Another Home, Another Love

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘Steven and I will help in anyway we can, Mrs Turner, but maybe Natalie is right. You had no sleep last night.’

  ‘No, no, I can’t sleep – not yet. I…will you take me to the hospital, Megan? I must see about the death certificate. Register the death. There’s the minister…and the undertaker.’ Her voice rose in panic.

  ‘I will drive you,’ Megan said, ‘but I’m not sure how much we can do when it is the weekend. First will you let me make you something light and nourishing to eat? We may need to wait. You don’t want to feel faint.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ She looked and sounded like a bewildered child, Megan thought. Natalie should have been here with her mother at a time like this, and her husband too. ‘I will wash my face and change my clothes. Perhaps a little scrambled egg? Will you have some too, Megan?’

  ‘I will drink a cup of tea with you. Steven and I had breakfast before we left.’ Steven was thankful Megan had come with him. Mrs Turner seemed so unsure and dependent. Mr Turner had always tried to shelter her from problems. He felt a surge of anger that neither Natalie nor her husband were here to support her now.

  ‘Would you like me to tell the men, Mrs Turner?’

  ‘Oh Steven, would you do that for me? I-I know it is cowardly, b-but I can’t face them yet.’

  ‘I will go and speak to them now. They will be shocked and saddened, as we are.’ He barely knew what to say to Mrs Turner in her present state. She had always seemed so elegant and calm, more reserved than her husband. Now she seemed like a lost child and his heart filled with pity.

  Steven caught Sam as he was hosing down the collecting area where the cows gathered before going through the milking parlour. He broke the news.

  ‘Dead? Mr Turner? No! It can’t be true, Dad. Can it?’ His face looked young and pale with shock. He met his father’s steady gaze. ‘Oh my God.’ He looked around him at the gleaming parlour and the big cubicle shed. ‘This is his life.’ He bit back a sob. ‘Everything will have to be sold. The herd will be scattered all over the country.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Steven said. ‘I promised to break the news to the men.’

  ‘Gosh, Dad, it will affect them badly. Their jobs, their homes….’

  ‘Aye it’s a sad day. Mr Turner was well liked and respected by everybody, except maybe his son-in-law.’ Steven’s mouth tightened. ‘He hasna been down to see Mrs Turner. Natalie should be with her. They’re heartless.’

  ‘No wonder she and Mum were never friends. It’s strange Mrs Turner should seek help from Mum and you, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Steven nodded. ‘The Turners have known your mother since she was a child, known both of us really. Your Uncle Sam was my best friend. I don’t think the Turners have any close relatives. Is everything in order here?’

  ‘The work is finished until the milking this afternoon,’ Sam nodded, still trying to take in the news and all it would imply to everyone connected to Martinwold, including himself. ‘There’s a sick cow in one of the loose boxes. Mr Turner was going to phone the vet. There’s one to serve. I was going to ask which bull to use….’ He broke off. ‘It’s terrible, Dad. What shall I do? Who will make decisions now? It will take ages to organize a farm sale for a place this size. Do you think the new owner will keep on any of the men?’

  ‘They’ll all wonder that,’ Steven sighed. ‘It’s a sad business with no family to carry on.’

  ‘Madam Natalie will be a wealthy woman now.’

  ‘She will. Meanwhile we’ll do our best for his animals. You’d better get back to Bengairney and phone the vet. Explain what’s happened. I’ll see him if I’m still here. You’ll need to cook your own breakfast. We came away in a hurry. Joe will need a hand.’

  ‘OK.’ Sam was home before he remembered he had promised to meet Rosie that morning. She had cleared the table and was washing the breakfast dishes when he entered the kitchen. He told her what had happened.

  ‘Oh Sam, how awful!’ Her blue eyes darkened with shock. ‘It must have been sudden. His wife?’

  ‘Dad says she’s shattered. Mum is with her.’

  ‘But what about her daughter? And her son-in-law?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel shocked too but I’m still famished. Is that porridge still hot?’

  ‘I’ll stir it over the hot plate if you like?’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie. I must phone the vet first.’

