by Fox Brison
It didn’t hurt as much.
***
“Jane, thanks for the brownies,” Celeste was holding court in the gap, which was basically the central area of our offices.
“You’re welcome, Celeste… I added a smidgen of chilli for a kick.”
“It kicked my arse alright,” Hannah said slurping some banana milk to combat the heat.
“I have some good news and bad,” Celeste began without much more preamble. If anything was likely to grab your attention it was the good news/bad news scenario. “Good news, I may have found a lead to a Gideon heir.”
“Bad news?” I asked, my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach.
“We may have found a lead to a Gideon heir,” she said sombrely.
“Shit. Good shit, but still shit,” Hannah said.
“So, the Gideon Inheritance. An old friend of my mother’s found this at the weekend down in Portobello Market. He thought it might be of interest to us.” She held up a battered leather notebook. It was dark brown, with black cracks running across it’s weathered hide. The gilt decoration lingered, although time and touch had erased all but a few faded swirls. She opened it and we all heard the ominous crinkle of dried parchment; that was why she was wearing the white gloves. I had thought them an affectation, now I knew better. The spidery handwriting was from another time, when printers and biros were not even dreams in the mists of time.
“This is a diary written by Andrew Gideon in which he states that one of his parlour maids was sent back in disgrace to her family in Hawkhurst. She was with child, the sire of which, she claimed, was Frederick Gideon, Andrew’s second cousin and at that time his heir. He left a watertight last will and testament preserving his legacy. I know the three of you are aware of the codicil he added which stopped anyone ‘with iniquitous intentions and a heart of greed from gaining its bounty,’ and the clause also states we must have irrefutable proof that the person who inherits shared his philanthropic heart. Although many have tried over the years, no-one has come close to breaking the legalise that binds the document and only on two occasions has anyone ever come close to gaining the bounty.” Celeste stared at the three of us.
“Ah yes,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes in frustration, “the infamous codicil. The one thing which has halted many a Gideon relative from inheriting an absolute fortune.”
“It’s hard to believe no-one has ever claimed it before now,” Jane added, “I mean it’s been nearly two hundred years old.”
“It’ll be exactly two hundred and fifty on Christmas Eve,” Celeste interrupted. “And as for no-one inheriting, it’s not as if firms such as ourselves haven’t tried. But when you have such men as William Emery, slave trader, and Lawrence Wilberforce abuser of women and children, it’s hard to find a righteous person. Add to that the fact that many of the Gideon lines ended abruptly, like good old Freddie Gideon who died in a duel on his twenty-third birthday, there really isn’t much left to work with.”
“Which is why the Gideon inheritance is the Holy Grail for heir hunters, the mother lode.” Hannah added. “So we’re Indiana Jones and this is our last crusade?” Jane and Celeste laughed, but I was lost in my own little world.
Gideon’s will was one of the best pieces of contract law I’d ever seen and I bowed down to its greatness. One of my tutors at Oxford even used it as an example of just how perfect words could be.
I was wakened from my reverie by a nudge from Hannah.
“What? Wait!” I protested after swiftly processing the last few seconds of the conversation. “You want me to investigate a possible heir?” And I thought Celeste was the sane member of the team. “Wouldn’t Hannah be better fit doing whatever it is she does with the computer?”
“I need more evidence than a mere internet search,” was her quick response to my arguments. It’s almost as if she could read my mind.
“Jane is better with p…people.”
“Yes, but our target is twenty-seven, she’d relate better to someone nearer her own age,” she retorted promptly.
I tried another tack. “Seriously, Celeste, have you forgotten Violet Silvers already? It was only last Thursday!” My first case, only a few days into my new role, proved that I’d spent far too long working for my family.
“Yes, I recall the telephone conversation I had with Ms Silvers. I believe brash, rude and arrogant were the words she used to describe you.”
Ouch.
“Telling her how to run her bookshop successfully, or rather, telling her not to waste her windfall on more trashy LGBT romances, wasn’t perhaps the best move,” Jane said with a mock scowl.
