The Reunion

by Gould, R J

  “Go away and reflect, will you. I don’t want another word until you’ve thought about it carefully.”

  “But…”

  “Not a word.”

  “OK, I’ll pop back soon.”

  Back in his office David accepted that he should be considering the new situation. He began by writing a council versus café list. He could itemise reasons to stay at his current workplace with ease – a likely increase in salary, the pension provision, security, enhanced status. The reasons for setting up a café were shrouded in mist – maybe enjoyable to run (but a massive time commitment); maybe profitable (but the risk of huge losses): maybe recognition as a patron of the arts (but the danger of no one attracted to perform at his café and insufficient customers even if he did manage to get entertainers in).

  He left the list on his desk and walked back to Mary’s office with a purposeful stride.

  “I’m leaving, too,” he announced as he entered.

  He told Mary about the café plan and to her credit she was encouraging. The council would be looking for two new recruits.

  Jabulani was standing outside David’s office on his return. He knew David had decided to inform Mary that afternoon and was eager to hear how it had gone.

  “I’ve done it, Jabulani. And can you keep another secret?”

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 37

  “This looks great dad,” Sam said as David set down three plates of Portofino Lamb and Artichoke Risotto, the latest creation to come from his Italian cookery course. “Tastes good too,” Rachel added having taken her first mouthful.

  “Let’s see if it’s as good as the one my tutor made,” David said as he lifted his fork.

  The telephone rang as fork reached mouth.

  “Leave it dad, it’ll be a sales call.”

  It drove David up the wall. Although he’d enrolled with the telephone preference service to stop unsolicited sales calls, they kept coming. Often they began with a statement about how pleasant the weather was today in London despite incomprehensible accent and not quite proper use of over-formal grammar suggesting they were calling from a faraway land.

  David rested the fork on his plate and stood up. “I’ll get it, it might be Bridget. She said she’d ring tonight,” He looked at the telephone display. ‘Private Number’ was shown so it wouldn’t be Bridget as hers was entered in the memory. But since he was there he felt obliged to answer it.

  “Is that Mr Willoughby, Mr David Willoughby?” he was asked by a man with a strong Indian accent.

  “Yes it is, but I’m eating dinner and I’m not interested in buying anything thank you.”

  “This is important,” the man persevered.

  Yes I bet, David thought. The need to upgrade your computer virus protection; to consider a conservatory now summer was approaching; to hand over bank account details to verify authenticity ahead of carrying out some scam or other. I’m too polite, David reckoned as the man rabbited on.

  “Look, I’ve already told you I’m not interested.” He replaced the receiver and sat down.

  A minute later the phone rang again.

  Rachel stood. “I’ll go and he won’t call back after I’ve finished with him.” She lifted the receiver. “You are a disgrace, can’t you take a hint and get lost. Goodbye.”

  “Well done for not swearing,” David remarked as Rachel sat down.

  The phone rang again. “I’m not having this,” David uttered as he stood. He lifted the receiver and put it on speakerphone so that the children could witness his assertiveness.

  “Now listen will you. I insist on knowing who you represent and what your telephone number is. And then I want to speak to your supervisor.”

  “I am truly sorry to disturb you, Mr Willoughby, but we really do need your help here.”

  “My help? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s your mother.”

  Mr Gupta, his mother’s neighbour, well actually no longer his mother’s neighbour, went on to describe the circumstances of her death. Mrs Willoughby hadn’t put out her dustbins on Tuesday night for early Wednesday morning collection, a very unusual omission. Then the Wednesday milk was left ungathered outside her front door and when another pint sat there all day Thursday he decided to investigate. He was a key holder in case of emergencies and that is what this turned out to be because he found her dead, stretched out on the floor of her lounge in nightwear and dressing gown. He’d called the police and the body had been removed to the mortuary, but now it was time to hand over to her family. He had tried to contact Charlotte several times, but it was on answerphone. He’d then rummaged through drawers in search of David’s number and fortunately had found her address book.

  This information was relayed to the whole family via speakerphone and when David had ended the conversation with an apology for their initial rudeness, the three of them sat in shocked silence.

  There was little time for reflection and no time for conversation because Charlotte called. She had picked up Mr Gupta’s five increasingly desperate messages. They arranged to meet at their mother’s house the following mid-morning.

  David, Rachel and Sam sat in the lounge talking about the last time they had seen her. There was guilt that they hadn’t visited since Christmas and that on that occasion they had been bored, impatient and sarcastic when they should have been warm and caring. The children wanted to help, but it was agreed that they’d go to school the next day rather than join David in Birmingham. If necessary they could stay over at friends.

  When he met Charlotte the following morning there was a rare show of emotion as he and his sister hugged.

  “Mind you, she was a bitch and a half,” Charlotte said in between tears. “But she was still our mum.”

  David nodded. He felt the loss, a disconnect, but not as much grief as he considered worthy.

  They wandered from room to room looking at possessions one would expect for an old-fashioned woman in her late sixties who had made little effort to move on since her husband had died. Little had been replaced in the twenty years since then, only a flat screen television and a digital phone hinted of a twenty-first century existence. She possessed no computer, no mobile phone, no DVD or CD player.