  ‘Shall I cook you bacon and egg?’

  ‘Please. I’m sorry about the fencing but I don’t think I’ll have time today.’

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘Do you think we should book a light lunch at Langton Tower for the mourners after the funeral, Megan?’ Mrs Turner asked. Megan was astonished at being consulted but Mrs Turner’s assurance seemed to have deserted her.

  ‘It saddens me that she has to depend on someone like me,’ she said to Lint when he phoned to check on the time of the funeral.

  ‘She’s fortunate to have you, Megan. You’re kind and reliable. Surely Natalie and Wright-Manton are helping too?’

  ‘They’re only at Martinwold to sleep. I don’t think Mrs Turner would eat if I wasn’t there.’

  The following day Dr Wright-Manton was finishing an extremely late breakfast when Megan arrived.

  ‘We’re moving in here after the funeral. You’ll not be needed. Here, get on with your work,’ he said, pushing his dirty dishes towards her.

  ‘He acts as though I’m his servant,’ she told Steven when she arrived home later than she had intended. It had been a stressful day. The funeral was expected to be large and Natalie had bought herself a smart black suit and a new black hat. She had called at Martinwold late in the afternoon to show her mother.

  ‘You’ll need a new black outfit,’ she announced but she didn’t offer to drive her mother into town to buy one. She already had a smart black coat and hat which Megan had assured her were suitable, but Natalie’s criticism renewed her uncertainty. It was Megan who had to drive her to Dumfries for clothes she neither needed nor wanted.

  ‘Megan, will you invite Dean Scott and Avril to come to the funeral tea? I may not get an opportunity to speak to them myself. Lindsay will come with you and Steven and your family, perhaps?’

  ‘I, er, I don’t know. It is a time for families and close friends to be together so….’

  ‘Megan, my dear,’ Ella Turner laid a hand on her arm, ‘I don’t know how I could have got through without you and Steven. You have proved the truest of friends when I needed help, just as Murdo knew you would. He was a good judge of character. I value your support.’ Her manner was calmer and Megan blessed her GP for prescribing a mild sedative to help her cope. She was more like the Mrs Turner of old in spite of the dark circles beneath her eyes and her pale, drawn face. She seemed to have made a resolve to face the future bravely and with her usual dignity.

  Andrew MacNicol, the solicitor, telephoned the night before the funeral.

  ‘It is important that Murdo’s will should be read without delay, Ella, after the funeral, and in the presence of you and your daughter.’

  ‘Surely it’s not so urgent, Andrew?’

  ‘It is. Murdo left various bequests. You will feel easier, too, when you hear the provisions he has made for you. It is essential that your daughter understands how the will affects her. I shall be there to answer any questions.’ Privately he thought he would be lucky if it was only questions he got thrown at him. He had known Natalie Turner all her life and had seen her throw tantrums when she was far too old for such behaviour. Aloud he added, ‘If you don’t mind I would like my son to be present since he will be taking over the firm when I retire in a few years’ time and he was there when Murdo added more conditions to his will. He is an executor, along with James Ross, your accountant and Patrick Fisher.’

  ‘Patrick? Our vet?’ Ella echoed in surprise.

  ‘I think you will see he had reason for his choice.’

  Alex was genuinely upset at the death of the m
an who had taken such a fatherly interest in him during his student year at Martinwold. He had come back from college early that morning. John Oliphant was glad he was travelling with Steven and Megan and the boys. The death of his former boss had shaken him – Murdo Turner had been five years younger than himself. Lindsay was driving Dean and Avril and they collected Tania.

  It was always difficult to know how many people would require refreshments after a funeral. Some fellow cattle breeders had travelled long distances to attend. Catherine was in her element dealing with the crowd who congregated at Langton Tower. There was ample food and plenty of choice to please everyone. Megan and Avril agreed Catherine had made an excellent job. Mrs Turner came up to their table as they finished eating.

  ‘Thank you, Megan, for arranging everything so beautifully. Murdo would be pleased we have given him a good send off.’

  ‘I can’t take any credit, Mrs Turner, but I am glad you are satisfied.’

