‘So you’re Helen’s husband.’ The middle-aged woman looked Jack up and down, as though he were a foul-smelling specimen on a fishmonger’s slab.
Despite the fact that he was wearing a brand-new black suit, white cotton shirt and black tie John had insisted he buy, on the grounds that the Italian mohair suit he had worn for his wedding was unsuitable for a funeral, Jack felt distinctly second-class as he nodded an uncomfortable agreement.
‘A Welsh cake, Mr Clay.’
‘No, thank you.’ Jack politely refused the housekeeper’s offer. He was having enough problems trying to balance the teacup and plate of sandwiches she had pressed on him as soon as he had walked through the door of Helen’s grandmother’s house for the traditional post funeral ‘tea’. He glanced through the open drawing-room door into the dining room of the house that had assumed manor house proportions to his inexperienced eye. It was packed with people but he could see no sign of his father-in-law.
‘Joseph, darling, you poor, poor boy. We were simply devastated when we heard the sad news, weren’t we Robin, Angela?’
Jack watched as a middle-aged woman bore down on Joe. After embracing him she moved along, making room for her children to speak to him, and Jack recognised Joe’s friends, Robin and Angela Watkin Morgan, from Lily’s and Joe’s ill-fated engagement party.
‘Helen’s mother tells me John found a job for you at the warehouse.’
‘Yes.’ Jack glowered at the elderly man who’d accosted him, resenting the implication that he needed someone to ‘find’ him a job as if he were incapable of landing a job on his own merit.
‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Richard Thomas, the family solicitor.’ As the man offered a handshake, Jack looked round for somewhere he could dump his cup and saucer. Seeing his predicament the man lowered his hand. ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony. You will be at the reading.’
‘The reading?’ After a family service in the house, a second interminable one that seemed to last years in a cold, grey, damp church and a third mercifully short one at the graveside, Jack had hoped the formalities were over.
‘The will,’ Richard explained. ‘I asked John to gather the family in the library in one hour.’ He looked around the room. ‘By then everyone should have moved on. Funerals are rarely protracted affairs when the deceased are as elderly as Mrs Harris.’ Seeing Jack’s confusion he explained, ‘Most of her friends, if not all, have gone before.’ As he sauntered off, Jack spotted John standing alone in the doorway. In his eagerness to reach him he spilled most of his tea over the carpet. Embarrassed, he rubbed his foot over the stain, hoping no one had noticed.
‘So that’s your brother-in-law.’ Angela Watkin Morgan studied Jack from his shiny black shoes to the gleaming Brylcreemed tip of his styled quiff.
‘You’ve met Jack before,’ Joe reminded her.
‘I most certainly have not. I’d remember someone who looked like him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s extremely good-looking. In a rough and ready, coarse, working-class sort of way,’ she qualified. ‘Bit Marlon Brando. The sort of man who’d sweep a girl off her feet and out of her knickers before she knows what’s hit her and’ – she smiled knowingly – ‘give her an alarmingly good time. But then your sister’s experience rather bears that out.’
‘Excuse Angie, she has a vivid imagination she overdoses with romantic potboilers.’
‘I do not read potboilers.’
‘What’s Forever Amber if it’s not a pot-boiler?’
‘A historical novel.’
‘The way you were dribbling at the mouth when you read it, I’d say history was the last thing on your mind.’ Robin by-passed the tea tray the housekeeper was carrying and liberated a couple of sherries from a tray on the sideboard behind him. Handing one to Joe, he murmured, ‘No disrespect to your grandmother, but why do they never have whisky at funerals?’
‘Because it would be bad form to get pie-eyed in the middle of the afternoon.’ Angie snatched Robin’s sherry from him and downed it in one. ‘So, you going to introduce me?’ she demanded of Joe.
‘To Jack?’
‘No, the King of Siam.’
‘After what you just said about him, no.’
‘Because you don’t trust him.’
‘You.’
