own financial position is, but it isn’t expected that you will support them.’

  He studied her in silence for a moment. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have a partner who will want to have a say in any decision you take regarding the children?’

  Ellen thought of Richard, who found his own children quite burden enough. ‘I don’t t
hink … No.’

  ‘I see. To an extent, that makes things simpler. If you do decide to accept the guardianship, and once we have resolved the financial issues, you will then need to decide where you and the children will live. Specifically, whether you will remain at Craigallan or sell it.’

  Ellen wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. ‘Can I have some more coffee?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Her hand shook slightly as she held out the cup, but that was probably just the caffeine on an empty stomach.

  ‘I live in Edinburgh. I have a job there, I lecture at one of the colleges, in Business Studies. I’ve got sort of leave of absence just now, but I’ll need to go back. But the children want to stay here. I know they do.’ The words came tumbling out. It wasn’t that she expected Rory McNicol to offer her a solution, just that she had to voice it all aloud. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Ellen hated not knowing what to do! She was known for her quiet self-control. And now …

  ‘As I said, you don’t need to decide anything immediately.’ He considered her for a moment. ‘One possibility is to ask for an extended leave from work. If your college is in the public sector – yes? – then they are often very reasonable about that kind of thing.’

  ‘We’ll need to move to Edinburgh,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Possibly. But as I said, you don’t need to make any big decisions right now. You could ask your employers for, say, three months’ unpaid leave, while you sort things out down here. Or even six months. That would give you and the children time to get used to – whatever it is you decide to do.’

  Ellen shook her head. And then nodded. Neither seemed the right response. ‘Maybe. Yes, maybe I could do that.’

  She simply couldn’t take anything else in, never mind make a major decision. A delay of a month or two sounded very attractive. She’d ask for, say, eight weeks leave, and surely she would have worked something out by then?

  Angus’s day at Dunmuir Academy was worse than usual, which was saying something. Fat Jason Armstrong had a go at him about little orphan Annie whenever there wasn’t a teacher within hearing, and the Dawson boys and their crowd kept jostling him out of the dinner queue until he gave up and decided he could do without food today. But none of that mattered compared to what was happening somewhere in Dumfries. He wished he’d insisted on missing school and going with his aunt. She didn’t know what was best for him and Cal and Lucy. In fact, she probably didn’t even care. Why was it left to her to find out everything?

  He hadn’t been that keen on grown-ups before his parents had gone away, and now … He made a dive into the boys’ toilets and got himself into a cubicle before the tears came. He hated Mum and Dad, he hated them. Why did they have to go and get themselves killed? Why did they have to go away at all? Four days of boring Auntie Ellen was more than enough.

  He couldn’t get the picture of a wrecked car out of his head. It was there in his dreams as well. No one would tell him exactly what had happened so he had to imagine it. Had they been hurt, lain there screaming in agony, waited hours for help? He held tissue paper tightly over his face to stop the sobs.

  When he got off the bus in Kinmuir village he almost didn’t go home. He knew he had to, because the cows needed feeding and the ewes and lambs checking, but sometimes the walk up the hill was just too much. He carried his school bag in one hand, letting it bounce along the tarmac as he walked. His mum used to hate it when he did that. Well, she wasn’t here to stop him now, was she?

  Lucy was sitting on the stile at the very end of their land. She wasn’t allowed to go any further on her own. She was still keeping to the rules.

  ‘Auntie Ellen’s been crying again,’ she said without preamble.

  Angus thought about this, and couldn’t decide if it was good or bad.

  ‘An’ two more lambs’ve been born. Callum helped Kit with one of them.’

  ‘Lambing’s my job.’

  ‘You weren’t here, were you? Kit said the second one might’ve died if he and Cal hadn’t got it out.’

  ‘That’s good, then. Thirty lambs, so far, from twenty ewes. Not a bad average.’

  ‘Dad’d be pleased.’

  They walked up to the house in silence and then Lucy said, just before they reached the kitchen door, ‘Angus, what about my swimming?’

  ‘Huh?’ Angus squinted down at her.

  ‘You know, my lessons. I’ve missed them for weeks now.’

  ‘Have you?’ He felt annoyed and sorry at the same time. Why did he have to worry about her swimming lessons? ‘And Cal hasn’t been to football or golf. And you’ve missed guitar.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. But you need to learn to swim. Mum said. When’s your lesson?’

  ‘Tomorrow, after school. Shall I say something to Auntie Ellen?’

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, very quietly, and he wished he could take her in his arms and cuddle her like Dad used to do. He knew that was what she needed, but he couldn’t do it. He swung open the door instead.