“Nor was accusing the little prick who worked behind the counter of being a pervert who got off on brushing his body against the customers as he walked through the bookshelves,” Hannah added with a chuckle.
“Yeah, laugh it up. How was I to know he was her nephew? So what have we got?” I resigned myself to the fact I was about to go on another case. Celeste handed me a file with a blurry picture of a woman and a small child, complete with a name and work address.
And nothing else.
I held the folder upside down and shook it. My boss grinned. I glanced at the other two members of the team in the room and they seemed as shocked as me. There was absolutely nothing else to go on, apart from the picture and a few lines of such basic information that a six year old could have discovered in thirty seconds on the internet.
“I want a thorough investigation,” Celeste began, “and we only have seventeen days to do it, so we must get it right first time. No stone must go unturned, no closet unopened in the search for a righteous child of the line, too much hangs in the balance.” Sometimes my boss talked like a nineteenth century evangelist. “Get to know her, Devon. I want you to take the lead.” Celeste left us and I felt two pairs of eyes burning into the side of my head.
“I’ll be right back.” I followed Celeste to her office. “Can I have a quick word please?”
“Of course, Devon, what’s on your mind?”
“Is this why you head hunted me? Because of this case?” I was fighting back a wave of anger, which I knew would do me no good in the long run, but I hated the feeling of being used. “You found this diary and suddenly, poof, offer me a job?”
“Not at all, this is a happy coincidence. Besides which, the diary was discovered after you began working here, not before.”
“Coincidence? Here’s one for you. The owners of the firm I left, Flood and Williams, just happen to be the executors of the will and the only people who could call into question any findings we might make.”
“Give yourself, and me for that matter, a little more credit, Devon. You are a bright, hardworking woman and a brilliant litigator and that’s why I employed you. I assure you it had nothing to do with your previous employers, although I do admit that may work in our favour. If you doubt my words, then you know where the door is.” She pointed behind me, and for a millisecond my pride tempted me to leave, but I stood my ground. “Good. Now get out there and organise your team. We have a huge couple of weeks ahead of us and I need you to be fighting fit.”
I went back to the gap, geed up and ready to go. “Jane, I want you to go to,” I quickly scanned the sheet of paper Celeste had given me, “Hawkhurst. I think it’s in Norfolk. We need proof this maid, this Margaret Jenkins, gave birth to a child somewhere between…” I did a quick calculation from the last diary entries written by Andrew Gideon. “Let’s go with December 1766 and September 1767. Because of the obvious time constraints, liaise with Hannah and follow the family tree until we reach Ms McTavers. Okay?” Jane eagerly nodded her acquiescence. She was an ancestor bloodhound. “God speed, but drive bloody carefully.”
“Hannah, you begin the initial search of McTavers, find out everything and anything, first boyfriend, sibs, parents... I want a complete background check, credit history, criminal record, the works. If she was even late paying her rent one week I want to know about it.”
“Got
it boss,” her fingers already swiping the tablet for the primary search.
“I’ll make contact with Ms McTavers today and try and get a handle on the moral side of this search. Good hunting.”
God help us, more like.
Chapter 6
Rachel
Wednesday December 7th, 2016
“Ruthie, c’mon, let’s hustle, we’re going to be late,” I called from the front door, “and we’ve still got to check in on Mrs Jessop to see if she needs anything from the shops today!” A minute later Ruth came running to the front door looking like she’d dressed in the dark. Her school tie was practically choking her and her cardigan was buttoned the wrong way. After straightening her out, she put on her coat and I helped her with her backpack, which was almost as big as she was, and we were finally out of the door.
Mrs Jessop, our seventy year old neighbour and occasional babysitter, was fine and for once didn’t need anything bringing home. I think she gave me a little list most days as insurance I’d return in the evening. It really wasn’t necessary. Rarely a day went by when Ruth didn’t have something for her, a picture or a new story book to share, and I always cooked an evening meal for her. It was a great system. An old friend of the late Mr Jessop owned the local butchers and would keep some of the cheaper cuts of meat back for us, and a friend of mine ran a stall in the market and once a week she’d do me a deal on a box of fruit and veg that was on its way out.