  ‘Indeed I am. Mr MacNicol would like to read the will soon. We wondered whether there is a private room where we could go? He has asked for you and Steven, Samuel, Alex and Dean to join us for the first part of the reading,’ her voice softened, ‘and you too of course, John.’ They all looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I could ask Catherine about a room,’ Megan offered. Catherine and Douglas were standing together, discussing the identities of various guests, when she approached.

  ‘They could use my office for that,’ Douglas offered. ‘They will be quiet and private in there and there’s some comfortable leather chairs. I will ask one of the maids to bring in extra seats if required. It looks as though some of the mourners are settling down for a chat and a few drinks,’ he said nodding towards a group gathered round the bar.

  Andrew MacNicol thanked Douglas and proceeded to gather together the people he required.

  ‘Are you sure you intended me to come, sir?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I am sure, young man. I shall not keep you long. Are you rushing home to milk your cows?’

  ‘No, I’m driving back to college.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll proceed as soon as we’re all gathered together.’ He frowned across at Dr Wright-Manton filling up his whisky glass. To his knowledge it was the third time he had filled it since arriving at the hotel and MacNicol guessed he had had a drink or two before leaving Martinwold.

  As everyone gathered in Douglas’s office Natalie scowled at the Caraford family and John Oliphant. Her eyes widened as Dean Scott joined them, followed by the current Martinwold workers, all fidgeting uneasily with their caps as they clustered together near the door.

  ‘Surely Father has not made bequests to all this lot,’ she muttered. ‘He paid them well enough when they worked for us.’

  ‘I will begin with the smaller bequests made by my late friend and client, Mr Murdo Turner,’ Andrew MacNicol began, standing behind Douglas’s large desk, with his son seated beside him.

  ‘The first bequest is for £3,000 to Miss Lizzie Buchanan who worked at Martinwold for thirty years before her retirement last year. She is in hospital recovering from an operation.

  ‘To Mr and Mrs John Oliphant, £3,000 in appreciation of many years of loyal service in charge of the dairy herd at Martinwold. A bequest of £1,000 is made to three young men Mr Turner considered his best farm students.’ He beamed over his spectacles.

  ‘He assured me he would have been proud to have any one of you as his son – Dean Scott, Samuel Edward Caraford and Alexander Caraford.

  ‘The remaining bequests are a small reward of a hundred pounds for every complete year of service to any man in Mr Turner’s employ at the time of his death.

  ‘There is a condition attached to these bequests. The money will not be paid until one year from the date of death, and it will be paid only if that person has remained a loyal and conscientious worker at Martinwold during that year, supporting whoever is in charge of Martinwold until it is sold or taken over.’ Mr MacNicol cleared his throat. ‘Obviously that would not have applied if my client had lived long enough to arrange disposal of the farm during his lifetime.’ He glanced at the papers again then peered over his spectacles. I think that covers all the minor bequests. If you young men and Mr Oliphant would care to leave us you may go now. I shall be in touch as soon as probate has been granted.’

  Steven and Megan got up to leave too but Mr MacNicol waved them to remain seated. Dr Wright-Manton levered himself out of a large leather chair and moved towards a side table on which stood a silver tray with a crystal decanter half full of whisky and one glass. It was clearly for Douglas Palmer-Farr’s own use but Niven helped himself. Mr MacNicol and his son stared at him, and then at Natalie, but she shrugged and said nothing. Niven got belligerent when he’d had several drinks. Mrs Turner looked uncomfortable. Andrew MacNicol had thought Murdo had judged his son-in-law too harshly when he drew up his will, but he understood and agreed with him now. He cleared his throat.

  ‘May I remind you, Dr Wright-Manton, this is Mr Palmer-Farr’s private office. You are helping yourself to someone else’s whisky. We are only here as a concession on account of Mr and Mrs Carafords’ friendship with the owners.’ Natalie jerked her head up. She gave Megan a baleful glare. Megan and Steven exchanged glances. They had never considered themselves on such terms.