‘Spoilsport. I lo-ove married men. They are so vulnerable, especially when their wives are away – or in hospital.’
‘That’s my sister’s husband you’re talking about.’
‘Dear Joe.’ She brushed the tip of her fingers over his cheek. ‘Always the prehistoric prude. Never mind, I can introduce myself.’
To Joe’s annoyance she strolled over to Jack and took the plate and teacup from his hands.
‘Take no notice. Angie’s making a habit of trying to shock people.’ Robin reached for the sherry tray again.
‘Looks like she’s succeeding,’ Joe observed, as he watched her take Jack’s arm and lead him into the next room.
‘You going drinking with the boys in the Vivs tonight?’
‘That would be bad form on the day of my grandmother’s funeral.’
‘As Angie says, you’re prehistoric.’ Robin leaned against the wall. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘I have work to do.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Perhaps,’ Joe answered, his mind clearly elsewhere.
‘You’re not thinking of going down to the Pier again.’
‘I like it there,’ Joe retorted, instantly on the defensive.
‘The gorgeous Lily might not dance with you again.’
‘She will.’
Robin drank his sherry and took two more from the tray. ‘These are both for me,’ he said, as Joe held out his hand. ‘With you for a friend I need them.’
‘Helen’s a lucky girl.’
‘You think so?’ Jack wondered how he could get rid of Angela without appearing downright rude.
‘Not for being in hospital, silly.’ She giggled, leading him out through the French doors towards the shrubbery. ‘For having you for a husband.’
‘I’m lucky to have her for a wife.’
‘How sweet, a couple who are not cynical about marriage. And they say love is going out of fashion. Do you think it is?’
Jack looked down at her. ‘I think you’re talking a lot of nonsense.’
‘But, darling, nonsense is the only thing worth discussing these days.’ Leading him behind a large oak tree, she pouted her lips in a fair imitation of Doris Day and waited expectantly for a kiss.
‘Only for people who have nothing better to do.’ Removing her hand from his arm he returned to the house.
Richard Thomas sat behind the desk that had been Esme’s father’s and studied the people assembled on the rows of chairs before him. He pretended to rearrange the piles of papers in front of him, although his secretary had set out everything to his exact instructions earlier. Almost fifty years of being a solicitor hadn’t diminished the buzz of excitement he derived from will readings – when there was a sizeable estate at stake.
The beneficiaries invariably attempted to look solemn, grief-stricken and disinterested, as befitting people mourning the loss of a beloved relative, but few managed to achieve it. He had even begun to recognise the types. The stalwart, sacrificial servants who had given the best years of their lives to caring for a cantankerous elderly employer, were usually at pains to point out they expected nothing, although he sensed that they generally had expectations of a valuable something. Few managed to look gleeful at modest bequests and he doubted whether Mrs Harris’s housekeeper would be delighted with her lot in a few minutes.
Then there was the immediate family. If the deceased was a widow or widower and there was more than one child, the ensuing arguments over who got what had been known to result in civil suits, which decimated the estate and benefited his firm. There were no siblings here, but he could sniff a potential suit. The question was, did he want to take it?
‘Are you sure you want me here, Richard?’
John Griffiths’ question concentrated Richard’s mind. This was his moment and he would allow no one else to take control. ‘If you’ll bear with me, John. Shall we begin.’ As no one spoke, he indicated a pile of envelopes set out on a table to the side of the desk. ‘These are copies that have been made for the beneficiaries of Mrs Harris’s estate. After the reading, you may take the envelope bearing your name and study the document at your leisure. My office will be pleased to answer any questions you may have. But I think you will find everything quite straightforward. Mrs Harris took pains to keep everything simple and legally watertight.’
Wondering what he was doing there, Jack gazed out of the window as the solicitor droned on in a tedious monotone. Helen had told him about her grandmother’s house, of Sunday visits, teas on the lawn, picnics she and Joe had taken down to the beach that stretched, vast and inviting, below the garden, but he had never imagined anything as grand as this. It emphasised the social divide between them even more than the rented basement flats in Carlton Terrace that he had lived in all his life and her ‘upstairs existence’ as the daughter of a family that actually owned a house. A sharp intake of breath drew his attention to what Richard was saying.
