by Gill Mather
She looked at her notes on Will drafting given to her by Seb. They talked about a “mopping up” clause. They said you should never, never draw up a Will that gave specific shares of an estate to people without saying what would happen if any of them died. That would be, said Seb’s notes, a classic mistake. Because if you didn’t include this “mopping up” clause, the deceased would be intestate as to the shares which would have gone to the dead beneficiaries. In other words, you’d have to fall back on the intestacy provisions for the shares unaccounted for, that is the rules that applied if someone hadn’t made a Will. Next of kin in a specific order.
So it hadn’t taken her that long to work out the deliberate mistake. She looked at the time on her mobile. Well about an hour actually. But what to do now Seb had said.
So. There was thirty per cent of the estate going begging. She looked at the rough estimate that had been made already of the total gross estate and calculated the net estate and then thirty per cent of the net estate. It was only about two to two and a half thousand pounds. And that was without a huge legal costs bill to unravel this mess. Let’s hope Mr. Coppings had a small family then. He’d surely have left money to close family if he’d had any. Wouldn't he?
Orielle went through the papers. She came across a family tree that had been helpfully prepared by one of the beneficiaries, as apparently, an interesting exercise.
Oh God no! It turned out that Mr. Coppings, a man in his late seventies, was one of thirteen children born from the turn of the previous century up to the nineteen thirties when the deceased himself was born. One brother for heaven’s sake was believed to have died in the First World War, thankfully (for the purposes of Orielle’s task) having left no known children. Another sibling had been a nun apparently, no children either. The family tree progressed through the rest of the children of this mother of Mr. Coppings who had produced altogether the thirteen children of whom the deceased was the sole survivor. Orielle groaned. She continued and, taking account of the brothers and sisters of the deceased who had died and left children, some of whom themselves had died and left children, there were about forty people for the two thousand pounds to be divided between in varying shares. Forty people to be found and written to and have their identities checked. And that was if, during the course of the correspondence, more potential beneficiaries didn’t surface.
Oh, God no, she thought again. This was completely impossible. Their professional duty demanded that they made the best effort they could to locate beneficiaries, and at the same time protect the executor, a friend of the deceased who’d probably had no idea what he was taking on, from claims later.
Orielle decided to take the file back to Seb there and then if he was free and tell him to burn it. It was impossible!
It turned out he was free this drab late January Monday morning.
“Come on then Orielle. Make my day,” he said chirpily.
“Seb. There’s no answer to it. It’s a nightmare! Isn't there some insurance policy we can take out for the executor to at least keep him protected if loads of people emerge from the woodwork later and claim to be relatives?”
“I’ve tried it before Orie, and it’s all right if it’s a large estate with only a few possible beneficiaries who’d inherit under an intestacy. But with this lot, I’m afraid not!”
“But why?”
“Well the insurance companies want a cast iron guarantee themselves that they won't have to shell out. So they want the Solicitors to say that they’ve investigated and are satisfied with the rights of the beneficiaries to share in the estate. That means investigating the credentials of great nieces and nephews, where peoples’ names have changed, they’ve been divorced and remarried, they of course have moved around. Lots of changes of address. You’ll have noticed that some of the alleged beneficiaries are living in the US, Australia, other places. And I expect you’ve calculated that the amounts of money individually all these people will get will be absolute peanuts. What do you think?”
“I think that in that case it’s impossible. That’ll it’ll have to be explained to the executor and he’ll have to sign an indemnity for the firm and we’ll make the best distribution we can in the light of what we’ve got.”
“That’s just what I think. Well done Orie. So perhaps you’d like to go away now and draft the final accounts and prepare a letter to the executor explaining his unenviable position!”
“Right,” said Orielle resignedly. She should have guessed!
WHEN LUNCHTIME CAME, part way only through her task, Orielle wasted no time shutting down her PC, grabbing her bag and getting out of the place as quickly as possible.
Cathy had sent her an email saying they’d meet at the Sod and Shovel as soon as possible after one o’ clock. She got there and was so mind blown by the estate problem, that she agreed to an alcoholic drink straight away. Perhaps it would oil her brain ready for this afternoon’s accounts preparation, accounts never being her best subject.
As they sat down, Orielle wondered how to broach the subject of Hugh and his attitude to her and pump Cathy for information. But she asked the simple question first that she’d been thinking about for a few days to break the ice with Cathy whom she didn’t know very well yet.
“Cathy. Why does everyone call the broom cupboard I have to work in The Privy?”
Cathy looked at her for a long moment.
“So,” she said at length, “you don’t know anything about Ali do you?”
“Who’s Ali?”
Again Cathy hesitated. “She was Hugh’s wife.”
Orielle swallowed, feeling as though someone had walked over her grave but she tried not to show it.
