I fixed to meet Tim at 14 Seacrest Avenue at two on the Monday afternoon. Roy and Michelle Waites were driving down from Worcester that morning and would be in Chichester by then.
The appointment fitted in well with my schedule. First thing, I’d go to the dump and unload the accumulation of stuff in the Yeti’s boot. Then I could arrive, as agreed, at Mim Galbraith’s house, with my toolkit, to see if I could mend her broken shelving.
I had worried that Mim might cancel at the last minute. On our first encounter, she hadn’t welcomed my intrusion into her life. But no cancellation message arrived. Maybe Allegra Cramond had exercised her version of a three-line whip. And it would be a bold person who would cross her.
Anyway, as agreed, Allegra wasn’t there for my second visit. It was just Mim and me, face to face. From our first conversation, I had salted away the fact that the closest we got to bonding was over the ugliness of certain English words. If any suitable openings arose, verbal was the way to go.
So reconciled was she to my appearance that, when I arrived, she had just pushed down the top of a cafetiere. And the coffee smelt extraordinarily good. Though, when Allegra served it she had used mugs, that day’s coffee came in clean, treasured china. In decline she might be, but Mim Galbraith still had style.
Giving me coffee was one thing, but she didn’t reckon she knew me well enough to indulge in small talk. I was left in no doubt that I was only present in a professional capacity.
‘Now you’re here, what do you propose to do?’ she asked with some aggression.
‘First, clear up the books on the floor, then take down the ones on the shelves, and check how bad the damage is to the shelves themselves.’
‘Then tell me which ones you’re intending to throw away?’ Again, aggressive.
‘I won’t throw away any books,’ I replied evenly, ‘other than the ones you ask me to throw away.’
‘Oh, you’re letting me make the decision?’ she asked, with an edge of sarcasm.
‘They’re your books,’ I said.
‘I’m glad you recognize that.’ She was almost gracious. ‘Most of them have sentimental associations, associations with where I bought them or who gave them to me. Though sometimes,’ she confessed, ‘I actually don’t seem able to remember where I bought them or who gave them to me.’
‘I’m sure it comes back to you when you look at them closely.’
‘Perhaps. Sometimes.’ She was lost in a moment of musing. Then she picked up a book from the table beside her chair and said, ‘I’m going to read while you get on.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘It’s not that I’m keeping an eye on you.’
‘It didn’t occur to me you might be.’
‘No. The other one …’ She paused. ‘The other one didn’t like me being in the same room while she was working.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘She said it made it look as though I didn’t trust her.’
‘Where you sit is up to you, I’d have thought. It’s your house, after all, Miss Galbraith.’
‘Not “Miss Galbraith”. “Mim”.’
Another small breakthrough? ‘Very well, Mim,’ I said.
‘And the other one wanted me to get rid of lots of books.’
‘This “other one” you’re talking about, Mim,’ I asked, ‘is she the other decluttering expert Allegra organized for you?’
‘Yes. Of course she is. Didn’t I say that?’
‘No, you didn’t. Not in so many words.’
‘But you worked out who I was talking about?’
‘Yes, Mim.’
‘Then there’s really no problem, is there?’ she said with a slight return of scratchiness.
‘No. No problem at all. What was her name, the other declutterer?’
‘It was … it was … Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she said angrily. ‘It’s names, it’s always bloody names that get me. I know full well what the name is, but …’ The look she cast on me was almost paranoid. ‘I’ve forgotten your name now, as well.’
‘I’m Ellen.’
‘Yes, of course. I knew that!’ she snapped.
‘And the other declutterer …?’
‘I don’t know. It’s gone.’
I didn’t want to plant ideas in her head but couldn’t stop myself from suggesting gently, ‘Was it Rosemary?’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Rosemary! Rosemary Findlay was her name.’ That was clear enough. My prompt had done the trick. ‘Her company had some silly name I can’t remember.’
‘BrightHome?’ I suggested.
‘That’s right. Bloody stupid name, like I said.’
