Out on a Limb

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘What d’you think?’ Jake asks me again. ‘Will that do?’

  I’m glad he’s okay. This funeral’s a first for him. But he’s clearly more pre-occupied with more important matters – like replacing One Black Lung’s feckless ex-member, David, who was always failing to show up for band practice, and who therefore committed that most heinous of musical crimes – lack of commitment. They’ve since been trying, and failing, to find someone else. Because they’re really very picky, and quite right too. Yes, I think, and then say. It will do very nicely. I ruffle his hair, which he hates, but I can’t help it. ‘But there’s no apostrophe in influences,’ I tell him.

  Chapter 5

  HI MUM

  Thanks for your text – the longest in recorded history? – sounds like everything went okay with the funeral. J says did you get Lucy Whittall’s autograph? No he didn’t say that (ho ho) but I’d better not tell you what he did say. We are sitting in an internet cafe in Monte Carlo – how cool is that? Is so posh here we almost didn’t spot the McDonalds – it’s done out like tea room and everything’s green and gold instead of red and yellow. Bizarre! Burgers just same tho’ – phew! You can see where the F1 route goes, and there’s rubber all over the roads. Yachts like you wouldn’t believe!

  Cheers. Sxx

  They’re certainly not letting the grass grow. Though mine sure is. Memo to self, of last Monday. ‘Day off. Cut grass. Sunbathe.’ Some hope.

  Mr F W Gladstone, solicitor of this parish, and whose short letter summoned us here on this bright sunny morning, ushers us to seats and then sits down himself. His office, the walls of which are comprehensively covered with pen and ink studies of fat men bearing golf clubs, is gloomy to the point that miners’ headlamps would not feel whatsoever ridiculous, and his desk, which is as properly big and old and dusty as you’d expect it to be, is almost completely covered in piles of paperwork and files, and as he is a short man, he appears to lurk, rather than sit, behind it, in the manner of a Dickensian villain. He looks bored. But then it’s another nice day and I’m sure he’d rather be playing golf. My mother leans her crutches against the arm of her chair, and they immediately clatter to the floor.

  We’re a party of five. Myself (for I am chauffeur), Pru, my mother, Corinne (in suit and killer court shoes) and the weatherman again. Who is, I assume, making like a Cardiff Council bus fleet. Not a sniff for ages, then an embarras de richesse . Both are looking very like they’ve recently swallowed wasps. He does smile a brief hello at us – TV type standard issue – but no pleasantries are proffered or returned.

  ‘He did make a will, then, did he?’ I asked my mother some days earlier. ‘Do you know what’s going to be in it?’

  She nodded and flapped her hand at me (such it is with dancers). ‘Of course I know what’s in it. He’s left me everything, of course.’

  It seem ed to me that there was no ‘of course’ about it. They had, after all, been married a scant three and a half years. And she was 100% out on the offspring count, wasn’t she? Not a terribly auspicious start. ‘Bet that’ll go down well,’ I said. ‘No wonder his daughter was so frosty at the funeral.’

  No wonder she’s so frosty now. Because it seems Mum was right. He has left her everything. Well, pretty much. Mr Gladstone rattles through the formalities at a surprising lick for one so sluggish of demeanour, and then reads from what looks like an impressively long list. Long, but as it turns out, not terrifically impressive; the watercolour by… (some artist I haven’t ever heard of) I leave to George Bathhurst, the gold cufflinks and matching tie pin I leave to Edward Noble. My bowls (eh? Ah – bowling ones) I leave to Mrs Moira Bugle, and so on and so forth till we get to the last bit; the residue of my estate I leave to Diana Mary Imogen Patterson-Garland, my beloved wife.

  So this was written before the tea-dance club debacle, we must assume. Or perhaps the tea-dance club debacle was in fact not a debacle at all, just one of my mother’s many flights of fancy. I watch her dab at her eyes out of the corner of mine. And as we’re seated in a kind of horseshoe I can make out Corinne’s expression too. I wonder how she feels about all this. I doubt the long-lost son was expecting anything, of course, but little though it seems Corinne saw him, she was his daughter, but for her all I’ve totted up is a few bits of jewellery, a Welsh quilted bedspread and a clock. She looks utterly impassive and I wonder what she’s thinking. But she’s clearly thinking thoughts that fail to register on her face.