“Well so what?” she said
“Ali had that room. She was an intern.” Cathy looked off to a distant point. “She joined the firm about, I don’t know, eight, ten or something years ago. She christened the room The Privy. Hugh fell in love with her. I remember the first Christmas he had a sign professionally made and framed for the door and gave it to her as a present. That was before they started seeing each other. We all thought “Oh! What’s going on here?” because Hugh was always so inscrutable. But they did start to see each other, in secret at first. Then they had this blazing row, in public actually, we all saw it, and split up and Ali, well, she went to pieces and went to work somewhere else. But then suddenly it was all OK again between them and within literally a matter of weeks they were getting married and she was pregnant. He left the firm and started his own practice soon after. Then they had a second child and then she left him. For another man. He was devastated by all accounts. Beside himself. It was very romantic of course but so sad in the end.” Cathy seemed to come out of her dream-like state and looked at Orielle. “But he’s all right now. He’s with my best friend Amanda. They’re doing really well. The Privy,” she said shaking her head thoughtfully again.
“So,” Orielle blurted out, “why do you think I might remind him of all that?”
“You?”
“Well yes. Me.”
“I’ve no idea. I suppose you’re about the same age as Ali was when she first came to the firm. You’re a trainee whereas she was an intern. She didn’t get paid or anything, but she was here to train. I can't think of anything else. You don’t look like her. She was dark and…actually, she was most incredibly beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl so beautiful.”
Orielle swallowed again. This wasn't what she was wanting to hear. A passionate love affair, separation, heartbreak.
“He’s never said anything about having two children,” she forced herself to say as normally as possible. “It doesn't seem as though he sees them. That’s odd isn't it.”
“Well I suppose it was very traumatic. For Ali probably too although she was the one that left. Perhaps they just couldn't sort anything out. Couldn't bear to. That must have been it. He was a devoted father.”
“So where does Amanda fit into it all?”
Cathy laughed mirthlessly
and looked down at her hands and then up again. “God the things I could tell you. Look, I’ve probably said too much already. But I suppose it won't hurt for me to say that Amanda was married to Hugh’s best friend Graham but Graham died. In fact not long before Ali left Hugh so that must have been doubly awful for Hugh. They were incredibly close. Known each other since they were babies. Anyway Amanda went off abroad for several years to do good works to help her get over it. That’s the story. Now you know.”
Orielle couldn't say anything. What a background she’d innocently fallen into!
“Don't get too upset. You mustn't let it get to you. Actually I asked you here to see if you wanted to come to the Burns Night Ceilidh with me at Baz’s this Saturday. I haven't got anyone to go with. And I thought you might like to come. As you’re unattached. You are aren't you? It’s always a good bash.”
“No I’m unattached all right. Yeah. Why not.” And Orielle, feeling grateful to Cathy for filling her in, wanted to return the confidences with a bit of information about herself, so she told Cathy about Tristram, although she skated over the homelessness. Who would understand her falling in love with a homeless person? And she forebore to mention the strange bits. She didn't want Cathy thinking she was a complete headcase. Cathy of course listened with rapt attention.
“Well maybe this Tristram of yours will come back,” Cathy said as Georgie had done.
“Yes. Maybe.”
CHAPTER 12
SO, AFTER A WEEK of Will interpretation and mind bending tax problems, Orielle was off to this Burns Night Ceilidh at the home of the partner Baz. The only contact she had had with Baz so far hadn’t been very promising. He had looked her up and down and had said he’d seen ghosts with more colour in their cheeks. Cathy assured her he would be perfectly pleasant on the night. So they tossed for who would drive and Orielle lost. Oh well, she thought, better she didn’t drink very much. She didn’t want to end up in the toilet weeping. Or making ridiculous-sounding claims to people about her ex “boyfriend”.
The evening was pleasant enough. She enjoyed the haggis and trifle and the small amount of wine she allowed herself. And Cathy didn’t go off and leave her on her own too often. She noticed that Hugh, while friendly and for him quite open towards her during the evening, didn’t come over to rescue her on the occasions she was left without anyone to talk to. But mostly Seb bounced up to her at such times. His wife was just as lively and chatty as he was so it didn’t bother her. Seb was, Orielle thought, terribly kind. But Hugh kept well away from her.
Part way through the evening, Cathy imparted to Orielle while they sat out for a couple of the dances that it was at one such Burns Night party at Baz’s that Ali had fallen in love with Hugh.
“Oh gee thanks,” she replied. “Did you know he was going to be here?”
“Well he usually is.”
“Anyway. I’ve decided to ignore all the vibes and things and just get on with my life and my legal training and not worry about Triss either. So there.”
Cathy looked at her in an owlish manner and Orielle realised she was several sails to the wind. She must have had more than her fair share of whisky when toasting the haggis.
“So. Don’t you want him back then? This Triss?” she slurred.
Such a direct question was hard to dodge for someone as honest as Orielle.
“Yes I do want him back. What I meant was, I’ve decided not to dwell on his more esoteric qualities.”
“Eso…esot. Are you talking about sex then?” Cathy frowned intently at Orielle. “Come on. Spill! Give us some detail. What’s he like in the sack then?”
“Honestly!” said Orielle haughtily. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
At that moment, Amanda came over and effected some sort of rescue.
“There’s two gentlemen over there who don’t have partners for the Ceilidh. Maybe you’d like to help them out. That is if Cathy can stay upright for another hour or so. Here,” she said, “I’ve brought you a coffee over Cathy.” And she thrust it at her. “I know the signs,” she said as an aside to Orielle.