I was intrigued to know more about my denigrator, my local rival in the decluttering stakes, but I thought I’d better make a start on the books. I didn’t want Mim to mark me down as a skiver.
I was determined not to initiate any conversation. I thought it might antagonize her. But if she spoke to me, then of course I would answer.
I had left my toolbox in the Yeti and come in with just soft brushes and dusters. I started by picking up all the books that had fallen on to the floor, wiping them down and piling them up neatly. The ones that had suffered damage, torn pages, broken spines and what-have-you, I put to one side. Nothing was going to get taken out of the house without Mim’s express permission. Her strictures about what Rosemary Findlay had done strengthened my resolve, but I would have taken that approach anyway.
Though the content of Mim’s library didn’t concern me in a professional capacity, my natural curiosity and love of books made me intrigued by what she’d actually collected. And as I might have anticipated, her books offered a comprehensive literary history of the second half of the twentieth century. Many novels whose titles I recognized, with poetry as well represented as fiction.
‘Oh, it’s so annoying!’ she said suddenly.
‘What’s so annoying?’ I asked, looking up from a pile of books.
‘I used to know this by heart and, with some of the lines now, it’s like I’ve never seen them before.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘Summoned by Bells.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know it.’
‘Verse autobiography by John Betjeman. Rather good, I think. I know he’s often dismissed as being glib and simplistic, but there’s a strong undercurrent of emotion, restrained by the rigid verse forms he favoured.’
This was Mim Galbraith in full teacher mode. Precise, definitive. But I didn’t think she would have reacted well to pupils who disagreed with her views.
‘Did you know Betjeman?’ I asked.
‘Why should I have done?’
‘When we last came to see you, you said you’d met Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath.’
‘Yes, but they were on a very different planet from Betjeman. He was much more of an Establishment figure than Ted.’
‘They were both Poet Laureate.’
‘Maybe, but they couldn’t have come at poetry from more different directions. Ted’s writing was instinctive, visceral. Betjeman was much more measured and calculated. As I say, I liked both of their writings, but the two names don’t really belong in the same sentence.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I said, rather feebly. I went back to sorting the books. And Mim went back to Summoned by Bells.
There was no further conversation until it was time for me to leave. I had by then checked out her shelves and concluded that their state of dilapidation was beyond my basic DIY skills. I fixed an appointment for the next week and Mim agreed to the idea of Dodge coming with me to assess the job.
When I left, Mim insisted on seeing me to the front door. ‘Don’t get old, Ellen,’ she said, having at least remembered my name. ‘It’s just not worth the effort.’
My next appointment being in Chichester, I went home for lunch. Assembled scrambled egg with tomato, served on toast (with butter). I’m lucky that I don’t have to worry about my weight. Partly, it’s metabolic, but also, the amount of lugging furniture and heavy boxes around I do keeps me trim.
The two references I had heard in the past twenty-four hours to Rosemary Findlay intrigued me, so I sought out the BrightHome website. It was professionally done and offered much the same services as SpaceWoman. Like mine, good testimonials from satisfied customers. Though the cynic in me did register how easy it is to fake testimonials. You can put anything you like on a website. No one checks. Mind you, anyone going on to mine might have the same reaction, that they were made up … though I hasten to point out that all my accolades are completely genuine.
I found it mildly disturbing how alike the two websites were. Anyone going online, with no prior knowledge or friend’s recommendation, could just have tossed a coin for which one to contact.
On BrightHome’s there was a photograph of Rosemary Findlay, looking cheering and helpful. But then on SpaceWoman’s there’s one of me looking equally cheering and helpful.
My rival – whom I was increasingly and unreasonably starting to think of as my enemy – was a woman about my age with blue eyes and blonded hair, worn quite long, bobbing at her shoulders. Carefully chosen make-up – gash of over-red lipstick and those sculpted eyebrows that look as if they’ve been stuck on. Sorry, I’m not usually as bitchy as this, but something about Rosemary Findlay really annoyed me.
The thought of her website reviews prompted me to have a look on my Facebook page, something I don’t do as often as I should. I was much more dependent on it when I founded SpaceWoman. Starting from nowhere, I got a lot of my bookings that way. Now that most come by word-of-mouth personal recommendations, I don’t look at Facebook that often. Very rarely anything interesting there. I’m not surprised the younger generation have given up on it.
I hadn’t missed much in the way of bookings. Only a couple of enquiries. One who’d made that common old mistake of thinking I did house clearance. And another who, though I’d currently got plenty of work, I would follow up on. When you run your own business, you can’t ignore any potential opening.
There was also a new review for SpaceWoman’s services. These I rarely check because they’re usually from people I’ve just been working with and … I’m afraid I have to say it … they are universally grateful and complimentary.
This one, however, wasn’t. It read: ‘Shoddy job. Ellen Curtis spent far more time chatting than she did decluttering. I would not employ her again and would advise other people not to.’
It felt like a body blow. I wasn’t expecting the comments to inflict much reputational damage on SpaceWoman, but they were still unnecessary and hurtful. Hit my pride. Why would anyone be so gratuitously offensive?
The name of the person who had left the review was Edyta Jankowski. Which alone would have told me it was fake. I have never in my life met – let alone worked for – anyone called Edyta Jankowski.
But I had a conviction that the person who had entered the review under Edyta Jankowski’s name was Rosemary Findlay. When I take against someone, I take against them.
Roy Waites didn’t look anything like Cedric. He must have got his looks from Flick. He was well over six foot and wore his thinning white hair in a pony-tail like some superannuated rock star. Blue jeans and a black leather jacket complemented this image.
His wife Michelle was stocky … well, no, fat. Her hair was cropped short and dyed shocking pink. There were studs in the curl of her ears and one perforating the edge of her right nostril. Her leather jacket was brown, above a denim skirt and cowboy boots. The head of a snake tattoo peered out of the top of her shirt.
But, in spite, of their ‘statement’ appearance, both of them came across as middle-class and rather pernickety. Neither made any secret of the fact that they didn’t want to be in Chichester and looked forward to leaving 14 Seacrest Avenue as soon as they possibly could.
‘So, you found his body?’ said Michelle, as soon as Tim had introduced us.
‘Yes.’
If I’d been expecting commiseration for the shock, I was disappointed. She just asked, brusquely, ‘And what were you doing here?’
I explained, as succinctly as I could, about Cedric being hospitalized after his earlier fall, the involvement of the social services, and their employing me to get the old man’s life back on track.
‘Oh yes,’ said Michelle, ‘I remember hearing about that fall. Because you were all set to come rushing down here, weren’t you, Roy?’
‘Well, yes, I did think perhaps—’
‘Whereas I knew it was just another of your father’s calls for attention. He was always doing things like that.’
She couldn’t have made clearer her lack of understanding of and sympathy for her father-in-law. While, at the same time, giving me a neat indication of the balance within her marriage.
I curbed my instinct to defend the late Cedric Waites. I did not want to get involved in the lives of his relations. I had only come to 14 Seacrest Avenue because Tim Goodrich had asked me to. I would answer their questions but, after that, I had already formed the opinion I didn’t want to see either Roy or Michelle Waites again. And there was no reason why I ever should.
On seeing Tim Goodrich again I’d reserve judgement.
‘So,’ Michelle went on, ‘since you know the house, maybe you could give us a quote for clearing the place? We want to get it on the market as soon as possible.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t do house clearance. I do decluttering.’
‘Same difference, isn’t it?’
Michelle Waites was one of those relatively few people with whom I could quickly lose my temper. Again, I curbed the instinct and said evenly, ‘No, you’ll get a house clearance company to do it a lot cheaper.’
‘Ah.’ The appeal to the wallet did seem to carry weight with her.
‘But on the other hand,’ her husband ventured an opinion, ‘if Ellen’s on the spot and knows the house, it might make sense for her to do it.’
My instinct to say I didn’t want to do the job was another one I curbed. Because in that moment it struck me that, though his son and daughter-in-law appeared to have no interest in Cedric’s life, I did. Going through his possessions and papers would be a kind of homage to the old boy.
Also, I couldn’t forget Tim’s suspicion of ‘something funny’ about Cedric’s death. I was being offered the perfect opportunity to do a little private investigation. I said I’d do the job. Roy was pleased to have one responsibility sorted. Michelle was less keen, until I said I’d knock 10 per cent off my usual decluttering rate. Then she agreed. She was one of those women who needed the satisfaction of having achieved a bargain.
It was agreed that I should hang on to my key and start clearing the house the following morning. Papers and valuables I would put to one side. Things that might have resale potential I should get the best price I could for.
‘Don’t you want to check through? There might be stuff with sentimental value.’
‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘There could be stuff of Mum’s as well as Dad’s. I haven’t really got anything to remember her by.’
‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘Just get the best price you can for everything. And chuck the rubbish.’ Her husband didn’t argue. ‘Keep accounts and get invoices. And don’t go waltzing off with anything you fancy for yourself.’
So insulted was I by the suggestion that I was momentarily speechless. Fortunately, Tim came to my defence. ‘Take that back, Michelle,’ he snapped. ‘Either you stay down here and check every item Ellen puts up for sale, or you show a bit of trust in a fellow human being. Ellen’s been running SpaceWoman for nearly ten years and there has never been a complaint about her honesty.’
I was flattered that he had bothered to remember the name of my company. And embellished it with a bit of positive PR.
Michelle Waites mumbled some graceless apology and then went on the defensive. ‘I’m sorry, but this is all stressful for us. Particularly for Roy. He’s very mixed up about his reaction to all this, aren’t you, love?’
Roy admitted that he was. But he didn’t feel he should elaborate. Not when he’d got Michelle there to do it for him.
‘It was very difficult for Roy. He thought he had grown up in this perfectly normal family, where his mother and father both loved him. You know, they had disagreements, but that’s par for the course, isn’t it? Happens in every family. And when I came into his life … well, they weren’t as welcoming as they might have been. With Roy being an only child, they didn’t think any woman would be good enough for him. They certainly didn’t think I was.’
I could see their point.
‘But that settled down. We had disagreements, sure. Like, they were sorry Roy and I decided it would be irresponsible to have children … you know, given the state of the planet. But, generally, I’m an accommodating type. I get along with most people.’
Oh yeah? I thought.
‘So, we worked out a way of getting along as an extended family. We didn’t see a great deal of each other. Well, we were all very busy. Cedric and Flick had their work, and you wouldn’t believe how involved in things Roy and are I in Worcester. Then there’s the garden. We’re very keen on our garden, aren’t we, Roy?’
‘We certainly are,’ said Roy enthusiastically. As if he’d dare to disagree.
‘And,’ his wife ploughed on, ‘when we did get together with your parents, things were fairly all right. Well, we were all polite to each other, anyway.
‘And then Roy’s parents are coming up to retirement, and soon after that he gets this absolute body blow that his mother’s died. So, we have to come down here for the funeral and everything.’
She made it sound as if it had been an inconvenient imposition and went on, ‘And I was as helpful to Roy’s old man as I could be over that period, tidying the house, preparing meals for him, stocking his freezer. I’ve gone on doing that over the years. I don’t know why I bothered, though. I didn’t get any thanks for it.’
‘How long were you down here over the funeral?’ asked Tim Goodrich. I was grateful to him. I wanted to know that too.
‘Oh, it had to be three or four days,’ said Michelle, again martyred. Not a vast hole in anyone’s schedule, I thought. Not for a family funeral.
‘Then, within six months of that,’ she went on, ‘we’re beginning to think maybe we should make the effort to come down here and see how the old boy’s getting on. So, Roy rings him. It’s always Roy who rings. Well, Cedric was his father, not mine. And do you know what Cedric has the nerve to say? He only says, “Don’t bother coming down. I don’t want to see you.” To his own son!’
