The Rectory

by Ivan B

  Chapter 16

  Have I Told You Lately That...

  I did walk across the fields on Sunday morning, but decided not to go to St James. The lane by the church was narrow at the best of times, but the snow had made it even more slender and in the short time I watched from across the fields I saw at least two minor accidents and I knew that more would ensue. I decided that I might not be welcome and retreated to drive to St Marks in the hope of hearing Yolande in the choir, but she was not there.

  Monday morning I watched as Yolande’s father drove her up to the garage. I had left the door open and let him show her the van, after all he had paid for it so he could get the joy of giving it to her. I heard the squeal of delight in my flat and taking that as a cue went downstairs to the garage. She was hugged her father before looking at me.

  “Dad says that you were in on this.”

  “Only shifting the stuff, the rest is down to him.”

  We spent a delightful half and hour watching her examine the van before her father left for whatever job he was doing. Yolande and I walked up to the rectory together and all the way I was trying to compose what I was going to say. We entered the warm kitchen and I wasted a bit of time topping up the Aga, in the end I had to talk to her. She made two mugs of tea, as usual, and I took the opportunity to go and gather some papers from the lounge. In the end we were seated at the kitchen table and I had little choice but to spill the beans. She glanced at the papers and I took a deep breath, this was not going to be easy.

  “Remember I told you that fate has a way of biting back at me, well it’s taking out huge chunks, or trying to. This little lot is declaring my doom”

  The depressed tone in my voice made her sit up and take notice.

  “Problems?”

  I said quietly.

  “I don’t think I’m going to have enough money to pay for the re-wiring, or the plumbing or anything.”

  She looked at me through the steaming vapours of her tea and to her credit she didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve sorted the mail. Our man Grant was in the middle of a patent litigation with Bradley’s Radios of Oregon. He accused them of using something he called a pseudo-heterodyne and sued them for a million dollars. He lost and the court awarded costs against him, at current exchange rates that comes out at just under £200,000.”

  Yolande sipped her tea.

  “And you haven’t got the money?”

  “Not to hand, I suppose I could mortgage the rectory or try and sell some fields, but there’s worse to come.”.

  “What can be worse that that?”

  She still hadn’t cottoned on, everything I turned to crumbled into dust and there were no exceptions; except that I hoped that she was an exception. There must, at some time, be an exception. I licked my lips.

  “There’s a chance that I don’t even own any of it.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “None of it?”

  “Not a sou.”

  I wondered what she was thinking and knew that I’d have to test the waters in a minute or two. I tossed over a letter from Bitten and Jay solicitors and will-makers of Eastburgh.

  “It says that they confirm that his new will has been stored in their vault and that it is dated January 2003; the will I inherited this house under is dated June 1999.”

  She let out a deep sigh.

  “Oh Richard, what will you do?”

  “Go down and see them, I’m due there at two this afternoon, I made an appointment before you arrived.”

  She looked at me with sad brown eyes and I had to know.

  “Tell me, if I don’t own this lot do you still want to think about moving our relationship on from friendship?”

  “Is this a test?” She snapped back at the speed of light.

  “This is reality. The chap your considering seeking a relationship with may just be an unemployed bank cashier.”

  She said huskily.

  “I’m surprised you have to ask.”

  I studiously studied my mug of tea and said gloomily;

  “With my track record it’s what I expect. As soon as I have something good it gets taken away from me. You’re the best thing to happen in my life and I know it just won’t last.”

  Her expression softened.

  “Better than this lot?”

  “It doesn’t even compare.”

  She reached out and held my hand.

  “If it all works out and we do find out that we love one another I would be happy to be your wife no matter what you own or what you do.”

  I’m ashamed to say that I burst into tears, so much in my life had turned to dross it was overwhelming to find that Yolande wouldn’t desert me as well.

  Just before two o’clock Yolande and I walked hand in hand into the tiny offices of Bitten and Jay, she insisted on coming and I wanted her there anyway. There was no receptionist and tall thin man in a grey suit got up from a desk. He managed what passed for a smile.

  “Hello, I’m Gerry Jay you must be Richard Holmes and this is?” He looked at Yolande as if she were a piece of furniture.

  “Yolande Cranstone.”

  He indicated some seats and we sat down, I was glad about that as I was worried that my knees would give way; it’s one thing to be given a wealthy estate, it’s quite another to have it taken away. He fastened his blue-grey eyes onto me.

  “Did you bring a passport?”

  I past it over and he checked me with the photograph at the back and returned it. He ran his tongue round the inside of his cheeks.

  “I don’t usually read wills to people that walk in off the street, but I guess your situation is slightly unusual. In any case we’re the executors so if he is dead I can read you the will.”