  “It’s all quite sad,” Charlotte remarked as they entered her bedroom with its tea stained candlewick bedspread, shag pile carpet and beige velour curtains, all striking in their ugliness. “There’s nothing I’d even want as a keepsake.”

  “No, probably not,” David agreed. “Her life’s possessions are going to end up either at the Salvation Army if they’ll accept any of it, or in plastic bags on a skip.”

  They sat in the kitchen drinking lowest grade instant coffee from cups and saucers used by their mother all those years ago when they were youngsters. “Do you think our kids will feel the same about us?” Charlotte wondered.

  “Who knows? I hope not though I haven’t got a stack of ipads, nintendos and Wiis for them to inherit. I suppose it’s just the money we leave that will count.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Talking of money, this house should fetch a fair old packet. I’m assuming she’ll have split things fifty-fifty. Mind you, you always were her favourite so maybe I’ll get nothing except the bedspread.”

  “Well if she’s left that to me I’ll be generous and let you have it.”

  “Very funny. We’ll need to see her solicitor, won’t we? I know who he is, I’ll give him a call. I vaguely know the local vicar too. I’ll speak to him about the funeral.”

  “Maybe we should see the will first in case she’s given any funeral instructions, a preference for burial or cremation and things like that.”

  “OK. She might want particular music or a hymn. Maybe Led Zep’s Stairway to Heaven although heaven might be wishful thinking as far as she’s concerned.”

  “Come on Charlotte, she wasn’t that bad.”

  “She wasn’t that good either. I don’t believe in this heaven and hell stuff but if I did a
nd I was in charge, being merely alright wouldn’t qualify you. You’d have to have done something special to get in.”

  “There wouldn’t be many up there then.”

  “Don’t worry, you’d make it. You always were the family goody-goody.”

  They were smiling as they spoke. The death of their mother had brought them closer; such banter hadn’t been evident since their adolescent days.

  Mr Spratt, their mother’s solicitor, was unable to fit them in so they arranged to see him the following morning. David stayed over in the house.

  It was an eerie experience without the presence of the person who had lived there for all forty-four years of his life. He popped out to buy fish and chips at the take-away he used to visit as a child. Now pizzas and curry were on offer in addition to the traditional meal. Back in his temporary home he sat in the lounge on ‘his’ armchair, switching from channel to channel. Before bed he wandered round the house again, distant memories roused with each item of furniture or knickknack he saw. His parents had collected junk during their travels – a Swiss cuckoo clock, a plastic Venetian gondola, and worst of all a battery operated lamp in the shape of the Blackpool Tower. He remembered when they’d bought the tower. He was fourteen and had fallen in love with the daughter of another guest family at the hotel. She was sweet sixteen and had led him along for a while until an older boy came on the scene. David saw them kissing one evening by the swings and felt a wave of despondency that he could feel again now as he touched the plastic casing of the tower. He scrutinised the two slim shelves of books, filled with bland best sellers. He selected the best he could find and was lulled to sleep by the James Bond adventure.

  The next morning Charlotte and David met at a smart Victorian double-fronted villa in the centre of Edgbaston, close to the university. It was across the road from a well maintained park with giant oak trees bursting into leaf, surrounded by the yellow and pink of forsythias and azaleas. A shiny brass plaque to the left of the door displayed the name Clutterbuck, Sharpe and Spratt.

  “A bit posh for our mum isn’t it,” David remarked.

  “I was thinking that, too. Everyone knows it’s the most expensive law firm in the area.”

  No expense was spared in the modern reception area with its huge semi-circular light wood front desk, plush leather armchairs, zany chandeliers and vivid abstract oil paintings.

  By contrast, entering Mr Spratt’s room was like taking a giant stride back into the nineteenth century. His office was a parody of a solicitor’s office and Mr Spratt was a caricature of a solicitor. The furniture was dark oak, the desk and chairs covered with the mottled maroon leather that had once been popular. One wall was lined with bookcases and there were piles of paper and files on the floor. The only sign of modernity was a computer on a separate workstation in the far corner of the large, high-ceilinged room. And Mr Spratt was the perfect Scrooge as he peered at them above his half-moon reading glasses. He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and navy bow tie. His salt and pepper hair made it difficult to identify age – anything between forty and sixty was possible.

  “Sit,” he instructed before shuffling papers on his desk and opening a folder. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, your mother was a fine woman.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” David responded quickly, fearing a sarcastic put-down from Charlotte who was fidgeting on the uncomfortable chair. Her bearing improved somewhat as Mr Spratt announced that their mother had instructed that her assets were to be equally divided between her two children, or had either been deceased at time of death, to the appropriate child’s own children.

  As he read on Charlotte gasped and grabbed hold of David’s arm.

  Their mother was loaded. She had inherited the fortune acquired by a great uncle who had died when they were infants. Joseph Kirby had manufactured jewellery. During the 1960s and 1970s he had owned the most successful business in Warstone Street, at the heart of Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter. Mr Spratt outlined how the sum inherited had been managed by the financial consultancy that his firm recommended to their clients. They had successfully played the markets across good and bad times and had even been able to hedge against the current economic downturn.

