The Seven Rules of Elvira Carr

by Frances Maynard

  I nodded, relieved at the words continues and same.

  Sylvia leaned back in her chair. “Well, that’s straightforward, anyway, pet.”

  “There are several smaller bequests.” Mr. Watson turned to Sylvia. “One to yourself, Mrs. Grylls.”

  “Is there?” Sylvia blinked and held the leopard-print handbag closer to her chest.

  Mr. Watson read out: “To my true and faithful friend, Mrs. Sylvia Grylls, I leave the sum of £10,000.”

  “Oh!” Sylvia opened her handbag and got out a tissue. “Bless her.”

  Mr. Watson leaned forward, his voice the boom I remembered from before. “Your husband gets a mention too.”

  Sylvia dabbed her eyes. “Does he? That’ll please him.”

  “To a marvelous friend, Mr. Trevor Grylls, I leave the sum of £1,000.”

  Less than Sylvia. I chewed my lip, thinking of the Mills & Boons.

  “Oh, bless her,” said Sylvia again. “He’ll be thrilled.”

  “She left £10,000 to a Miss Jane Fisher of Dunstable, who she describes as being”—Mr. Watson looked down at the will—“‘a haven in a storm.’”

  “Aah.” Sylvia used her tissue again.

  “And some smaller bequests.” Mr. Watson traced down a list. “Her music collection.”

  “Oh dear,” said Sylvia. “All those opera CDs.”

  “A hundred and two,” I said.

  “Your mother has left them to the local U3A ‘to promote the civilizing power of opera.’ And she has left £100 to Sandhaven Bridge Club, with the specification it was to… Yes, here we are”—he found Mother’s words—“‘to be spent on a silver cup, awarded annually for good sportsmanship.’”

  Mr. Watson’s finger moved downward. “She has left a year’s subscription to Money Management—A Guide to Increasing Your Personal Wealth and a copy of How to Marry a Rich Man: Find, Attract and Marry a Wealthy Husband in 10 Easy Steps by Marybeth Kline, to Ms. Katharine Hargreaves of Crawley.” Mr. Watson looked up, his eyebrows raised. “An unusual bequest.”

  “I’ve never heard of Katharine Hargreaves,” I said. “Or Crawley.”

  Sylvia shifted in her chair and put away her tissue. She glanced behind her again.

  “There is another bequest in a similar vein. ‘To Mr. Charles Hargreaves of Crawley, I leave one year’s membership in the Great Bustard Club and a copy of John Major’s Autobiography.’” Mr. Watson shook his head. “Most unusual. I thought the Great Bustard was extinct.”

  “I don’t know who Charles Hargreaves is either,” I said.

  Sylvia fastened her handbag with a click. She looked at her watch. “We mustn’t take up any more of your time. That is it, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Watson put Mother’s will back into a large file. “We await probate, and then funds are released.” He drew out the word probate.

  “But that’s it, no more bequests?” Sylvia asked, standing up.

  Mr. Watson’s fingertips tapped together again. “No.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said. We shook Mr. Watson’s hand, and I followed Sylvia out. She was walking so quickly, in spite of her high heels and large waist, that I could hardly keep up.

  In the lift, she clicked her handbag clasp open and shut, her scarlet fingernails vivid against the gold metal. Her voice was louder than usual. “I’m really touched your mum left me and Trev all that money. And those lovely words too.”

  I nodded at this large token of Mother’s appreciation. “I’m glad the Arrangements have stayed the same.” I frowned. “I don’t know who those Hargreaves people are, though. I never heard Mother mention them.” I stopped. “They could be something to do with teaching Operas on cruises. People she met onboard ship.” Sylvia did not reply, except to say how smooth the lift was, which was changing the subject. I thought again. It was also possible they were part of Father’s secret Government Missions, even fellow spies! But Father would have had to keep things like that secret, even from Mother.

  In the foyer, I took the Japanese notebook out from my coat pocket and squeezed in another question—Who are Katharine and Charles Hargreaves?—beneath question one (Why are there no Japanese Stamps in Father’s Passport?). I added Spies? in tiny letters, so that Sylvia could not see, after their names.