‘… My housekeeper, in recognition of years of devoted care and service, five hundred pounds.’
Five hundred pounds! The most he had ever saved in his life was five. Five hundred pounds would buy a decent house, yet the woman didn’t look pleased. As she pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and blotted her eyes, he wondered if she was too grief-stricken to realise her good fortune.
‘To my niece, Dorothy Green, the sum of two thousand pounds in recognition of her frequent visits and sincere enquiries after my health.’ Jack smiled as he looked at Helen’s Aunt Dot. She at least looked pleased and surprised. He was glad. He and Helen owed her a lot for recommending their honeymoon hotel and paying their first week’s bill. ‘To my son-in-law, John Griffiths, I bequeath a life-time interest in my investment properties in the Sandfields area of Swansea, in recognition of the care he has taken of my grandchildren.’
John evinced all the astonishment Jack had expected to see on the housekeeper’s face.
‘To my granddaughter, Helen, the house, land and full estate I inherited from my sister, Julie, to do with as she wishes and, after her father’s death, my investment properties in the Sandfields.’ Jack noticed that Richard Thomas paused and peered at him over the top of his spectacles but as Helen had never mentioned an ‘Aunt Julie’ and he had no idea what ‘investment properties’ were, the bequest meant absolutely nothing to him.
‘To my daughter, Esme, my fur coats, the painting of Three Cliffs Bay executed by my late husband, her father, all the jewellery in my rosewood casket and no other pieces.’
Everyone in the room turned to Esme. She was sitting bolt upright, her attention fixed on Richard. Only her hands, twitching nervously in her lap, betrayed her emotion.
‘To my grandson, Joseph Griffiths, I leave the entire residue of my estate. This includes all my personal possessions and jewellery in the hope that he will find a woman worthy of wearing pieces I treasured for their family not monetary value.’
The room was silent but the inference was obvious. No one could be certain what Mrs Harris’s definition of a worthy woman had been. But they were all left in absolutely no doubt that she did not regard her daughter as such.
‘Your bequest will be forwarded to you in cheque form, within twenty-eight days.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thomas.’ The housekeeper gave the solicitor and Joe a venomous look before rising to her feet, picking up her handbag and stalking as majestically as her insignificant stature would allow to the door.
As she closed it behind her Richard looked expectantly at the others gathered in the room. Dorothy Green was still looking stunned by her genuinely unexpected good fortune, John was wearing a distinctly suspicious expression – as well he might. Jack Clay succeeded in appearing dangerous, bored and bemused all at once. Forewarned by his grandmother, Joseph had received sufficient hints of his forthcoming inheritance to remain, outwardly at least, composed. And then there was Esme.
Tight-lipped, unnaturally pale, a stranger might have been forgiven for believing she was putting on a brave face to conceal her grief but he knew her well enough to realise she was having difficulty in keeping her temper in check.
‘Are there any questions?’ After a moment’s silence he said, ‘Then all that remains is for me to thank you for your patience.’ Shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him into a neat pile, he pushed them into a file and returned it to his briefcase.
‘Richard, if I might have a word in private.’
‘Yes, John. Joseph, you will wait until I have spoken to your father.’ Taking his briefcase, Richard opened the door behind him and led the way into the morning room that overlooked the garden and the beach. The lightest and arguably the most beautiful room in the house, Esme’s mother had claimed it as her own, furnishing it in blond wood art deco furniture and pastel-shaded William Morris fabrics. Placing his case on a side table, Richard settled into a fan-back cushioned sofa with the proprietary air of a man perfectly at home. ‘Cigar?’ He opened an engraved gold case and offered it.
‘No, thank you.’
‘You are surprised that Mrs Harris remembered you in her will.’