“Well provided they’re reasonable looking and don’t try to peer too obviously down our fronts, I’m game. How about you Orie?” Cathy said.
“OK then,” she said resignedly, silently echoing the second part of Cathy’s conditions. But what choice was there anyway?
“Don’t worry Orie,” said Amanda, “everyone gets mixed up after a time so you won't have to partner whichever one it is you get for too long.”
Orielle couldn't be bothered to answer. She just thought about Triss, out there somewhere in the dark and cold and sleep-walked through the rest of the evening while Cathy cavorted with the better looking of the two clients who’d been invited and they’d been palmed off on.
“Well,” Cathy said in the car on the way home, “Amanda got off with Graham at one of these do’s, so you never know. It’s always worth a shot. What was yours like?”
“Honestly? I really can't remember. Not one damned thing.”
“Oh well. Mine was a bit like that too. No great shakes.”
“So what was Graham like then?”
“Oh, he was super rich. Like mega rich. I suppose Amanda must be worth a packet now but I know she’d swap it all just to get Graham back.”
“What and her so happy with Hugh? I can't believe it!”
“Oh she would. He probably would too. Hugh I mean.”
“How weird! But what was Graham like?”
“Just the nicest man on earth. So kind. He worshipped Amanda. God. She’s been so lucky with men,” she ended a little sourly.
“What Hugh you mean? Not sure I could agree there. Still maybe they suit each other.”
Orielle wondered if Cathy knew Amanda was pregnant. They hadn't announced it yet. She’d better keep quiet in case not. It would be daft them both sitting here and knowing and not saying anything. But it wasn't her business to spread gossip about her boss and his girlfriend.
Still. She’d found out more since getting to know Cathy than in the whole of the previous four months.
ORIELLE WASN’T SURE how she got through the next few weeks trying to grapple with the tax problems Seb gleefully threw at her. She decided she just didn’t have the aptitude for this type of work. Triss no doubt could have done it standing on his head. Seb was patient and willing to explain things to her in great detail, over and over and over again, but it still didn’t make much sense.
She was heaving a sign of relief half an hour before closing time on Friday, her last day at PWT when Seb bounced in and said he had good news.
“Oh?” said Orielle a little suspiciously. You never knew with Seb. His enthusiasm spilled over into just about everything and he didn't seem to have much inkling that others didn't always share it.
“Yes. You’ve had a reprieve. You don't have to leave after all! Anton the conveyancing exec has just called to say he won't be back next week after all. It turns out his flu` is actually possibly glandular fever and he needs at least another week off, maybe longer. So I thought about you and called Hugh and he said it was fine for you to stay on for another week.”
He would, thought Orielle sourly. Presumably glad she was out of the way for a bit longer.
“Conveyancing!” she bleated back. “I’m to do conveyancing for a week or perhaps more?”
“Yes. I knew you’d be pleased. I’ll help you out with it. I used to do a lot myself before the mysteries of tax and asset management seduced me.”
“Great,” said Orielle weakly. She looked around her. Another week in The Privy! Well she’d actually become quite attached to it, what with its history.
“No, no. You don't have to stay in here,” said Seb. “You can have Anton’s room of course.”
“I don't mind staying in here. I quite like it actually.”
“No you can't. You’ll need Anton’s big room. He gets through a ton of work you know and there’s quite a backlog now. You’ll need the room to spread yourself out
and churn out stuff for Pinkie and Perky.”
Pinkie and Perky so called were Anton’s two assistants. Orielle hadn't thought about them. Now she did, she wasn't looking forward to trying to get them to do as she asked. They probably knew a heck of a lot more than she did. As usual, Seb read her thoughts. “Orielle, don't forget, you’re the trainee Solicitor, they’re the unqualified assistants. You come and tell me if you have any trouble with them.”
Yeah, like she was going to make herself that unpopular, she thought.
Instead she said: “Right I’ll come in tomorrow morning then and make a start.”
“That’s the spirit. I’ll be in too. You might as well cut off home now. It’s nearly knocking off time.”
“Thanks.”
HER OTHER MAINSTAY was Cathy, a veritable mine of information herself and also avid for any snippets Orielle could put her way. She was quite interested in Orielle’s daily accounts of Georgie’s burgeoning relationship with her merchant navy seaman, sadly soon to return to his ship in Portsmouth and then he’d be away apparently for several months. If it hadn’t been for Cathy, Orielle wasn’t sure how she could have coped with the need to make herself scarce from the house several evenings a week while intimate meals were enjoyed, cosy, smoochy evenings in front of the TV were canoodled to watching romantic films, baths and showers were taken together and totally embarrassingly energetic bedroom encounters took place.
It made Orielle reflect seriously what a relationship with Triss would really be like. He didn’t like food, he’d find it incomprehensible why anyone would want to watch romantic films and, well, Orielle just had no idea how the sex would pan out. She had said to Amanda that they could work it out but could they? Would he ever want to do things a normal person might like to do? Probably not.