  I passed him over a certified copy of the death certificate and he nodded sagely and picked up a triple folded piece of paper. I held my breath as he started to speak. “I’ll cut out all the bilge at the top of the will and go right into the nub of the matter. ‘… so after a bequest of £33,333.33p to Preston philatelic society I wish all my estate (minus my personal effects which are to be given to any reasonable charity shop or selection of shops) to be given to the nearest living relative of the Revd Georgina Evans who is under 35 at the time of my death. I also wish to make it perfectly clear that I do not wish for any member of my family, or my wife’s family, to get a single penny of my estate as I do not wish to pass my hard earned money onto a bunch of old fogies or to my precious relatives who have never bothered to visit me.’”

  He looked up, “The will goes on to say what happens if there is no nearest relative to Georgina Evans who is under 35, but it’s a waste of time to read that since you are here.”

  I finally let out my breath; so it was still mine. Yolande tapped the will.

  “What’s the chances of their being another one?”

  “Slim, we wrote about eight wills for him between July 2000 and January 2003. The only substantial difference in them being where the £33,333.33p was bequeathed.”

  I felt like shouting from the rooftops, turning cartwheels in the street and screaming my inheritance to the world.

  “So what happens now? Bladdel and Knutt thought that they had the definitive will and acted as executors.”

  He smiled a knowing smile.

  “Since you called this morning I’ve spoken to a…” He consulted his notes, “A Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves and they seem to have done all that was necessary. We agreed that if you gave me a cheque for £33,333,33p made out to the Preston Philatelic Society plus 25p for the stamp we would assume that the estate had been settled.”

  I must say that I’ve never been so glad to write out a cheque for £33,333.33p in all my life. I had come in expecting to leave with nothing so being a mere £33,333.33p lighter was a joy. Looking back I realise now that Yolande paid over the 25p for the postage stamp and I have never paid her back for that, what a heel I sometimes am.

  Afterw
ards we went to a local restaurant for a nerve steadying cup of coffee. We talked about the will for a while until Yolande steered the conversation around to a different subject.

  “I hope you don’t think that I make a habit of getting plastered.” She said tentatively while trying to open a reluctant sachet of sugar.

  “Never crossed my mind. As I said before you didn’t get plastered they plastered you.”

  She looked out of the window and I could tell that something was on her mind.

  “I used to get plastered,” she said simply. “After David died.”

  She stirred her coffee and said almost absent-mindedly.

  “I used to get plastered rather a lot actually.”

  She suddenly fixed me with her brown eyes.

  “When I started coming out of the hangover and found myself with you in the bathroom I was terrified that I’d started again, that I’d ceased to cope, that I’d taken to alcohol as a prop and would be dependant upon it for ever.”

  I reached over the table and held her hand.

  “It was nothing like that and you know it.”

  She held me steady in her gaze.

  “Will you promise that you’ll never let me get into that state again?”

  “Of course. Would you rather we didn’t drink at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “No I want to control it, not have it control me, but I am frightened of being drunk and of being drunk and out of control.”

  “Not while I am on watch.”

  She relaxed and I belatedly realised that she had found it hard to tell me about that part of her past. I caressed her hand.

  “Thanks for telling me and trusting me.”

  She smiled inanely and then switched to efficient female.

  “So, what’s the next problem?”

  At Yolande’s insistence once we had got back to the rectory I rang Bladdel and Knutt and spoke to the ever competent Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves. I explained what I had found in the mail and to my surprise she laughed.

  “We know all about that and you don’t have to worry.”

  “Don’t have to worry?” Was she on a different planet?

  “The costs have already been settled. He was testing the patent waters on behalf of the Institute of Radio Manufacturers and they picked up the tab.”

  I could have screamed with delight. However, Bryony was obviously in a loquacious mood and she continued talking.

  “He won in the end though, seems that was a trait of his. He lodged his patent in Japan, Malaysia, Hong Kong and the Philippines and that meant that Bradleys could not manufacture their radios in those countries and their sales suffered to such an extent they went bankrupt. All in all our Mr Grant was not a man to cross.”

  I thanked her profusely for the information and put the phone down. I looked at Yolande and yelled gleefully.

  “It’s already been paid by someone else, so I’m not bankrupt!”

  Yolande gave me a big grin and then pointed to one of the piles of mail I had left.

  “What’s this?”

  “Some gobbledegook from the County Council Planning Department, it’s of no consequence.”

  I was still on a high and frankly couldn’t have cared what she was looking at. She furrowed her brow and read aloud.

  “…so it is the Council’s duty to inform you that if the said development goes ahead they will purchase your house under the relevant compulsory purchase legislation at a price to be determined by the housing sub-committee who will take into account both the current value of the property and it’s value as saleable rubble.”

  She could have hit me with a baseball bat and I would have been less stunned.

  “What development?”

  “It doesn’t say, it’s just in with all these other letters regarding the listed status and the state of the woodwork in the window frames.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “Six months ago.”