‘Astounded.’ John lowered himself into a chair opposite Richard. ‘Could it be an oversight? A clause left in by mistake dating from the time of my marriage to Esme?’
‘That will was signed two weeks ago. The witnesses were her doctor and the local vicar. She chose them because she was concerned that someone’ – Richard gave John a significant look – ‘might attempt to challenge the document on the grounds that she was failing in health and faculties.’
‘Was she?’ John asked shrewdly.
‘I drew up every clause of that document according to her specific instructions.’ Flicking an elaborate and expensive gold lighter that matched his cigar case, Richard lit his cigar. ‘At no time did I, the vicar who called every day to give her spiritual guidance, or the doctor who attended her during her last illness doubt that she was of sound mind.’
‘As sound as the investment properties she left me and Helen?’ John enquired cynically.
‘They are in need of some repairs.’
‘And the rents are fixed at a level that makes those repairs uneconomic,’ John diagnosed.
‘Depends on what you mean by uneconomic. The way property prices have been rising the last few years, they should make a sound investment for Helen.’
‘Which I cannot sign over to her.’
‘I am not conversant with your daughter’s finances, John, but I wouldn’t advise making them over to her as they are, unless she intends to liquidise Julie Harris’s estate and realise her stocks and shares, or has considerable savings to invest on a long-term proposition.’
John sat back and studied the magnificent view. ‘I knew the old lady disliked me. I had no idea how much.’
‘You do her an injustice, John. She has left her entire estate to your son.’
‘My son, Richard?’
The inflection wasn’t lost on Richard. Momentarily disconcerted, he opened his briefcase and removed several files, piling them on the table beside his chair. ‘Given the circumstances, I feel I must warn you, should you refuse this bequest, you will leave yourself open to litigation.’
‘You’d sue me?’ John asked in surprise.
‘Not me, Helen.’
‘My own daughter? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Any competent solicitor would advise her to do just that, should you refuse to accept the bequest.’
‘Helen would have more sense than to follow that kind of advice.’ Anxious to put an end to the interview, John asked, ‘How many houses are there?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Am I right in thinking that you have already had an estimate for the necessary repairs?’
‘Mrs Harris did commission one.’
‘How much?’
‘The actual figure escapes me.’
‘A rough estimate will do.’
‘I really can’t remember.’
‘You have the details of the properties.’
Richard made a great show of thumbing through the files on the table. ‘Regrettably, I don’t seem to have brought that particular file with me. You can pick it up from the office.’
‘Send it on.’
‘There’s the matter of Helen’s bequest. I’ll need to see her.’
‘She’s in hospital.’
‘Esme did tell me. I sent her a letter yesterday terminating her employment with us.’
Given Richard’s ruthless nature, John had been expecting the news, but not while Helen was still in hospital. ‘Because she’s sick?’
‘Unfortunately we needed to fill her post.’
‘You could have hired a temp.’
‘Wouldn’t do to have just any girl come in off the street and handle confidential client files. We pride ourselves on our discretion and service. I did, however, enclose a cheque to cover severance pay which, given the short tenure of Helen’s employment with us, I hope she’ll find generous. Is she well enough to receive visitors?’
‘I’d rather you left it until she’s completely recovered,’ John rejoined tersely.
‘You have no objection to my forwarding her an inventory of her inheritance so she can study it? I’ll need a signed acceptance as soon as possible.’
‘None.’
‘That is one file I do have.’ Richard handed him a large envelope sealed with wax. ‘You will deliver it, seal unbroken?’
‘I will. I’ll send Joe in.’
Richard peered over his spectacles as he opened a file and flicked through the papers. ‘There’s no need for you to wait to drive him back to town. I’ll give him a lift when we’ve completed the necessary paperwork.’
‘Joseph, you don’t mind waiting a moment longer, do you.’ Before Joe had time to answer his mother, Esme brushed past him and John, entered the morning room and closed the door behind her.