  • • •

  “Hey up!” Karen’s crest of hair bounced as she got up from her chair. “You’ve returned in the nick of time. I’m surrounded by boxes of newsletters. I’ve been trapped at my desk for days!”

  I wondered how she’d gone to the bathroom and was about to ask when I realized it was a Figure of Speech. Karen used more of them than anyone else I knew. She got up from behind her desk and came over.

  “Can I give you a hug?” She patted my back. “There, there,” she said. “You’ve really been through the mill, haven’t you?”

  I nodded, wondering about the mill. I gave Karen’s back a tentative pat.

  “Back from the wars, you are,” Karen said, returning to her computer. “Confined to desk duties. Of which there are plenty,” she added, pointing to the boxes of newsletters. “Seriously, though…” She leaned forward, her nose stud—a diamond like the one Micky, the computer buddy, had worn in his ear—twinkling. “Are you going to be OK? Not going to be too much?”

  I shook my head, beginning to arrange the envelopes into symmetrical piles. “I need structure and purpose in my life now that Mother’s Passed Away.” Sylvia and I had had a little chat about this yesterday.

  “You’re right there.” Karen looked back at the screen. “Give that girl a medal.”

  • • •

  Paul sat down with a plate of fries. “Where did your mum’s coffin go after those men carried it out of the church?”

  “It was cremated—well, burned—at the Crematorium. I’ve got to collect the dust next week.”

  Paul’s eyes were round behind his glasses. “Why? Why do you want to keep the dust?”

  “It’s got to be scattered from a ship. That’s what Mother wanted. She wrote it all down.” I’d reread the last page of Mother’s What to Do in the Event of My Death file, my eyes screwed nearly shut. Once her dust had gone, there would be nothing of Mother left.

  “Sounds messy.” Paul squeezed ketchup over his fries. “My mum doesn’t live with us now, she lives with Brian, but I see her loads. It would be weird if she wasn’t there anymore to tell me when my T-shirt needs washing and to eat salad.”

  I pushed my half-eaten scrambled egg away. In the next enclosure, I could see a group of wolf cubs, the ones Mark had bullied, tugging at a floral pillowcase. “Every morning, I feel I should still be going to visit Mother. And I am completely on my own now. I try not to think about it, actually.” I massaged my forehead, the snarling from the wolf cubs boring into my brain.

  “You’re not on your own really, because I’m your friend,” Paul sucked some tomato sauce from his fingers. “I care about you as a friend. Dad said he’d give us a lift if you wanted to go on a trip out somewhere. Somewhere with animals.”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  • • •

  I watched the orangutans from behind a tree while I finished my banana. They were only allowed one each a week because of weight issues. The weather was cooler. Cinta sat, long arms wrapped around herself, her auburn hair like a shaggy coat. Pernama swung, upside down, above her. She stretched out a tiny arm and leg, like a ballet dancer, and twined herself around her mother’s neck. I had to wipe my face, and I got a bit of banana in my hair.

  31.

  Once you’ve found out something, you can’t unlearn it.

  —Mrs. Sylvia Grylls, neighbor

  On Friday, there was a handwritten envelope on my doormat. To the Estate of Mrs. Agnes Carr, it said, with my address underneath. Estate was a legal term which, when I checked, meant property or
possessions, so since I owned all of Mother’s, I opened the envelope.

  Inside was a card with a picture of an owl on it and an address in Crawley:

  The estate of the late Mrs. Agnes Carr to whom it may concern:

  I’ve been told I have inherited something from the above lady’s will, and I am writing to thank you for the bequest. Species preservation is a special interest of mine (I’m doing an MA in ecology at Bath University), so I was thrilled about the Great Bustard Club membership. They’re doing great work in trying to reintroduce the species to the UK, I know. I don’t know much about John Major, but as I like biographies, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.

  I was pleased but surprised to be left a bequest by someone I’ve never met. My father’s name was Carr, Gregory Carr. There might be other members of his family still around? If any of them would like to get in touch, my email address is: charliehargreaves24@hotmail.com.