  The solicitor straightens finally. Concludes the short meeting. Thanks us for coming, gets Mum to sign something, then he turns to Corinne.

  ‘There are,’ he says to her, ‘a few formalities for us to deal with in relation to the property, of course, Mrs Smith. I’ll be writing to you to that effect sometime later this week.’

  Corinne nods her head and leans down to pick up her handbag. It is Louis Vuitton and looks new.

  A silence falls, while we digest what he’s said. Or try to. Why is he talking just to her ? ‘I beg your pardon?’ squeaks my mother.

  The solicitor turns his rheumy eyes upon her. ‘I’m sorry?’ he says.

  ‘What formalities?’ she adds. ‘What property are you talking about anyway?’

  H e blinks and looks confused. As if having been unexpectedly addressed by a pot plant or a hole punch. ‘Er…’ he says.

  ‘Er ?’ says my mother, brows aloft.

  T he solicitor looks doubly confused, and now uncomfortable too. He looks at Corinne. Then back at my mother. Then he frowns.

  ‘Mrs Patterson –’

  ‘It’s Ms Garland, actually.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Ms Garland. But the question of the property…er…’

  ‘What question precisely?’

  H e looks over at Corinne again and clears his throat. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Smith, but has the matter of the house not been discussed yet between you?’

  Uh-oh, I think to myself. Now I get it. She’s planning to contest the will. Of course she is. It all fits. No wonder she’s been so reluctant to talk to us. And I can’t say I’m surprised. Though what little I know of the family suggests theirs is/was not the closest of father/daughter relationships, he is/was still her father. And no matter how much anyone protests otherwise, it must be pretty damn galling to have your father take up with some stranger in his twilight years and promptly re-direct your inheritance. Blood has been shed for far less.

  But why was he talking just to her, in that case? And my mother, quite clearly, is on the same track as me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says sharply. She is not used to being ignored. ‘What d’you mean, discuss? There is nothing to discuss. The house has – quite rightly – been left to me. The will said so. It –’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ Corinne says, and her gaze is unflinching. ‘And it didn’t because it hasn’t. And it hasn’t because it wasn’t his to leave you.’

  Now I am surprised. How can that be? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. This really does not look very good.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Pru, who has also clocked the eye stuff and is now looking straight at Corinne. ‘Are you telling me your father didn’t actually own his house?’

  Corinne shakes her head then picks a speck of something from her jacket sleeve. ‘No,’ she says levelly, glancing at her brother. ‘We do.’

  ‘You do?’ Pru and I say, almost exactly as one.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ she says again. ‘And I’m afraid we need it back.’

  It’s as clear as mud, as these things so often are, but we eventually manage to winnow out the most salient point, which is that the house – which was originally, it turns out, the marital home of the earlier ( an earlier, at any rate) Mr and Mrs Hugo – does indeed belong to his children, it having been bequeathed to them by their late mother. Who apparently owned it outright. Not both of them. Just her. Which has one somewhat stupefying implication, obviously, which is why we’re probably all too stupefied to speak.

  No one seems particularly incline
d to tell us more, either, and the temperature in the room, already somewhat chilly, plunges a few degrees lower.

  The Smith and the Ash component leave shortly after (the Smith component sweeping out as if leaving an arena having felled fifteen Christians and a goat, which seems excessive), it having been not in the least amicably agreed that they, I and Pru would communicate the next week, to discuss the ‘disposal’ arrangements. Or rather, in proper words, the sale of the house – the sale of my mother’s home from under her. Though I imagine neither of them have the tiniest interest in discussing what they think we’re going to do with our mother next. That they don’t much care seems understatement indeed. It’s almost too much to take in. So much for the idea of her contesting the will. Her/ them , come to think of it. Bloody hell .

  ‘Can we contest the will ourselves?’ I ask the solicitor afterwards.

  ‘Not really,’ he says kindly, ‘you don’t have any grounds. The house wasn’t part of the will.’