The slow cooker turned it into gourmet fare.
Maybe gourmet was stretching it a little and hearty fare was a better description, but to a seven year old girl and a seventy year old woman it was manna from heaven.
After dropping Ruth at school I headed for work. The streets were chock a block, the roads completely gridlocked. There were the ubiquitous roadworks under one of the railway arches around the corner from the café where I worked, and the tailback had most drivers cursing the water company. Or the electric one. Or British Gas. Why they couldn’t all use the same hole and cut down on the delays was beyond me, but then again since I couldn’t drive it was a moot point. The street sweepers had been out early and for once Seven Sisters didn’t look like a rubbish tip. However, I knew it wouldn’t be long until the litterbugs returned and the dog mess was left where it dropped.
It made me spit.
If people would only take a little pride in where they lived it would make all the difference in the world.
The sky was bright blue meaning it was chilly yet fresh. Some of the smaller shopkeepers were placing Christmas decorations in the window and I shuddered, not from the biting cold, but from the fact that Christmas arrived earlier each year despite it being an immovable feast. I wished someone in Parliament would be brave enough to write a law stating no Christmas goods could be on display until at least the 15th of December. That’s reasonable, right? Ten days rather than ten weeks in some cases? The larger supermarkets and more recognisable chains had been advertising Christmas since August, so you couldn’t really blame Heidi in the florists, nor Mr Robertson in the off license, for trying to drum up business with a little holiday spirit.
I waved to George at the newsagents putting out the Evening Standard board telling us to expect a white Christmas. My motto was being polite and friendly didn’t cost me anything, so why wouldn’t I give a stranger a smile or hold the door open for the person behind me? I’ve always found that if you treat a person with respect you get it returned, sometimes in unexpected ways.
I eventually made it to the café for my shift. The white half net curtains strung along the window were pristine; they were washed twice a week without fail and the sudsy drips along the bottom of the wall showed where the window cleaner had already been and gone, the glass now sparkling, and the red of Eli’s Café painted on the clear window stood out as a warm welcome. The owner, Eli Theodopilis, reckoned, and quite rightly too, that people did not want to eat in a dirty café, so he made sure everything was hospital standard hygienically clean, which wasn’t saying much in this day and age if you believed everything you read online. Still, we all took pride in the café, and word of mouth increased footfall far more than hundreds spent on advertisements in local papers ever could.
The bronze bell jingled when I opened the bright yellow door. Eli’s daughter, Jessie, smiled as I entered. She’d been working since opening but looked as fresh as a daisy, even after being out on the razzle the night before at a local karaoke. I’d received several WhatsApp messages, and the last one showed Jessie rocking the ‘I’ve had seven beers but I’m going to pretend I’m sober’ look.
Oh to be nineteen again.
Due to the café’s popularity, the tips I made went a long way to feeding my daughter without me having to take on a second job, something I’d been mulling over for a few months now. Ruth was growing fast and so was my expenditure. Sometimes, in the midnight hours when I was feeling particularly lonely, I worried about Ruth needing new shoes, or not being able to pay the electricity bill.
The dark of the night really is the worst time to think.
Everything appears so much worse, and even the smallest of problems seem insurmountable. When you’re a child, shadows of toys become bogeymen and the wind catching the branches outside is a wicked witch trying to steal you away. Anxiety develops into a full blown panic attack and solitude becomes isolation. Lying in my small double bed, the checked red duvet pulled tight up to my chin, I wouldn’t stop the tears, I’d let them fall freely for the life we’d had before December 21st 2009, for the life Ruth deserved and I could never give. I would stare at the ceiling and consider, briefly, for barely half a second, not even a full blink, what might have happened if I’d insisted Tommy’s family be more involved in my daughter’s life.