  Kind regards,Charles Hargreaves (Charlie)

  My father’s name was Carr, Gregory Carr. I remembered Mother’s birthday card. A picture of a Scottish glen from someone called Charlie Hargreaves (Carr). I sat down, suddenly, at the kitchen table. My hands trembled as I reread the card, tracking each word with my finger, checking I’d understood it. Carr was an unusual name. When people needed to write it down, I often had to spell it. Gregory wasn’t a common name either. It was odd that Charles Hargreaves’s father had exactly the same Christian name as well. Perhaps Gregory was a family name handed down through generations, like Mother’s possessions.

  I’d never met any other members of my family. I was an only child, as was Mother, and all my grandparents had died before I was born. I’d never heard Father talk about his family except to say they came from Scotland. He told me he had no brothers or sisters, or any family at all, because he’d been found and raised by wildcats in a Scottish Pine Forest, which always seemed unlikely to me as Scottish wildcats are solitary animals who do not have a family life.

  Charlie Hargreaves must be a family member on Father’s side, yet didn’t use his surname. Mother must have known he was a distant relation to have left him a bequest in the first place. I turned the card over, chewing my lip. There was no mention of Ms. Katharine Hargreaves who’d also been left a bequest.

  I looked out the kitchen window. A light was on in Sylvia and Trevor’s living room. Should I show her the card and ask what to do? There was still the worry of Trevor phoning Social Services. If there were any signs of me not managing, he might go ahead and do it. Anyway, Sylvia didn’t know who Charlie and Katharine Hargreaves were either. She’d never met them. Nor had she recognized the people in the photo from Father’s wallet. I smoothed my forehead with my fingers. Did I actually want any more family? A dizzying line of unknown relations stretched away into the distance, strangers who might make me go up and down stairs for them all day, and tell me to keep up.

  I went upstairs. I didn’t have to meet Charlie Hargreaves. I didn’t even have to email him if I didn’t want to. He was a distant member of my family. But I hesitated, sitting on the bed. I didn’t have any family left now, and his card had an owl on it, and ecology was something to do with nature. If Charlie Hargreaves liked animals, he was unlikely to be a bad person. Although, I thought, jerking the bedspread straight, that had not been true of Mark.

  I fetched the Japanese notebook. I’d found an answer to one of the questions, and, now that Mother had Passed Away, where her Lost Capacity had ended up was no longer relevant. But Father’s finances, and the lack of Japanese stamps in his passport, the secret compartments in his shoes, and the identity of the woman and baby in his photo were still mysteries. And I still didn’t understand what Jane’s comments about Deceit, Lies, Forgiveness, and Shame had meant.

  I tapped my pencil on the question I’d written down after Mr. Watson had read out the Will: Who are Katharine and Charlie Hargreaves? Writing something down made it seem like there might be an answer, somewhere. I went downstairs and switched on the computer. I only typed Charlie Hargreaves into Google because Katharine Hargreaves hadn’t been mentioned on the card.

  Google discovered a Charlie Hargreaves who’d been an American baseball player and who’d died in 1979 and nine other Charlie Hargreaves. Three of these were also dead and, of the six others, none lived in Crawley. I only looked at Google’s first page because Micky had said you could waste hours trawling through rubbish otherwise. He hadn’t used the word rubbish.

  • • •

  I settled Geraldine on the new lady resident’s lap. It was the first time I’d been to Pet Therapy since Mother Passed Away. Brenda had said she relied on me with the guinea pigs. When she opened the door of their traveling box, their greeting whistles made my eyes prickle.

  “There, you see? They’ve missed you.” Brenda reached inside. “Now, who’s ready to provide a bit of TLC? Here you are, love.” She put Goldie into an old gentleman’s outstretched arms. “Give her a cuddle.” She bustled around the residents, handing out towels for the guinea pigs to sit on. “Social animals, you see, make friends with all sorts. Hate being on their own, do guinea pigs.”

  I gave the residents turns in holding Geraldine and demonstrated how to smooth down her black-and-white fur. I didn’t hate being on my own. I’d gotten used to the quiet of the empty house and liked it now, especially after a day out in the real world. I liked there being nobody to tell me what to do, or to keep up a conversation with, or to work out if they were joking or not.