‘Are you driving back through Sketty, John?’ Dot asked.
‘Yes. Would you like a lift?’
‘Please, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘John.’ Dot lowered her voice as she drew him towards the window. ‘Have you given a thought as to what’s going to happen to Esme?’
‘In what way?’ he asked warily.
‘She is living here at the moment. I have no idea what Joe intends to do with the house …’
‘I see what you mean.’ He recalled Esme’s threat to move back into Carlton Terrace and felt more strongly than ever that he could never live with her again – on any terms.
‘I just wanted to say that given the situation between the two of you, if it will help in any way she is welcome to stay with me.’
‘That is very kind and generous of you, Dot.’ John meant it. Dot’s cramped flat above her hat shop was barely big enough for one and Dot knew as well as he did that Esme wasn’t easy to live with.
‘You’ll remember my offer?’
‘I will.’ John looked around. ‘Where is Jack?’ he asked Joe.
‘Taking a walk in the garden.’
‘You have a lot to go through with Mr Thomas. He said he’d give you a lift back to town but if you’d rather I waited, I will.’
‘There’s no need. You take Aunt Dot and Jack back.’
‘I’ll wait with Jack in the garden. I’ve always loved the view of the beach from there.’ Dot tactfully withdrew, leaving John and Joe alone.
Joe crossed his arms, stood back on his heels and looked around the room. His grandfather had died two years before he’d been born, but given the state of his library a stranger might be forgiven for assuming he’d just popped out for a stroll. A fire burned in the grate, just as it had done every day from the first of October to the last day of June since his death. His pipes, tobacco pouch and pipe lighter were set out neatly on a rack on the mantelpiece. An array of pens, pencils, sharpeners and ink bottles were arranged on his desk tray, even his heavy tweed winter coat hung on a hook on the back of the door. ‘I crept in here once when I was about five years old. Grandmother caught me looking at the books. For a few minutes I really thought she was about to beat me to death.’
‘What kind of books were you looking at?’
‘I was too small to lift down the ones on the high shelves.’ Joe caught John’s eye and they both smiled. ‘You knew he had a penchant for the risqué.’
‘He died before I met your mother but I recognised some of the titles on my first visit.’
‘Grandmother actually allowed you in here?’
‘She gave me the grand tour so I could see for myself that culturally and socially your mother’s family was infinitely above mine.’
‘I wondered why you never joined us on visits.’
‘Your grandmother didn’t want me here and I didn’t want to come.’
‘I used to hate visiting here. The house seemed so still, so silent, it reminded me of a museum. Every time I moved as much as a finger, I was ordered not to fidget or touch anything. When Helen and I were older it wasn’t so bad because we could escape to the beach. Grandmother insisted we visit at least twice a month but she was only happy when she knew for certain that we were out of the house and garden, and couldn’t disturb her, the arrangement of her treasured possessions or, horror of horrors, break them. Even now, after a day of funeral services, I find it hard to believe she’s not going to walk in and reprimand me for daring to enter this hallowed sanctum.’
‘It’s yours now, Joe. You can do what you like with it.’
Joe surveyed the room. ‘I’d like to get rid of all this dark furniture and brown carpet, and put some colour in, but most of all I’d like to make it a happy family home.’
John knew he was thinking of Lily and their broken engagement. ‘It will be too far for you to travel from here to Cardiff if you take that job at the BBC.’
‘I know, but now that the place is mine I’m loath to give it up.’ He walked to the window. ‘Just look at the garden, the view, the beach, all that space. Can you imagine growing up here?’
John smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘Yes. I can see that it could be a children’s paradise.’
‘Half of this should be Helen’s.’
‘Your grandmother made provision for her.’
‘I didn’t think Aunt Julie left much.’
‘There’s the house in Limeslade for a start and before you go worrying about Helen talk to Richard Thomas and see exactly how much you are inheriting.’
Joe looked at him in surprise. ‘You think there could be debts?’
