Page 17 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
I left him loading the trays of painted glass into the big kiln, which lived next to a smaller version in the back room.
Outside, the winter sunshine was low and dazzling and I almost collided with Nat, who glowered at me in his usual appealing fashion.
‘I’m just off to see Mr Barley,’ I said. ‘Grant’s loading the kiln.’ I didn’t mention the angel’s head roundel, my own personal small project, which Grant would slip in with the rest.
‘I suppose you’re taking the whole day off?’ he said disagreeably.
‘No, of course I’m not,’ I snapped. ‘There’s work to be done and I’ve been at it since six. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I expect you’ll be starting the inventory of the workshop while I’m out,’ I added. ‘Grant knows what’s what, but I’ll discuss it with you later.’
Nat muttered something about Willow wanting to talk to me first, probably aboutherinventory. I was starting to feel as if apairof vultures was circling over me, so I brushed past him and walked briskly off. I’d intended changing the old fleece and jeans I was wearing for something cleaner and smarter, but instead bypassed the cottage and headed straight for my car.
It was an ancient dark green Citroën hatchback (paid for, owned and insured by myself, so Nat and Willow could keep their talons off it), and was reluctant to start after standing in the cold for over a week. But eventually it roared into life and I took a roundabout route to the solicitor’s office, in the next village, in order to charge the battery up a bit.
Mr Barley had visited the cottage a few times and we’d also frequently met at local social events, so I knew him quite well.
He was a large, plump, hearty man, with lint-fair hair, a ruddy face and slightly protuberant grey eyes. After some obligatory but sincerely meant expressions of condolence, his secretary brought in coffee and biscuits and we settled down to business.
‘This is a sad homecoming for you, Angelique, and I’m afraid there are also some difficulties to face regarding the disposal of Julian’s estate,’ he began. ‘I’ve already talked to Julian’s son, Nat, of course. In fact, he rang me last Monday morning, the day after the … unfortunate occurrence. Then he called to see me that very afternoon.’
‘He didn’t let the grass grow beneath his feet, did he?’
‘No,’ Mr Barley agreed, and then asked, ‘I suppose he and his wife are still staying with you?’
‘They are, though oddly it feels the other way round and that I’m the visitor, there under sufferance,’ I said wryly. ‘They’re returning to London right after the funeral, but say they’ll be back for good in the New Year.’
It was only as I said the word ‘funeral’ that I fully realized that it was actually taking place tomorrow and the thought hit me like a blow. I hadn’t even had any input in the order of service, or the music to be played … nothing. I’d been written out of Julian’s life.
I blinked back a sudden rush of tears and said, ‘Mr Barley, I need your advice, because Nat told me he would inherit Julian’s entire estate and he doesn’t even have to wait for probate before taking over the cottage and business.’
Mr Barley steepled his fingers and looked seriously at me over the top of them. ‘That must have given you a considerable shock, but I’m afraid thingshavefallen out rather unfortunately. You knew that Julian was making a will?’
I nodded. ‘He told me just before I went to Antigua. He said he wanted to make sure I was provided for if he … went first and so was leaving me the business and the cottage. I didn’t think that was fair to Nat and argued about it.’ I smiled wryly. ‘That seems a bit ironic now, me fighting Nat’s corner!’
‘I drafted the will along those lines, but since Julian was leaving all his quite considerable investments to Nat, in my opinion it would have been a most equable distribution.’
‘I tried to persuade him to leave me a much smaller legacy, perhaps enough to buy my own house, though actually I never thought it would come to that: I always imagined Julian and I growing old together and working as long as we could.’
‘One never knows what fate will bring,’ he said. ‘But it’s a great pity Julian didn’t have time to sign the will, because unfortunately it means that Nat was correct and you are quite left out of any inheritance.’
‘But doesn’t Julian’s intention to provide for me set out in the will mean anything?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No, the expression of intent has no legal validity, I’m afraid.’
‘Right … And Nat also said that my being a common-law wife didn’t give me any rights in law, either.’
‘That’s so. Indeed, I’m sorry to tell you that you have no legal claim on anything other than your personal goods and chattels.’
‘So Nat and his wife were quite correct, though they took great delight in telling me so, as if I was all out for Julian’s money,’ I said. ‘But our relationship was never about money. We loved each other and we adored our work. We were …veryhappy,’ I added, with a catch in my voice.
Mr Barley looked uncomfortable at this sign of emotion. He gave a dry cough and said, ‘I suggested strongly to Nat that he himself should make some provision for you from the estate, but unfortunately he didn’t take kindly to the idea.’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t, because I can see now that he’s out to get his pound of flesh for all his imaginary grievances. Though so far as I can see, my only crime was that I lived happily with his father for over a decade and looked after him while keeping the business running after his stroke.’
‘That’s exactly how I put it to Nat myself, but he was adamant. Of course …’ He paused and gave me a speculative look. ‘We could ourselves apply to have provision made for you from the estate, as a dependant, though there would be no guarantee of success, since you were also a full-time employee and there were no children of the relationship.’
‘I’d rather beg on the streets,’ I said adamantly. ‘And I don’t care about the money – but I thought at the very least I’d be entitled to a couple of months’ grace, while the legal side was sorted.’
‘In common decency, Nat certainly ought to give you time to get over your first grief and find somewhere else to live, but didn’t you say that they’d told you they were moving into the cottage in the New Year, when the workshop reopens after the Christmas break? They surely can’t expect you to have moved out by then?’