  There was a hollow feeling when I returned Geraldine to her box and her sisters, though. Coming back to Bay View Lodge made me feel lonely. The new resident, a frail, bent-over lady called Beatrice, was sitting in Mother’s chair. After Pet Therapy, she went upstairs, and I imagined her sitting in Mother’s room and looking at Mother’s view.

  I bent to fasten the catch of the guinea pigs’ traveling box and noticed a faint gray line of dust on the baseboard. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Mother’s ashes were on the living room mantel now, in a plastic urn next to the cherub clock, waiting to be scattered. Dust to dust. Mother had sat here in the lounge every day for the past seven and a half months. She must be part of this dust. And, if she was part of it, part of the Cosmic Swirl, she was still here.

  • • •

  I thought about Charlie Hargreaves’s card. I’d put it in a plastic pocket, filed it in Mother’s What to Do in the Event of My Death file and pushed the whole thing back on the shelf, out of sight. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there. Somewhere, in Crawley, there was a complete stranger who was part of my family. I went upstairs to lie down for a while. The only family I’d ever known were Father and Mother. Would Charlie Hargreaves be like Father because he came from his side of the family? Did distant mean he’d be aloof?

  • • •

  “Did you see Dog Rescue last night, Ellie?” Paul asked as we walked to the Adoption Center after lunch.

  I had seen it. I’d rushed in from dishwashing when I’d heard barking. “I liked how they matched the people who wanted to be dog owners with the dogs who needed homes.” Dogs searching for families reminded me of Charlie Hargreaves’s card.

  “Yeah! Magic.” Paul was quiet. Then he said, “I don’t want to be a lone wolf.”

  One of the wolves at Animal Arcadia was being kept temporarily apart from the others because he’d had an operation on his tail. His howling sent shivers down my spine. I didn’t want Paul to end up like that. Or me.

  “I worry what will happen when Dad dies. And Mum.” Paul kicked a stone along the path. “I might need a home then. Otherwise there wouldn’t be anyone to give me lifts, and I might wear the same T-shirt for weeks without noticing. I’ve got an older sister in New Zealand,” he added, kicking the stone between two fence posts and flinging up his arms. “I might go and live with her.”

  “I could tell you about your T-shirt,” I offered, “because I notice that sort of thing.”
I considered, then added, “If I still know you, of course.”

  “Thanks, Ellie. There’s a possibility I might be married to Kate Humble by then, but it’s unlikely. It’s hard when you only like a certain type of woman.” Paul kicked another stone with each foot in turn, like a footballer.

  Ahead of us, some orangutans were ambling across the grass. Rojo, twice as big as the others, was squatting on a higher patch of ground, his deep-set dark eyes scanning the horizon.

  “Hey.” Paul gripped my arm, his eyes sparkling. “Did you know Utari was pregnant?”

  “Is she?” I breathed. Utari often sat close to Cinta. “Is the father Rojo?”

  “Yeah, he’s the only male. Lucky primate.” Paul lined up his stone for a penalty kick, a football term he’d often explained. I wasn’t interested in football really, but I sometimes listened to how Norwich City was doing because it was Delia Smith’s team. They were called the Canaries.

  I went close to the netting, the memory of Mark’s attack flitting briefly through my mind. Another baby orangutan would mean that Pernama wasn’t an only child anymore. I paused, tapping a finger against my lip. Pernama would still be Cinta’s only child, though.

  • • •

  I turned on the bedside lamp and took out the bookmark from page forty-seven of Long-Lost Love. Distant relations, lost family members, and people and animals searching for homes were everywhere, even in Mills & Boons. Robbie, the hero of Long-Lost Love, discovers he’s been adopted as a baby. He finds his long-lost birth sister in Nuneaton on Facebook, and she introduces him to her best friend, Zoe. Robbie was now taking Zoe out to country pubs and country horse centers.

  I closed the book without reinserting the bookmark. For some reason, I remembered Sylvia’s words, You’re out in the real world now, pet, and how I’d felt like an orphan in a thunderstorm. Sand shifted beneath my feet even though I was lying down. But, sometimes, I was quite happy being in a social group of one, I told myself.

  I got out of bed and listed the disadvantages of contacting my distant relation Charlie Hargreaves: