AS SHE LAID the table for the dinner, Martha thought back over her conversation with Mark and Agnes a few day previously. It annoyed her that they were thinking of signing over the farm to Peter. It exasperated her to be passed over as if she were of no consequence. After all, she was the daughter of the house and surely had some rights. She resented the attitude that men carried more weight where land inheritance was concerned. She should have the same rights as Mark.
Nellie Phelan had thought of her own daughter when making her will and had given her rights in Mossgrove. It irked her that Nellie Phelan had provided better for her daughter’s future than her own mother was going to do for her. When she thought about it, Nellie Phelan’s will was very far-seeing. It had prevented herself from selling Mossgrove, and she was glad of that now. She wondered what else was in that will. Ned had never got around to making one, so could there be any other clause in Nellie’s will that she should know about? Maybe the time had come to visit Mr Hobbs and find out the lie of the land. If she had gone to him after Ned’s death she would have spared herself a lot of trouble. How well Kate had been clever enough to check it out.
She had not gone in the intervening years because she was reluctant to confront Hobbs, who by all accounts was a wily old bird and also who would not have forgotten that she had gone to his opposite number. But after the conversation with Mark and Agnes, she had decided to pay him a visit. She had gone into the village and rung him, and she had an appointment for this afternoon. The secretary had tried to put her on the long finger, but she had insisted that it was urgent.
She intended telling nobody, but would let them think that she was just going into the village. Instead she would take the bus over to Ross and be back in time for the cows. It was annoying her as well that Peter had made no reference to the fact that Agnes and Mark had offered them the meadows. They would have to be cut soon, so did he intend to just go ahead without even telling her? He was really taking things into his own hands. She was going to bring it up now during the dinner. Davy was home until after his grandmother’s funeral, so there would only be Jack and themselves. Whatever Peter was up to, Jack was in on it.
They came in the back door with a clatter of conversation. Do they ever shut up, Martha wondered, and what on earth do they find to talk about all day every day?
As they seated themselves at the table, Peter asked, “Are you going to the funeral?”
“Weren’t you all there yesterday evening?” she said.
“Well, it would be nice if you went today,” Peter told her.
“We’ll see.”
“There was a mighty crowd last night,” Jack remarked.
“Waste of time,” Martha told him.
“What do you mean by that?” Peter demanded.
“When you’re dead, you’re dead,” Martha replied, “and gawking neighbours won’t do you much good.”
“But what about the family?” Peter wanted to know.
“Better off without half the busybodies,” she told him.
“I don’t agree with you,” Peter retorted.
“Nothing new,” she said curtly.
“I remember the people who were here when Dad died,” Peter said thoughtfully, “and even though I thought at the time they were no help, I think now that they were.”
“Well, your approach to funerals was not much good at the time,” Peter declared, “burying your head and nearly selling us out.”
“All water under the bridge,” Jack intervened. “Those days are long gone.”
“But you never forget days like those,” Peter asserted.
“They are still clear in my mind.”
“Better get on with today,” Martha told him briskly, “not be wasting time looking over your shoulder at the past.
We can’t live there.”
“How can you talk like that when you’re living in a house like this, that’s so full of our past?”
“Maybe that’s why I think it,” she told him. “This place is like living in a Phelan museum.”
“That’s why I love this house,” he said. “I feel that Dad is still part of it.”
As she listened Martha visualised the reaction when she would tell him that they were moving out. There was going to be an explosion of opposition, but she would be ready for it. Now there was a more immediate problem.
“Why did you not tell me that Mark and Nana Agnes said that we could have their meadows?” she demanded.
“But surely you knew that they’d give them to us?” he asked in surprise.
“You don’t know anything until you’re told,” she said sharply.
“Well, I assumed that you would discuss it with them as well.”
“Well, I didn’t get the chance, and when I did it was to be told that it was all arranged,” she said.
“There was no arranging in it; they offered and I accepted, and I’m getting a loan of Nolans’ tractor to do the cutting.”
“You asked the Nolans for a loan of their tractor without even discussing it with me?” she demanded angrily.
“There was no asking,” he told her. “Tom Nolan offered, so what should I have done — refused him to keep you happy?”
She was glad when the dinner was over and she had the kitchen to herself. When everything was tidied up to her satisfaction, she went upstairs to get ready. She intended to dress well, as that always made her feel more self-assured, but at the same time she did not want to draw any attention to herself. Jack and Peter would assume that she was going to the funeral and that suited her fine. They could find out afterwards that she had not been there, and by then it would not matter. She did not go into the village to catch the bus but waited for it at the end of the road.
When she saw Mr Hobbs she could understand why he was known as Old Mr Hobbs, even though there was no young Mr Hobbs. Everything about him was aged and fragile, and he wore a slightly bewildered air which she knew was entirely misleading. He was extremely tall, thin and courteous, with faded blond hair trailing along the sides of a completely bald head. His clothes seemed to have been tailored for someone two sizes smaller, and tiny gold spectacles perched precariously at the end of a long thin nose.
“Well, Mrs Phelan,” he enquired, putting his long thin fingers together in a praying position and peering out over his spectacles, “what can we do for you?”