  I went weak at the knees and sat down, one minute the place was mine, then next someone wanted to take it away from me; how long could this roller-coaster continue?

  Yolande flicked the letter with her finger.

  “There’s a reference number on this do you want me to give them a ring and find out?”

  I rather the world left me alone to live my life in peace, but I gave her a nod

  I went and made some tea while she was on her mobile phone; I just could not bear to listen. She walked in five minutes later and carefully laid her phone down on the table.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Lets have something good.”

  “The development they are talking about is another regional airport for East Anglia, the lane outside would be turned into a duel carriageway and this house is apparently sitting where a spur would have to come off. The good news is that this is a thirty year plan and the project wouldn’t even by started until 2030 and may not even come to fruition as there are two other options that use existing RAF bases that may be released for public use.”

  “But I thought it was green-belt land and untouchable.”

  “It is for local planning needs, but not national planning needs.”

  If that was the good news I was in trouble;

  “And the bad news.”

  “Just having the plan on the books probably makes this place unsellable at a reasonable market price. I tried to push them on what a compulsory purchase price would be; the only answer the guy would give is that the council has never paid more than £250,000 for a property and probably never would.”

  She licked her lips.

  “Do you want the really bad news?”

  Really bad news? Wasn’t that bad enough?

  “Go on.”

  “The government has said it won’t make a decision until 2020, even then it might not go down to only one option.”

  I felt like pounding the table, screaming at the top of my voice and putting my head in the gas oven all at once. I looked at Yolande.

  “Convinced now that knowing me would lead you into a life of ups and downs with rather more downs than ups?”

  She grinned.

  “At least it wouldn’t be boring.”

  She picked up her tea.

  “Who do we know in the planning department of the council?”

  We both mentally ran through our schools friends. East Suffolk is a reasonably sparsely populated place by urban standards and we both had school fiends in all sorts of places, but not the planning department. Suddenly Yolande made a face like she had swallowed a curried lemon.

  “There’s always slimy Sid.”

  Slimy Sid was Sidney Timpkins, at school he had been in the year between us and he was a crawling snake. He used to suck up to the teachers, cheat when he could, steal ideas as his own; all in all he was a cretinous toad. Needless to say he had become a politician and was now a County Councillor and well on his way towards becoming an MP. I sniffed my tea.

  “I’m not that desperate and we couldn’t trust what he told us anyway.”

  Yolande nodded glumly and then brightened up.

  “And there’s Mr Fellows.”

  Now Mr Fellows had been a teacher and left the year after me to become something in the environmental department of the County Council.

  “Well you’d better ring, he always thought I was a pratt after I managed to give my French exchange student food poisoning by undercooking a boiled egg.”

  Yolande went to make the call on the kitchen phone and I went to trail through the remaining papers, just in case I had missed anything else.

  I was just checking the papers that I had thrown away when Yolande appeared and squatted on the floor next to me. “Off the record he says that the project doesn’t stand a cat’s chance in hell as there are too many problems with it. It’s too far from the A12 and although the planes would take off over the sea the airport would be situated in the middle of a military flying area and the low-level training
ground for Army helicopters.”

  I felt that I was drowning.

  “Then why is it on the books?”

  “The Government wanted three options so a certain ambitious County Councillor pushed for an option here talking about generating jobs etc. etc.”

  I slapped my hand against me forehead.

  “Slimy Sid.”

  “He wouldn’t say his name, only that I would know him and that he wanted to ingratiate himself with the Government in the hope of getting a chance at becoming an MP in the next elections.”

  She paused, “The good news is that there are so many problems that this option will almost certainly be dropped before2020.”

  It didn’t matter when the plan was going to be dropped, my restore and sell for a fortune plans for the rectory were now total tatters.

  Chapter 17

  Plan B

  Now I was used to setbacks, after all I suffered from them all my life, but this one really knocked me for six. Yolande must have realised that I was overwhelmed and bewildered for she came round the table and sat next to me.

  “Come on Richard, you’re not exactly bankrupt.”

  I picked the letter from the Planning Department up and turned it over and started scribbling on the back.; Yolande watched the list of figures grow , she hiccupped.

  “Can you afford all that?”

  “No, I’ve got about £120,000 in the bank, but I want to keep about half of that for Vera to play with.”

  “Who’s Vera?”

  “An ex-colleague whose a wizard with the currency market. If I can leave the money with her for a year she could make my £64,000 into a £100,000.”

  Yolande’s eyebrows rose, “That’s a hell of an increase.”

  “That’s because it’s high risk, I’ve just told her to go for it and take risks she normally wouldn’t be allowed to.”

  Yolande started to giggle.

  “You mean with your track record you’ve gone into high risk speculation?”

  I could see where she was coming from and started to giggle as well. They say that laughter is a good medicine, well I can recommend it and say that it’s even better when taken with a friend.