by stewartgiles
FIFTEEN
MINSTER
Monday 25 August 2003.
Jason Smith looked around the room. He was sitting on the single armchair where many a scarf had been knitted by his Gran. He looked at the picture above the fireplace; a framed pencil drawing of York Minster, meticulously sketched by his Grandfather before Smith was even born. The Minster looked different now. The fire in 1984 destroyed much of the roof and with the new roof bosses; the Minster took on a completely different character. Smith wished he could have met his Grandfather; he was a kind man, not at all like Smith’s mother. He looked at the cordless phone in his hand and dialled the number. A familiar but weary voice could be heard.
“Mom,” he said nervously, “Its Jason.”
“Do you know what time it is here?” his mother said.
Smith knew exactly what time it was in Fremantle but he did not care.
“It’s the middle of the bloody night,” his mother said. She sounded drunk. “What do you want, money?”
Smith sighed. “I don’t know if you’ll be interested,” he said, “but Gran died this afternoon. Gran, your mother, remember her?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“What happened?” Smith’s mother asked.
“Both of her lungs collapsed. She broke her hip and developed pneumonia in hospital. Her funeral’s on Saturday if you’re interested.”
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it, it’s a long way to come.”
“She’s your mother, you have to be here.”
“What about the estate?”
“The what?”
“Her will, do you know if her affairs are in order?”
“Your mother has just died and you want to know if she left you any money? What kind of daughter are you?”
“I just want to make sure that what she had gets handed down to someone who deserves it.”
“I have to go now but there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m dropping the law degree.”
“You’re what? I thought you were top of the class, you could earn big money.”
“I’m joining the Police Force.”
That was the last time Jason Smith ever spoke to his mother. He had no family left.