‘That’s it, then, Jadwiga,’ said Patricia with the naughtiest of twinkles in her eye, a frankly smug grin on her lips. She had the look of one, Leo thought, watching keenly from the other side of the room, who had achieved a satisfying revenge, even if only by her own lights.
Jadwiga, taking the proffered document in her trembling fingers, was nothing if not professional.
‘Are you sure about this, madam?’
‘Very sure.’ Patricia sat back. ‘I don’t see why my descendants should get every last thing I own just because we happen to be blood related. Just because I wiped their bottoms when they were babies, washed out their nappies, endlessly. Endlessly, Jadwiga. You wouldn’t remember, being young, but there were none of those disposable nappies in those days, cluttering up the planet, causing God knows what problems for us in the future. Well, not for us, I shan’t be around, but for them, and their children, if they ever get round to having children. No, in those days we had terry nappies, horrid cloth things that you had to wash out by hand and hang on the line. That was my life for years, Jadwiga. Lines and lines of terry nappies fluttering in the biting English winter wind. And now that it’s their turn to look after me, sort out my nappies, where are they? Swanning around. I haven’t even seen my daughter Claire since my poor grandson had his accident. His sister Matilda came over for coffee, but then what did she want to know: whether I’d changed my will since her father died. He’s barely cold in the ground and she’s scurrying around asking about her inheritance. I do appreciate it’s hard for that generation, the houses are so expensive you can’t get a place of your own these days. But still, it might have been nice if she’d asked how I was, before she dives in with blunt questions about exactly who I was leaving what.’
‘Yes, madam,’ Jadwiga replied sympathetically. Leo was glad that he’d followed his gut instinct and come straight from the séance to Larks Hill. There was something about the sly way the carer was watching his crazy old grandmother that unnerved him. As if, somehow, she had an agenda and was just biding her time. He didn’t have to look far to see what that agenda might be. The document in Jadwiga’s hand was Patricia’s last will and testament.
‘This is the thing,’ Patricia went on. ‘You actually listen. To me. To what I’m saying. They don’t. They zoom over here in their expensive cars, that I’ll soon enough be paying for, once I’m under the daisies, and barely has a sip of my properly-brewed coffee crossed their lips than they’re starting in with their blunt questions. “May I ask a blunt question?” Matilda asks. Not a word about how I am, whether I might possibly be upset that my only son and my only grandson have died. And then, would you believe it, no sooner has she found out about her inheritance, she starts ticking me off about my political views. Which I am, funnily enough, entitled to, this supposedly being a free country. Is it a crime to point out that the reason all the young people like her can’t afford a house to live in is because they’ve all been bought up by immigrants, no offence to them, Jadwiga, but it’s true. You let them in, they’ve got to live somewhere. It’s hardly rocket science.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Actually, we should be grateful for them. If you sat down and devised a competition for the most adventurous people in the world to come and reinvigorate your country, you could hardly do better than what we have now. Those poor people in the rubber dinghies on the Channel. Risking death to get here in the freezing cold and dark. Hardly blushing violets, are they?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Unlike the idle slobs we have in this country. Softened by years and years of welfare, in my opinion. Moaning on about how poor they are when they all have TVs and mobile phones and God knows what else. Stuffing their faces full of Pot Noodles, eating out at Nandos and suchlike dreadful places.’
‘Yes, madam. Now shall we drive into Tempelsham? Then we can stop off at the solicitors and go on to that nice new cake shop.’
Unthreateningly, Jadwiga held up the will. So Leo had been right; his worst suspicions were justified.
‘Oh yes, the cake shop!’ Patricia’s eyes lit up. As Leo knew from childhood, Granny did love her cake. It had always been her treat, when she’d come to take him out from school, rushing him down the high street to the famous Copper Kettle. ‘I wouldn’t mind trying that new place again. Café Baba. What was it before, a wedding shop?’
‘Yes, madam, it was. Though I never saw anyone in there.’
‘That’s because they’re not getting married, Jadwiga. They’re all so busy wondering whether they’re he or she or LGTB&Q or whatever, they haven’t got time to try and make a proper lifelong relationship, such as Philip and I had. All those dresses, sitting in the window, week after week, idle and untouched. No wonder they went bust.’ Patricia waved at the will. ‘There’s no particular hurry with that, though.’
‘We can just pop in there first, madam, it won’t take a moment.’
‘Once I’ve changed it, Jadwiga, I’ve changed it. You’re the witness. I’m really not planning to change it back.’
‘I’m not allowed to be the witness if I’m a beneficiary,’ Jadwiga replied. ‘It would be best to get the lawyer to do that. Then it’s all done and we can go and have our cake.’
Patricia sighed. ‘If that’s what you want, Jadwiga.’
‘Yes, please, madam. I think that would be good. And then we can have some of that nice Victoria sponge you like so much.’