His pale blue eyes coolly appraised her across a large oak desk, and Martha felt that he intended to do as little as possible. On the desk lay one green file that she assumed held the Phelan documents. The sight of the file had a strange effect on her. In there was the will of Nellie Phelan, with whom she had shared a house but whom she had never liked. She did not understand why, but even before she had moved into Mossgrove she had resented Ned’s mother, and now the feeling was coming back. Nellie Phelan might be dead, but she was still alive in a file that enshrined her wishes. This old man, who looked like a fossil but whose legal brain was clever and calculating, had kept her wishes entombed in his oak desk. All these thoughts flitted through her mind, but she was not going to let this austere geriatric unnerve her.
She sat well back into her chair, straightened her back and looked directly at him.
“I would like to know what’s in Nellie Phelan’s will,” she demanded.
“Very wise,” he said evenly, making no attempt to open the file.
There was complete silence in the room. While waiting for Mr Hobbs to begin, she looked around and concluded that every item in the room looked as if it had lain undisturbed for years. Mr Hobbs seemed quite content to sit still, his long bony fingers now playing soundless notes on his desk.
“Well?” Martha demanded.
“Well indeed,” he refrained.
“How long does it take to open that file?” she demanded.
“It has not been opened for eight years,” he said mildly.
“And then at the request of my sister-in-law, Kate.”
“No,” he said quietly
“How do you mean, no?” she snapped.
“Your sister-in-law did not request to see her mother’s will,” he told her.
“But how else did she find out about the right-of-residency clause that prevented me from selling Mossgrove?” she asked.
“Because I told her,” he said.
“So you sent for her instead of me, which to my way of thinking would have been a more correct procedure,” she said.
He sat still, looking at her, and though he never twitched a muscle she could sense that he was annoyed. He sniffed lightly and rubbed his chin as if pondering the peculiarities of life, and then said in the same tone of voice, “You had sought other counsel and it would have been unethical of me to have interfered. However, in order to avoid your public embarrassment, I told Kate Phelan about the clause in the will when she came here with Mr Twomey about the school. She did not ask about the will, but because the Phelans have been valued clients for many years, I intervened before the farm was sold. If it had been sold, there would have been the public embarrassment of the clause overturning the sale. By strictly legal terms, that should have been the course of action. Miss Phelan, however, was very anxious that you should not be upset, so I informed your legal representative.”
Martha swallowed hard. So Kate had just come across the knowledge by chance.
“Kate Phelan has not seen her mother’s will?” she asked.
“That’s correct,” he told her.
“Has anybody?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Nobody asked,” he told her.
“Don’t you think that’s extraordinary?” she exclaimed.
“Not in the least,” he told her.
“Why do you alone have the right to know what’s in there?” she demanded, pointing to the file.
“I have no rights whatsoever,” he said quietly. “Only the people who made the will have rights, and my job is to protect them.”
“And what about the people who come after them?” she demanded.
“My job is also to serve them, and a good will does that. It also protects the rights of the unborn, as it did in this case.”
“Well, I think that the only important people in a will are the living,” she asserted.
“The living can very quickly become the dead, Mrs Phelan.”
In the present circumstances, she considered it an ill-chosen statement.
“Ned never made a will,” she said.
“Not unusual in a young, able-bodied man,” he told her, “so his mother’s will still stands.”
“Has it got implications for Mossgrove today?” she asked.
“Certainly.”
“Dictating from the grave,” she said scornfully.
“In anything she decided she was advised by me,” he told her.
“Do you like playing God?” she asked.
“Sometimes we get it right, between us.” He smiled cryptically. “He is the silent partner.”
“Do you have to go into consultation with Him as to when I get to see this will?” she asked, pointing to the green file on the table.
“No, I can make that decision on my own,” he assured her.
“Well,” she demanded, “what are we waiting for?”
“What!”
“Yes,” he told her evenly, “it would be desirable to have them present.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because it affects them too,” he told her. “Actually it was opportune that you came in today, because I would have been writing to you.”
Martha was alarmed. What on earth was this old bird up to? Nothing good, she was sure.
“So we must come back together,” she said.
“Correct. You can make an appointment with my secretary on the way out.”
Later, as she walked slowly up the road to Mossgrove, she churned the whole interview over in her mind. So Kate had not gone to Old Hobbs to poke out things about Nellie’s will. She had come across it by pure chance, and when she had discovered the stipulation in the will, she had not taken advantage of the situation and told the family. If Peter had known it would have been the last straw between them. She had misjudged Kate in that. But what the hell has Old Hobbs up his sleeve now? Martha wondered. There was no doubt but he was hell-bent on looking after the wishes of the dead Phelans and making sure that Mossgrove was safe. The prospect of Peter accompanying her on the next visit disturbed her. She felt now that it was inevitable that he would find out about the right-of-residency clause and that she could not sell Mossgrove. It had passed through her mind to ask Old Hobbs not to mention it, but as he was not sympathetic towards her, he would probably have refused. It would be the final wedge between herself and Peter.