  ‘Jesus, Mum! Jesus! You are absolutely bloody unbelievable!’ snaps Pru. ‘Christ, this really takes the biscuit! First some long-lost son crawls out of the woodwork, and now we find out Hugo didn’t even own his house! How on earth could you have failed to know something like that?’

  We’re back in reception now and my mother, it has to be said, is looking somewhat flustered. Her own fault entirely. She did produce us after all. And in her own image. So it’s no less than she should expect.

  ‘Because I didn’t!’ she snaps. ‘How would I? Why would I? He told me he did ! Why wouldn’t I believe him? Forgive me, Prudence, but you of all people should know a marriage is based upon trust!’

  But not me, of all people? Though I don’t pause to ponder it. ‘God, but what now ?’ I lament roundly instead. Because ‘God, but what now?’ is really all I can think. Can they really just evict her? Just like that? Legally? Surely not. I pull open the glass door and scowl at the sunshine. There must be some law to protect people like my mother, though regrettably none springs to mind.

  When we emerge on to the street, it’s to find that the long-lost son, now very much found, appears anxious to press his presence home. He’s outside still and obviously waiting for us. Hovering on the pavement like he’s early for a date. Of the sister, though, there is not a sign.

  ‘Look,’ he says, speaking as he jerks to attention and strides (no – limps) purposefully across the pavement towards us. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am about all this.’

  We’re both pretty quick off the mark, Pru and I, but today she’s marginally quicker.

  ‘Sorry ?’ she rails at him. ‘I beg your pardon, but ‘sorry’? Well, forgive me, but don’t you think that’s just a teensy bit inadequate under the circumstances?’

  H e has the good grace to lower his head slightly at this.

  ‘Yes,’ he admits, ‘it probably is.’ Two women walk past us at this point and I can hear the ‘Is that the man off…’ and ‘Jeepers, it is too!’ conversation swell and ebb as they pass. It must happen all the time. It must be quite distracting. But then he probably deserves it. ‘But,’ he adds, ‘you know, if there’s anything I can do…’

  ‘And just what is it you think you might be able to do exactly?’ I ask him now. ‘Build my mother a shed in your garden?’

  I don’t know if he has a garden, of course, but I’m quite sure he must do. A big one. With a weather vane in it. And one of those things that measure rainfall, most probably. And now he has half of another one, to boot. Humph. ‘I had no idea until this morning,’ he goes on, ignoring me.

  ‘Oh, come on…’ I retort. ‘You expect us to believe that? Isn’t that precisely why you showed up at the funeral?’

  To get his hands on the spoils ? Oh, yes, it’s all becoming horribly clear now. But he ignores that too. Just frowns and turns to Mum. Who responds in the usual Garland fashion when being addressed by a member of the opposite sex who isn’t too old to escape the radar. In the blink of an eye, she’s whipped off the scowl and is suddenly all teeth and eyelashes. ‘What I mean ,’ he explains to her, ‘is that I really had no idea you didn’t know about the house. I’d assumed you were already aware.’ Which I grudgingly suppose I do believe. I mean, the solicitor didn’t, did he? But even so.

  ‘What the hell difference does that make?’ Pru rounds on him angrily, voicing my very thought. ‘The net result is the same. My mother is now effectively homeless!’

  The mother in question rounds on her now. ‘Oh, Prudence!’ she twitters. ‘Goodness gracious me! Will you desist from airing my business all over the street!’

  Pru ignores Mum. This seems to be the day for it. ‘But don’t imagine for a moment that we’re going to take this lying down. That you can just throw an elderly woman on to the street willy-nilly, because believe me –’

  ‘Prudence!’ my mother tinkles faux-smilingly again. ‘I am not elderly!’

  Gabriel Ash looks pained. ‘I don’t –’ he begins.

  ‘Don’t what ?’ retorts Pru. ‘Hmm? Well? Don’t care ?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness ’ sake, girls,’ my mother snaps, finally. And in doing so, reverting seamlessly to the sort of tone that can still stir exit door curtains in the very back of the stalls. ‘Leave the poor man alone, for goodness’ sake! It’s not his fault.’ I’m not sure how she worked that out exactly. I would have said the opposite was true. But, no. He’s a man so he’s forgiven by default. She pats his arm and beams at him. ‘I do apologise for my daughters,’ she coos. ‘It’s been a stressful time for them. I’m sure we can all do this without undue hostility. I’m quite sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘Mother,’ Pru snarls as we drag her away. ‘Stop bloody simpering, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I wasn’t simpering, young lady. I was simply –’

  ‘You were flirting with him, mother.’