  Ellen made him change out of school uniform and then wanted him to help with another lambing ewe, and make sure the horses were all right, before she would even start to talk to him. He said nothing and got on with it all as fast as he could. He had a pile of homework in his bag but what did that matter? When they were all back in the kitchen and his aunt was starting to bleat on about what did they want for supper he could bear it no longer.

  ‘I don’t want anything to eat. Why can’t you just tell us what the solicitor man said?’

  ‘But I’m hungry …’ Cal wavered and fell silent under Angus’s glare.

  Ellen smiled in that false bright way she had. ‘Well, why don’t you all get yourselves a packet of crisps and some juice and then we can have a little chat? No hurry about proper food if you’re not hungry.’

  Angus noticed she poured herself a glass of wine. His parents never used to drink like she did. She took a deep breath and smiled again. You could tell more about what grown-ups were feeling from how they breathed than their expressions. ‘Well, where shall we start?’

  ‘I want to know what the solicitor said.’

  Cal and Lucy both looked at him. They probably didn’t even know what a solicitor was. He wished he didn’t either.

  ‘Do you really want to talk about this now?’ Ellen met his eyes, gestured very slightly with her head towards the younger ones.

  ‘Yes. This is about them, too.’

  ‘Of course.’ She took another deep breath and looked at the door for a moment. ‘Right. Well. I went to see your mum and dad’s solicitor today, to find out how things stand. Your parents have done the best they could for you, as I would have expected. Everything they had is left to the three of you.’

  Angus tested the words in his head. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure what it consists of yet, but it’s the farm here and all the animals, and the car, and whatever money they had in the bank.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘And apparently there’ll be some money from the hospital where your mum worked, and the solicitor thinks there is a life assurance policy, which will bring in some more. But there’s no need for you to worry about any of that now. Mr McNicol will sort it out.’

  ‘And who gets us?’ It sounded odd, but he couldn’t think of any other way to say it. ‘To look after and that?’

  She took another breath. ‘I do.’

  ‘Oh.’ He felt winded. Aunt Ellen? Not Gran and Grandad?

  ‘Or I suppose you could say that you get me. At least, that’s the way your parents left things. I’m your legal guardian.’

  Angus stared at her. She had put on make-up to go and see the solicitor and it made her look smart and distant, not at all like his mum. What had she to do with them all? ‘I’m not leaving Craigallan,’ he said, speaking more loudly than he had intended. ‘None of us are, are we?’ He frowned at his brother and sister. Callum was looking at the clock, clearly thinki
ng of television. Lucy was sucking her thumb and twisting a lock of hair around one finger. She’d almost grown out of that, until four weeks ago. ‘This is our home.’

  ‘I know that. And my home is in Edinburgh. But things can change, can’t they? Sometimes they have to.’

  ‘You can go back to Edinburgh. We’ll be OK. Someone will look after us, Kit or Clare or someone. They’re always saying they’ll help. Just arrange it so we can stay here, OK?’ He could hear his voice rising but couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Angus, it’s not that easy,’ said Ellen in that soothing, superior tone his teachers liked to use. ‘I wish it was.’

  ‘You can go away. We’ll sort something out. Or I’ll ask Gran. Gran’ll come down and …’

  ‘Gran has to look after Grandad just now. And their house isn’t big enough for you all.’

  ‘They can move here. I said I’m not leaving Craigallan!’

  ‘No one’s saying you have to go anywhere just now.’

  ‘I mean it. I’m not leaving. This was Mum and Dad’s place, they wanted to stay here for ever, that’s what they said. We’re not leaving.’

  ‘Your Mum and Dad didn’t mean …’

  Angus felt himself jolt upright. ‘You don’t know anything about my Mum and Dad. You don’t …’

  ‘Mummy! I want my Mum-mee.’ Lucy’s cry shocked them both. Angus faltered and turned to stare at her, open mouthed. Why did she have to start this now?

  The child began to cry with horrible, wrenching sobs. Ellen glared at him and drew Lucy onto her lap, rocking her. ‘Hush, Lucy, hush darling. Don’t cry. There, now.’

  Angus wished he could think of something to say, but he couldn’t.

  After a while Lucy’s sobs quietened to hiccups and his aunt turned back to the two boys. She seemed close to tears herself. ‘Listen. I won’t promise you that I’ll make everything all right for you, because I can’t. I’m really sorry, but I can’t. But I do promise that I’ll do my very best to work something out. And for the time being I’m going to move down here and live with you. So is that OK?’