I wasn’t surprised. It’s quite a common syndrome, often how the life of a recluse begins. The idea of having someone else in their space becomes gradually less desirable until they can’t tolerate the idea. It’s relatively easy to put off friends and neighbours. Trickier with family members. And the announcement that the sufferer doesn’t want to see a relative can be profoundly destructive. They’re almost bound to take it personally, not to realize that it’s not just them who the recluse is shutting out of his or her life. It’s a blanket ban on everyone from entering the house.
I felt a moment of sympathy for Roy. None for Michelle, though, particularly as she went on, ‘So, well, given that response, there’s no way we’re going to put ourselves out for him, is there? I say that, if Cedric’s going to cut himself off from us, then we should cut ourselves off from him. But Roy’s more of a sentimentalist than I am. Aren’t you, love?’
‘I suppose I am, yes,’ her husband conceded.
‘And dutiful. A dutiful son. Even after that second body blow of being told his father didn’t want to see him any more, Roy still rang the selfish old bastard every month. Didn’t get a lot of feedback but he kept doing it. He’s a very fine man, Roy. What more could he have done?’
I had so many answers to that that, if I hadn’t decided to say nothing, I wouldn’t have known where to start. Roy Waites, meanwhile, just smiled sheepishly, in acknowledgement of his saintliness.
Michelle looked at her watch. ‘We must be off soon. What time are we due at the solicitors?’
‘Three o’clock,’ Tim replied.
‘Good. Then we can get things sorted and finally move on.’
I couldn’t believe that ‘finally’. Her father-in-law had only been dead a matter of days.
‘I wouldn’t get too excited, Michelle,’ said Tim drily. ‘This meeting with the solicitor is just the beginning. Probate can take a very long time to sort out. It’ll be a while before you can get this place on the market.’
‘I know that,’ she said dismissively. ‘But at least this afternoon we’ll know the exact details of the will. That’ll be a start.’ She looked sharply at Tim. ‘Do you know what’s in it?’
He shook his head. ‘Cedric didn’t tell me.’
‘But you’re the executor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. But there’s no law that says the executor has to be told the provisions of the will.’
‘Huh. So how long do you reckon we’ll be with the solicitor this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know. An hour?’ said Tim.
‘Because we don’t want to be too late back to Worcester. Early start tomorrow. There’s a lot needs doing in the garden.’
‘And when will you be coming back here?’ he asked.
‘What do we have to come back for?’
‘Organizing the funeral, for one thing.’
‘God,’ said Michelle. ‘Do we have to do everything?’
I was mildly seething as I unlocked the Yeti outside 14 Seacrest Avenue. Normally I can rationalize why most unpleasant people are unpleasant, and in most cases I end up feeling sorry for them. In Michelle Waites’s case, I was prepared to feel straightforward loathing.
‘Sorry about that.’ I looked up to see that Tim Goodrich had followed me out.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I meet a varied range of people in my work,’ was my tight-lipped response.
He grinned. ‘I’d only met Michelle very briefly before. I didn’t realize what a complete cow she was.’
That got a grin out of me.
‘And good idea of yours, Ellen, to take on the house clearance. I know you don’t normally do that kind of stuff. Equally, I know exactly why you’re doing it in this case.’
‘Might find out something,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’ Over his shoulder, I saw Roy and Michelle coming out of the house. Significantly, she was carrying the closed briefcase that had been under Cedric’s bed. At least two grand in twenties. In the unlikely event of the will not leaving everything to Roy and her, for what she was doing Michelle might be charged with stealing. But I didn’t share the thought with the executor.
She gestured impatiently to Tim. ‘Come on! We don’t want to be late.’
‘Coming!’ he called across. Then, to me, ‘We’re walking into the centre. Easier than trying to find somewhere to park there.’
‘Very sensible.’
‘Listen,’ he continued, more quietly, ‘I’ve got to stay down here for a couple of days, see banks and what-have-you – even if the bereaved couple’re going straight back to Worcester. Wondered if you might be free for dinner tomorrow night …?’
‘Might be.’
‘If I were to ring you on the number I rang yesterday …?’
‘That should do it.’
‘Tim, are you coming!’
‘Yes, Michelle. Talk soon,’ he whispered to me.
I wasn’t quite as seething as I had been when I left the house.