  ‘He’ll not miss a glass or two,’ Wright-Manton drawled. ‘He can afford it.’ He took a generous swig of whisky. ‘It’s a damned good malt!’ He turned back to the table and topped up his glass before returning to his seat.

  Andrew MacNicol’s mouth tightened. The man was ignorant, and as greedy as Murdo had warned him. Any sympathy he had had for Natalie and her husband flew out of the window. The atmosphere in the room grew tense.

  Megan wished she was back home. Natalie glowered in their direction. Mr MacNicol began to explain his client’s last wishes in detail.

  ‘Ella, I spoke to the firm handling the new bungalow. It could be ready for you to move in, in a couple of months. It will be—’

  ‘A couple of months! It will have to be quicker than that!’ Wright-Manton protested. ‘We are planning—’

  ‘As I was saying,’ the solicitor interrupted with a pointed cough, ‘it will be up to you, Ella, whether you move then or stay at Martinwold for the year.’

  ‘A bloody year!’

  ‘I should be obliged if you would refrain from interrupting,’ MacNicol said coldly and turned back to Mrs Turner with an apologetic smile. ‘I advise you to wait until everything is settled to your satisfaction.’ He gave Ella an encouraging smile. They both knew Murdo had not anticipated it would be needed so soon.

  ‘Murdo had given a great deal of thought to financial matters in recent years. Few working farmers thought about retirement or pensions when he was young so he has made provision by investing most of his available capital in an annuity. This will ensure you have an adequate monthly income for the rest of your life, Ella.’ MacNicol caught his son’s eye and the quirk of his eyebrow. It was a generous sum, especially now there would only be Ella to keep, but he had no intention of letting Wright-Manton know that. ‘I believe you had planned to take your favourite pieces of furniture to your new home but I must emphasize that everything not required by you personally, must remain in situ. Do you understand, Ella?’ He sounded a little anxious.

  ‘I understand,’ she said quietly. ‘We had decided to take the antique pieces and leave the rest. I shall do as Murdo wanted.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He fixed his gaze on Natalie and her husband. ‘So you all understand, the remaining carpets, curtains, light fittings – all of these must remain. They must not be removed for sale or for any other purpose. I have arranged for Mr Vincent, the auctioneer to do an inventory and valuation of the household items as well as the farm stock.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Wright-Manton began.

  ‘I assure you it is. Now Ella, you will also receive one third of the moveable estate. This consists mainly of the value of the remaining f
urniture at Martinwold and the farm stock and machinery.’ He paused and looked down at his papers.

  ‘Now Mrs Wright-Manton,’ Natalie sat up straighter, her eyes expectant. ‘Your father has left to you the property known as Burwood House and—’

  ‘Burwood?’ Wright-Manton echoed. ‘It’s already ours! We already live in the bloody house. What the hell…?’

  ‘You may live there, Dr Wright-Manton, but you do not own it.’ Andrew MacNicol had expected to feel some sympathy for the young couple, but he found himself almost enjoying the expression on the doctor’s face. ‘Mr Turner bought the property to ensure his daughter had a home of her own when she married you. He retained the deeds in his own name. I understand he has continued to maintain the property, including paying a man to cut grass and tidy the gardens. Is that correct?’

  ‘You know bloody well it is, but he could afford it.’

  ‘He could afford it because he worked hard all his life. He instructed his executors to transfer the deeds to Mrs Natalie Ellen Wright-Manton. You will be responsible for upkeep in future, Mrs Wright-Manton. In addition you will also receive a third of the value of the moveable estate. The exact amount cannot be determined until Mr Vincent has completed his valuation.’

  ‘A third!’ Natalie gasped. ‘That can’t be right.’ Her voice was rising. ‘He must have left me more than that.’ She glared accusingly at her mother.

  ‘Don’t worry, old girl,’ Wright-Manton smirked. ‘We shall have the farm to sell. We’ll sell the house separately. That will fetch a pretty penny.’ Mr MacNicol frowned and hung onto his patience but his son broke in abruptly.

  ‘I am afraid you are mistaken, Dr Wright-Manton.’ He stood up. ‘Shall I take over from here, Father?’