  Charlotte had grown impatient. “So how much? How much is there now?”

  “I haven’t got the current year figure to hand, though being well into April, I expect a statement very soon.”

  “How much was it worth last year then?” Charlotte persisted.

  Mr Spratt lifted a sheet from the collection of papers in front of him. With a deep, austere tone he read. “£1,427,345.86.” Charlotte let out a scream. Mr Spratt continued. “This sum refers to Joseph Kirby’s portfolio which has been kept apart from everything else. Your mother had additional assets to add to the total – some shares, a substantial savings account, jewellery and the house of course. Though you must remember that beyond the first £325,000 there is inheritance tax to pay.”

  David was in accountancy mode, doing calculations as Mr Spratt was spelling out exactly what those additional assets comprised of. Not surprisingly he was linking the inheritance to the expenditure needed for the café. Charlotte’s chain of thought was at a somewhat lower level. “The miserable old witch. She never let on she had anything. When she gave the kids £20 at Christmas she made out it was a major sacrifice,” she whispered loud enough for Mr Spratt to hear.

  David didn’t respond. He continued to tot up the windfall as the solicitor ran through the long and complex list of assets. For insurance purposes the jewellery had been valued. They might decide to keep some, but if they sold it and on the assumption they got two-thirds of the insurance valuation, that would bring in another £200,000. The substantial savings accounts Mr Spratt had mentioned were in excess of £300,000. The extensive portfolio of shares was in British companies; they had been purchased many years ago by their father. He’d known what he was doing because although a few had declined, most had grown to become major international players. David would be able to work out the exact current value as soon as he had access to a computer or newspaper, but they would make a sizeable contribution to the total. Then there was the large house in one of the most fashionable suburbs of Edgbaston which Charlotte’s husband would have no problem selling. In all they would be inheriting a pot in excess of two and a half million pounds!

  “Just making a quick call,” David informed Charlotte as they left the solicitor’s building.

  “Me too,” said Charlotte as she stepped a few paces away from her brother.

  David dialled Bridget.

  The Reunion – R J Gould

  Chapter 38

  Throughout the first three weeks of April they had enjoyed delightful blue skies and the first warm sun of the year. On the day of the funeral the weather turned and it was as cold, windy and wet as the most brutal mid-January day. The small group of mourners made their way to the graveside, their shoes caked in sticky brown clay. Wrapped in dark raincoats, they were desperately hanging on to unrestrained umbrellas. David and Charlotte were at the front behind the hearse, walking alongside the vicar. Jane was in the second row with Rachel and Sam. Poor Sam, it was his birthday. Donald, Charlotte’s husband, and her children, Crispin and Emma, were next in line. They were followed by Bridget, Andy and Kay. Next came the few acquaintances of David’s mother including Mr Gupta and his wife.

  The rain lashed down as the vicar spoke, generic words of kindness followed by the traditional prayer. The mourners watched as the grave diggers turned their attention to filling the hole, shovelling sodden soil onto the coffin. David listened to the harsh rattle of clay and small stones against the wood, reducing to soft thuds as earth began to drop against earth. He looked around and noted there wasn’t a tear in sight. His mother’s bitterness and harshness had stifled love and affection.

  Back at her house caterers had provided sandwiches, cake, tea, coffee, sherry and wine for the mourners.

  “We could have gone for champagn
e and caviar what with all our money,” Charlotte joked.

  “Can we keep quiet about that for now?” David pleaded, looking across to Jane.

  “Sure. Are you able to stay on for a bit afterwards to start clearing some of her stuff away?”

  “Yes of course. How long have we got the skip for?”

  “As long as it takes to fill it. The cost isn’t based on time.”

  Rachel and Sam were unsure where to go. They wanted to be with their father to offer support; they liked Bridget and her children and would have spent time with them; but were made to feel guilty by Jane who was intent on monopolising them since she was, as she put it, alone and uncomfortable. They ended up circuiting between each party for sound bite chats.

  However, after lunch Jane told her children to move away as Donald approached. She’d always got on well with her brother-in-law and now, in the corner of the living room, they chatted away like there was no tomorrow.

  Bridget and her children approached David, Rachel and Sam. They had on their coats. “We need to head off. Andy’s got judo later this afternoon and if we get back in time Kay can get to her dance class.”

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, addressing all three of them. “I’ll call tonight.”

  Rachel and Sam stood by David’s side as mourners offered their condolences. By the time David had begun a conversation with an elderly lady who claimed to remember him from his childhood days, his children were bored to death. They edged away indicating that they were going outside for a walk – suffering the rain would be by far the lesser of two evils.

  When the woman told him her name was Vivienne, memories came flooding back. She had been vibrant and vivacious, now she was slow and listless. She slurred as she spoke.

  “Yes, you were a good boy, that’s for sure.”

  “Thank you,” David replied, hearing the same claim for a third time.

  “Not like that sister of yours, she was a right little madam.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “When she was one of those teenagers she was, I can tell you. All that loud music, punk wasn’t it? I don’t know how the rest of you coped.”