THE OFFICE WAS the last place on earth I wanted to be. My feet felt as if they were encased in cement as I walked towards the town square from the County Council building where I parked the Mini.
I looked at my watch; it was half past ten, which meant that the Oak was not yet open, which meant no decent coffee till eleven. So I walked on towards the office, past McLaughlin’s Bar with its clutch of all-day drinkers smoking in the doorway – the only pub in Glendara with a Fisherman’s licence allowing it to open at 7 a.m.; past Doherty’s Surveyors; McLaughlin & Son Auctioneers and Estate Agents; Doherty’s labyrinthine second-hand book shop and McLaughlin’s newsagents. Much of the town is owned by Dohertys and McLaughlins – not all the same people, however, and in most cases not even related, just people who share the same surnames. This is something a blow-in like me struggles to handle, but the locals seem unfazed by it, any confusion deftly avoided by a reliance on nicknames. Patrick McLaughlin the newsagent, despite standing as straight as a rod, is Pat the Stoop because of the way his grandfather used to walk, bent over an old ash stick. His son and two daughters are lumbered with Stoop too. While Phyllis Doherty, the bookseller, will always be Phyllis Kettle since her family had a stall in the square selling pots and pans two generations before.
Dohertys and McLaughlins are people who belong in Inishowen, have always belonged. I do not belong here. Although I have lived here for seven years, I will always be an outsider. In many ways this peninsula has saved me, for my position as an accepted outsider has allowed me to keep my past to myself, to be only who I choose to be and not what my past has made me. But it’s never as simple as that, is it? For the one person you can never escape is yourself.
Marguerite had been an outsider too: a French woman living in Inishowen. Stupidly, it occurred to me for the first time that maybe that was why she had chosen to come to see me. Kindred spirits or something.
I pushed open the door of the cramped terraced house that serves as my office – O’Keeffe & Co. Solicitors – the most northerly solicitor’s practice in Ireland.
Leah looked up expectantly as I walked into the reception area. Leah McKinley is the “& Co.” in O’Keeffe & Co. Solicitors. She is my sole employee, the one who manages to fulfil all roles from A-Z, and she’s not one to hold back with her opinions.
“Jesus, you look like crap,” she commented.
“Thanks.”
“Well?”
“Yeah. It’s her.”
Leah’s face fell. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. That’s awful. Do they know what happened?”
“Not yet. Pathologist is on his way, apparently.”
“God, Ben.” She looked at me sympathetically with her chin resting on her hands.
“I know. Suppose I’d better get some work done though. Nothing else I can do at the moment.”
“Right.” She handed me a stack of files. “Your morning’s appointments. First one is due back in ten minutes. I sent them off for half an hour. Said you had to step out.”
“Thanks, Leah.”
I climbed the stairs to my office, dumped the files on my desk, sat down, and finally allowed my mind to replay the events of the day before.
It had been District Court day in Glendara. Still called “law day” by some of the older townspeople, as if it is the one day when the town is forced to acknowledge the existence of a national government and an obligation to obey a wider set of rules than those made locally. But that’s probably just my city view of things.
At half past five I had emerged from the old courthouse, eyes watering, and yawning like a horse. I was so tired my teeth hurt, and it was still only the beginning of the week – a hell of a long way to go to get to Friday. Things hadn’t been great lately, and so I’d been looking forward to having dinner with Maeve and her family that evening. I made a decision to drop my files into the office and then head home to a long bath and an even longer glass of wine.
Nice plan. Although I could tell it wasn’t to be, when I caught Leah’s expression the moment I walked in the door.
“Ben, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you’re probably wrecked, but there’s someone here to see you. She seems pretty anxious. She’s been here for two hours.” Leah cast her eyes in the direction of the waiting room. “I told her you wouldn’t be able to see her today, but she insisted on waiting.”
I hoped the look of dismay on my face wasn’t too obvious when my eyes met those of the woman sitting stiffly in the waiting room. It took me a second to recognize her out of her usual context.
“Marguerite.”
She stood up expectantly. Marguerite was my yoga instructor. That sounds more glamorous than it was. She taught an evening class in the local hall – in an empty room with peeling walls and a draught.
She walked towards me, displaying the toned, willowy body of the lifelong practitioner. As usual she wore no make-up. Although forty or so, I guessed, she had no need of it. Her skin was coffee-colored, her features delicate, eyes dark and long-lashed. I remembered now that she had asked at the end of the last class if she could come into the office, but I thought she would have understood to make a bloody appointment.
She smiled a tight smile. Although tiny lines were beginning to form around her eyes, she was still very striking. But today her eyes looked as if they belonged to someone who didn’t sleep very much; they even seemed to have a slightly yellowish tinge. Strange, I thought, for someone who managed to instill such a sense of peace in others, myself included. Yoga was the one healthy thing I did, unless you counted my crazy year-round dips in the sea when things became too dark and I needed a jolt.
Gratitude for her contribution to my sanity didn’t make me any more pleased to see her now, but I faked a smile and led her upstairs. In my office I sat at my desk and offered her a seat.
“Is this about your will?” I asked. “You mentioned something …?”
“Yes, I hope it is okay. You did say I could come and see you.” Marguerite spoke softly, but her accent was unmistakable. French. With the tiniest sprinkling of Donegal.
“Yes, it’s fine,” I said brusquely, removing an attendance pad from a drawer. “I can take some instructions from you now. Have you thought about what you want to do?”
She took a deep breath before replying. “I want to leave everything to my daughter.”
“Okay.” I took a note. “Do you have any other children? Any other family?”
When the expected response did not come, I looked up. Marguerite’s hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, the whites of her knuckles showing through her brown skin, her eyes anxious. She was biting on her lower lip.