‘Like the houses your grandmother left me, the residue of her estate might prove a mixed blessing.’ He glanced out of the window and saw Jack and Dot standing at the bottom of the garden talking. ‘I’ll see you back at the house.’
Joe hesitated, then blurted, ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘What for.’
‘Bringing me up the way you did. It couldn’t have been easy for you. Knowing I was another man’s son.’
‘You’re my son, Joe, and you always will be.’ Hearing Esme shouting at Richard in the morning room, he was glad to open the French door and step out into the cool, clear air.
‘She can’t leave me destitute …’
‘If you don’t want your husband, son, cousin and half of Langland to hear you, Esme, I’d advise you to lower your voice,’ Richard interposed. ‘Your mother did not leave you destitute. She knew the terms of your divorce settlement.’
‘That’s John’s money, not hers. She had no right to cut me out of her will. She left more to her housekeeper and niece than me,’ she railed bitterly. ‘This is my home …’
‘And it is now your son’s,’ he interrupted coolly.
‘I’m instructing you to challenge the will.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Health. She was a sick, confused old lady who didn’t know what she was doing.’
‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t.’
‘You’re refusing?’ Esme glared at him.
‘I drew up the will, Esme, and it was patently obvious to everyone who knew her that your mother knew exactly what she was doing.’
‘You’re not the only solicitor in Swansea.’
Pulling a file from his briefcase, he said, ‘You’re welcome to take your business elsewhere.’
‘And tell my new legal adviser that you suggested this will in favour of Joseph to my mother because he is your son?’
‘You’d have to prove it in public court.’
‘There are blood tests.’
‘Which can only prove a child is not related to a putative father. That might benefit John Griffiths and possibly strengthen his case for divorce proceedings but it would prove nothing against me. You’d only succeed in creating a scandal that would implicate your son, as well as yourself.’
‘You’re forgetting you. What would your clients say if they knew you had seduced the eighteen-year-old virginal schoolgirl daughter of your best friend, your own goddaughter, when you were forty-five years old?’
‘They’d say the one-time virginal schoolgirl daughter’s divorce deranged her mind twenty-one years later. Everyone knows how cruel the female menopause can be.’
‘You bastard!’ she hissed vindictively.
‘Try fighting this, Esme, and you’ll find out just how much of a bastard I can be,’ he threatened.
‘You influenced my mother …’
‘Into leaving you her fur coats, jewellery and your father’s painting. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have inherited that much.’
‘Even I know a small bequest leaves a beneficiary in a worse position to challenge a will because it means they weren’t inadvertently overlooked. And you also know she only left me her costume jewellery. I doubt it’s worth tuppence halfpenny.’
‘There is such a thing as sentimental value,’ he said heavily.
Incensed by his composure in the face of her loss of self-control, she flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
‘I’m sorry to have inflicted a family funeral on you so soon after your wedding,’ John apologised to Jack as he drove towards the Uplands, after dropping off Dot outside her shop in Eversley Road.
‘It was boring, not upsetting. It might have been different if I’d met the old lady.’
‘You think you might have liked her?’
‘Not from what Helen has said.’
‘She could be a tartar,’ John conceded. ‘Aren’t you curious about Helen’s inheritance?’
‘It’s hers, not mine.’
‘You are married.’
‘I didn’t marry her for any inheritance …’
‘I know that, Jack, and so does Helen.’ John made a mental note to tread more carefully when it came to Jack’s pride in future. Hopefully Ernie Clay’s violence had been buried with him but he thought he recognised traces of his temper in Jack’s outburst. ‘All the same, it will be nice for the two of you to have the house. It overlooks Limeslade beach. I’ve only been there once. But the one thing I do remember is the garden. It wasn’t that big but it was beautiful.’
‘There’s a house?’
‘Four-bedroomed, if my memory serves me correctly. Helen’s Aunt Julie died four years ago. I had no idea she left her house to Helen’s grandmother but if it’s been empty all that time it may need some work doing to it.’