And with the next blink I knew Ruth was in the right place and with the right person.
***
“Morning, Jessie, sorry I’m late,” I swiftly passed Jessie folding paper napkins at the counter, hung up my coat and put my bag away in the back storeroom. Tying my freshly laundered apron (black with Eli’s Café blazoned in red) around my waist, I smoothed over my hair, pushing my curls out of my eyes.
Where they stayed for about five seconds. Unless I used hair clips or a mountain of mousse, the curls just sprung everywhere, like Zebedee on acid.
Making my way back through the prep area I nearly tripped over Jessie who was lurking with intent. “What the hell, Jess? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Nah, just practising my ninja skills. Seen the hottie in the corner?” She gave me a huge grin and pointed with her head through the hatch. “Wanna go and take ‘er order?” Seriously. To be nineteen again.
“I’m busy,” I said, loading the brand new dishwasher. We’d been nagging Eli for ages about replacing the old one, and he eventually relented when the old one spat out foam for three hours one evening after we’d gone home and he was left to clean it up himself.
“I’ll do that,” she shoved a notebook and pencil into my hands, “‘ere.” I shook my head with a wry smile. It was the same every time a woman minus a ring on her left hand came into the café; Jessie pushed me at her stating her gaydar was pinging hot. Believe me when I say ninety percent of the time her gaydar was not. Still she was young and liked to frequent the lesbian clubs most weekends and rarely went home alone, so I guess she was better equipped than me to identify one of our team, as she so eloquently put it. I was beginning to think my gaydar was a cheap knock off from Taiwan.
Yes, I was a lesbian. A single lesbian with a seven year old daughter. A single lesbian who looked a right state most days. So why Jessie thought any woman, especially one as delectable as the woman in the charcoal pinstripe business suit, would have anything to do with me was beyond my comprehension at nine fifteen on a Wednesday morning. The tight A-line skirt, which shifted up as she sat more comfortably, revealed toned calves and must have been made to measure, it was like she’d been poured into it. She removed her jacket and hung it over the back o
f the chair next to her. No bingo wings on the menu today, thank you very much, and my long dormant libido quickly came out of hibernation.
Oh. My. God.
Ms Hottie? Ms Understatement of the year.
I instinctively tried to neaten myself up, not that there was much I could do, but hey, work with what you’ve got, right? So I tucked my black t-shirt into my washed out jeans, and brushed my dirty blonde curls behind my ears. Again.
I sighed.
Who am I kidding? I was a single mum working a minimum wage job and looked it.
“Hi, my name’s Rachel. Do you need more time or do you see something you like?
Chapter 7
Devon
Wednesday 7th December, 2016
Oh my, I thought, yes, I definitely see something I like. My eyes wandered from perusing the laminated menu to perusing my waitress.
She brushed her curls behind her ears and smiled softly, her head tilted as she waited for my order. I pretended to look at the menu again as I willed myself to calm down. Oh be still my beating heart, she really was such a cute package. Fresh-faced, her cheeks a delightful shade of pink brought on by the cold wind, she owned a pair of silvery blue eyes that could have appeared icy but their sparkle of energy made them appear like diamonds.
The door to the outside opened and she turned her head, revealing a slender neck. “I’ll be right back. Would you like a tea or coffee whilst you make up your mind?”
That soft voice, the London accent prevalent yet not harsh, was like hot chocolate on a winter’s day. It made me feel things it shouldn’t have, and they felt exceedingly good.
“Miss?”
Oh, right, tea or coffee. “Coffee please. Black.” I finally answered in clipped tones and hoped my staring wasn’t too obvious. I’d never experienced such an instinctive reaction to another human being before. She nodded then moved to intercept the customer who’d just entered. I say customer, but in actuality the man looked more like a vagrant. I wondered what the Environment Health department would have to say about the stench that accompanied him like a shadow, never mind the opinions of the other customers. Although as I peered covertly around the café, no-one seemed to bat an eyelash.