I put down my pen. “I don’t mean to be overly intrusive. But the Irish Succession Act makes certain provisions about the inheritance rights of spouses and children which can override a testator’s wishes, so I’m going to need a certain amount of information to be able to advise you properly.”
A further pause and more lip-biting followed, until finally, I was rewarded with a nod followed by an answer. All in a rush.
“My parents died in a car crash when I was a student, and I lived with my grandmother. I have no other children. Just my daughter Adeline.”
I noted what she had said.
She cleared her throat. “What would be the situation if I did?”
I looked up. “Sorry?”
“Have more children. What would happen if I had more children?”
“Well, you can make another will at any stage. You can make as many wills as you like. For some people it becomes almost a hobby. Every time they fall out with a relative, they get disinherited.”
I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Unsuccessfully as it turned out; the French woman’s expression didn’t change.
“And if I don’t make another will?”
“Well, a child has a right to make an application to your estate under Section 117 of the Succession Act.” I explained the provisions of the section as simply as I could.
Marguerite nodded, but I had no idea if she had really registered anything I had just said. It was at this point I realized I didn’t have the patience this evening to drag instructions out of a client. I needed a drink.
I turned over a page. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-three.” No hesitation this time.
“Okay, she’s not a minor so no complicated trusts needed. And what about Adeline’s father? Are you married?”
Marguerite’s eyes darted towards the door. She picked up her bag from the floor and clutched it on her knee, looking as if she was about to bolt. Exasperated, I pretended not to notice and carried on.
“Under Irish Succession Law, a spouse has inheritance rights whether you make a will or not – that is, if you are still legally married when you die and the rights have not been waived.”
Marguerite put the bag down again. “No. I’m not married,” she replied slowly. “At least, I don’t think so. I don’t think we were ever legally married. His name was …” her voice lowered almost to a whisper “… Alain Veillard. He died about a year ago.”
There was something about the way that she said her ex’s name that made me feel as if I was expected to recognize it. I didn’t, and I certainly hadn’t the inclination to pursue it.
“I met him when I was seventeen,” she continued. “When I was in school in Toulouse. I had Adeline when I was nineteen. I was very young.” She leaned forward suddenly. “This is all completely confidential, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” I assured her. “Nothing you say to me will go outside of these four walls.”
She nodded, unclasped her hands, and began playing with something on her wrist. It was a bracelet, a black metal bangle with some kind of engraving on it.
“When the light came on and I left Alain, Adeline stayed with her father. I had no choice about that. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
She tapped the surface of the bracelet with each of her fingertips in turn, one by one. When she was finished, she repeated the action again and again. It was very distracting and a little irritating. I tried to ignore it.
“Do you have an address for Adeline?”
Marguerite lifted her bag again from the floor and drew out a small piece of paper. I took it and placed it beside the instructions I had taken. I then drew up a list of her assets in Inishowen, which amounted to little more than a small bank account and a car.
“Do you have any assets in France?” I asked.
She looked down. “Not anymore.”
“That’s fine. You won’t need to make a French will.”
I moved on quickly to explain the role of an executor and the necessity of appointing one. “It’s generally advisable to appoint someone the same age or younger. A relative maybe? Someone you trust.”
She brightened a little. “I should like to have my friend Simon Howard. The sculptor. He lives in the cottage next to mine.”
After she had described where she lived and I had taken a note of the address, I glanced at the clock behind Marguerite. It was twenty past six. I had given her forty minutes. Enough was enough, I decided. As it was, I would have to go straight to Maeve’s without heading home first. I replaced the lid of my pen and put it back in the holder on the desk.
“Okay, Marguerite. That’s it. Your instructions seem pretty straightforward and it’s a simple enough will. Give me a couple of days, and I’ll be in touch for you to come in and sign it.”
The expression of alarm on her face took me by surprise. “Oh. I thought I would be able to sign it today,” she said. “I could wait. I have plenty of time.”
“I’m sorry. It needs to be typed up, and we must have two witnesses to your signature so we’ll need Leah here when you sign it. And she’ll have left at this stage,” I added pointedly.
Marguerite didn’t respond.
“I’ll give you a call when it’s ready,” I said again and stood up. The implication was clear. This meeting was over.
Slowly, Marguerite got to her feet. “So I should just wait to hear from you?”
“Yes.”
I walked her down the stairs and showed her to the door, but she stood without moving in the doorway, examining the carpet.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, my hand on the doorknob.
Marguerite looked as if she was trying to make her mind up about something, staring down at her wrist and doing that strange thing with her bracelet again. I waited.
Eventually she shook her head. “No … no … thank you.”
I opened the door, relieved, but instead of walking through it, she turned to face me again.
“Are you sure it would not be possible for you to do the will now, and I could just wait here while you do it?” she said. “Maybe you could just witness it yourself? I can wait as long as you need.”
“I’m sorry, Marguerite. It has to be two witnesses. And I don’t have time to do it this evening, I’m afraid,” I said.
“Could you have it ready tomorrow? I could come back tomorrow?” she said nervously. “There’s something else I think I might like to talk to you about.”
I sighed. “Yes, yes, okay. I’ll draft your will in the morning and give you a call.”
I don’t think I have ever encountered a client who doesn’t harbor some sneaking suspicion that giving instructions for a will would result in them being mowed down by a bus within hours of leaving the office. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would feel the same way if I ever got around to making my own will – which I haven’t, of course; the cobbler’s child is always barefoot.
But looking back, I knew now that Marguerite had been really on edge. Way more than the usual client-giving-instructions-for-a-will type of “on edge.” Let’s face it, I knew it at the time too. I just hadn’t cared. With a sickening feeling, I realized what I had known the second I had heard the news this morning. Marguerite had been frightened when I had seen her at the office. And I had practically shoved her out the door.