‘If it’s only decorating I could do it,’ Jack began enthusiastically. ‘I didn’t make too bad a job of the flat.’
‘You made a very good one.’
‘And Limeslade’s only a couple of miles from the centre of town and the warehouse. I have my bike …’ Jack faltered as he realised he had only a few more days of work before he had to report for National Service.
‘Two years will go quickly,’ John sympathised, reading his train of thought. ‘And in the meantime Helen can organise any changes she wants to make.’
‘When she’s well enough.’
‘It may give her something to get well for, especially when she finds out you have to leave.’ John changed gear as the stream of traffic slowed. He glanced at Jack, sitting hunched in the passenger seat, and wished he could take some of the burden from him. But like everyone else, Jack and Helen had to find their own way in life; he only hoped that despite the two-year separation they would be able to find it together.
Joe stared in disbelief at the figures on the sheet of paper. ‘These are right?’
‘Correct as of yesterday. Your grandmother inherited considerable property. The only criticism that could have been levelled at her is that she was a little too cautious in her investments. However, time has proved that her circumspection was well-founded. If you’ll sign here and here, this paper is for the house, this for the stocks, the bonds, the shares …’
Joe took the sheets Richard handed him and read them through quickly before signing his name at the bottom of each page. ‘I can’t understand why she left everything to me. There’s Helen and my mother …’
‘Your grandmother wanted you to inherit her estate to ensure the house remained in the family. She took great comfort in the thought that one day you would take your grandfather’s place as head of the household. And she did make provision for your sister. Your Aunt Julie’s estate is not as substantial as your grandmother’s but it is not insignificant either.’ Gathering the papers together, Richard returned them to his briefcase.
‘And my mother?’
‘Your grandmother was aware of the generous divorce settlement your father has made her.’ Richard offered Joe a cigar. ‘Some things can wait but I would like to discuss this house with you. Have you thought what you’re going to do with it?’
‘Live in it.’
‘Immediately?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not immediately. I have my finals and then there’s the job at the BBC …’
‘Then may I suggest you rent it out on a short-term lease, say six months to start with, renewable every three months after the initial contract? That would give you an income sufficient to take care of the overheads on the place, plus money to set aside to finance any repairs over the next few years. It would also enable you to reclaim the house and move in at three months’ notice.’
‘Wouldn’t it be difficult to find tenants who’ll agree to those terms?’ Joe tried to pretend he was enjoying the cigar. He wasn’t, it tasted bitter and not at all as he’d imagined an expensive cigar would.
‘No, this is a prestigious property. In fact, I received an enquiry from someone this morning. I’m not at liberty to say who it was as yet, but I assure you the party is wealthy, respectable and well thought of in the literary world. Would you like me to go ahead and see if I can close the deal?’
Joe thought for a moment. It would be months, possibly even years, before he would be in a position to take possession of the house. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Now that’s done you should celebrate your new status as one of the wealthiest young men in Swansea. I could introduce you to my club.’
‘No, thank you, Mr Thomas.’
‘You have another appointment?’
‘I’d like to look around the house for a while.’
‘I understand. It’s difficult to take in all at once. I’ll wait for you.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Joe said resolutely.
‘You’ll have to get home.’
‘The telephone is still connected. I’ll call one of my friends when I’m ready.’
Resenting his dismissal, Richard handed Joe a file. ‘Your papers. Go through them carefully and if there’s anything you don’t understand I will explain it to you.’
Joe took them. ‘Thank you, Mr Thomas.’
‘I’ll see you soon, Joseph.’ Richard opened the door that connected the morning room to the hall. He’d hoped to avoid Esme, but she was hovering at the front door, brandy glass in hand, obviously waiting for him and Joseph to finish their business.
Setting down her glass, she refilled it, slowly and deliberately, with a large measure before opening the cupboard and handing him his coat and hat. He took them, checked the level in the brandy bottle, which had been full before the funeral, and left.