  ‘No. Being civil . No situation is ever made better by shouting.’

  ‘M um. You are homeless. This is not a time for civility.’

  Or flirting, for that matter. Good point. ‘And very much a time for shouting, in my book,’ I add.

  But my mother, being my mother and therefore not like other people, goes ‘Goodness. All this fuss ! Girls, calm yourselves, will you?’

  ‘Calm ourselves?’ Pru barks. I bark nothing. I’m speechless. Just how can she be so relaxed about all this?

  ‘Yes, darlings, calm yourselves. All will be well. Remember. Que sera, girls. Que sera.’

  I’ll give her Que bloody sera. Mum, there’s no milk… Oh, dear. Que sera! Mum, my boyfriend’s just dumped me… Oh, bless. But, chin up! Que sera ! Mum, I think I cocked up my Geography O level… Darling, don’t panic . Remember – Que Sera . I’ve really come to hate Doris Day.

  Trouble is, it is my mother’s philosophy of life perfectly captured in three cheesy syllables of Spanish. The mantra with which she has wafted through, let me see, three careers, four husbands (two dead, two divorced, none beheaded at the last count), and at least two stray fiancés that I know of. But while it may have served her well – and it has, up to now – it’s certainly not serving Pru and I well now. And I did fail my Geography O level, as it happens. And what if I’d passed it? Things could have been so different. I could be working as a cartographer in Brisbane or Nairobi. And could send my commiserations on a postcard from there. Still. At least she’s going back to Pru’s again tonight. For that we must be grateful. Que hurrah.

  ‘Gawd, gawd, gawd!’ says Dee, with some feeling. ‘That is some bombshell! But surely they can’t just throw her out. Doesn’t she have any rights?’

  Taking your worries out on a shuttlecock doesn’t have quite the anger-quenching properties of a session with a punchbag, but in the absence of one, it will just have to do. ‘Apparently not. Well, she has all the usual ones – if she barricades the door and refuses them entry they’ll have to get a court order to evict her. But she’s not even there, is she? She’s at my sister’s.’
r />   And will soon be back at mine. And then at Pru’s. And then mine again. We’re passing her back and forth as if engaged in an intense bout of correspondence chess. Is this how the next few weeks – God, months – are going to be? And if that’s not indigestible enough a thought to be going on with, the next one – the nagging one – the one that can’t seem to help propagating in my head, is the thought that we all know whose house she’d rather be billeted at; the one with a vacant room (but it’s not vacant! It isn’t ! It’s just temporarily unoccupied!), the one without two eight-year-olds, but mainly the one without an irritable husband already installed as head of state.

  Dee opens her water bottle and takes a long swig from it. ‘Well, she should hot-foot it back there and stake her claim, if you ask me. It’s disgraceful.’

  It’s impossible. She can’t function on her own yet, and even if she could, she doesn’t want to. When did she ever? ‘We were thinking of launching a counter-attack over the matter of the conservatory, as it happens,’ I say. ‘That cost them close on fifteen thousand. And I know for a fact where the money for it came from. Her flat. God – sorry, excuse me for a second – but what a low life bastard scoundrel that man has turned out to be! I mean, he knew, Dee! He knew all along! Yet he happily helped her spend her money! It’s all gone, you know. All spent on bloody cruises!’

  Dee thinks for a moment. She always thinks about things. In her position (which is one of being married to an alcoholic, and thus having undergone months – no, years – of sitting in therapists’, mediators’ and counsellors’ offices), I guess looking at angles and weighing up least-worst options and trying to calmly fathom motivations and solutions becomes pretty standard after a while. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t quite like that. I mean, they were getting on, weren’t they? And it’s kind of what you do when you’re old, isn’t it? Go on cruises and that. I mean, to be fair, why wouldn’t they? If they could afford it, why not? You can’t take it with you, after all. And what would they want to save up for at their age?’