The Family Will

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We - the remnants of our unfortunate family - gathered uneasily in the not-so-plush offices of my Gran's solicitor, that fateful day by the end of which we would be a family in name only. I'd like to say I had a foreboding, as if the threadbare armrests and the faded patterned upholstery of the unspeakably shaky armchair I was allotted had tacitly spoken and warned me of the misery afoot. But I didn't. Like the treacle-brown wooden wall panelling and the well-worn hideous mustard and blue rug on the floor, I took the derelict furniture as nothing more than an indicator that the place needed a complete refurbishment. It is only with hindsight I realise that no wholesome or measured response to Gran's strange will could be conjured in that laughably shabby environment. So I blame the solicitor - an improbably named Mr Fotheringay - for the disaster that followed, for herding us into his dilapidated chambers to disclose and explain such a delicate family matter. He should have known the ructions Gran's will would cause. He should have seen us one by one, privately, preferably somewhere other than his crumbling office, like our own homes, for instance. But he didn't. He wanted to make a lavish drama out of it, turn the presentation of Gran's will into a show, unintentionally, but inevitably, igniting a crisis, the coming of which, as I hope I've made plain, I had no idea was about to break.

            I sat next to Aunt Freda, her lips continuously twisting between fraught rigidity and dejected slackness, as sour faced as I'd ever seen her. She was anxious, as well she might, for her and Gran hadn't seen eye to eye for years and Aunt Freda might well have been anticipating Gran's revenge - as she would see it - from beyond the grave. Freda is the only surviving child of Gran's, the only representative of her generation in our family - unless you count her current beau, Findlay, which no one does - and conventionally would surely be the primary beneficiary of her mother's last will and testament. But in Gran's view she hadn't been much of a daughter, and Gran was one of those people who never consider themselves bound by convention. Findlay, a lean, tall man, the latest in a long line of such like, thin enough to look positively undernourished in comparison to my plump Aunt Freda, at whose side he stood, disdaining to take a chair, staring vacantly into space as if the proceedings had little or nothing to do with him, which they didn't. He was a man who lived in hope - hope of a decent meal, hope of a meal ticket, in hope of sharing the spoils - but very little of it. He pressed his fingers into Aunt Freda's shoulder every now and again, letting her know he was still with her, for her, as the disaster (from their point of view) unfolded. He was, all in all, the least impressive man Freda had entertained since Uncle Tony had succumbed to a particularly virulent strain of malaria, picked up on an adventurous West African holiday, to The Gambia, to be precise.

            Uncle Tony was as hopelessly stupid as his wife, Aunt Freda, was relentlessly self-absorbed. So when he ill-advisedly decided he wouldn't bother taking his anti-malaria tablets, on the basis they made him feel a bit sick and he'd never remember to take them anyway - he'd confided in the doctors before slipping into the coma from which he never emerged - there was no one around monitoring, let alone gainsaying his feckless idiocy, not even Freda. She packed the medication, but took scant notice if her husband was taking his, which might be construed as being simply adult about the matter, until you realise she must have known he was a simpleton and she ought to look out for him - if she cared. Evidently she didn't, at least not enough. She wailed of course when he died, but her mourning period was dismally brief which led to her teenage children threatening to disown her, I heard, through Gran, before she finally took to completely ignoring her only daughter all together. Instead it was her dead sons who lingered in her affections in her final years, my uncle Eric and my father Reg, born either side of Freda.

            Uncle Eric and Aunt Joan were taken on their first holiday without their children since they'd had children. Maybe that made them careless. In those days the Caribbean was considered a dodgy place to visit, with crimes against the person and hurricanes major risks. They sensibly booked outside the hurricane season, had all their jabs, and as far as we know kept good their resolve to remain throughout their time there within the boundaries of the hotel complex. It wasn't widely reported but twenty others took seriously ill with food poisoning, including six fellow Brits, and four other unlucky souls died along with Uncle Eric and Aunt Joan, two of them a retired couple from Birkenhead who'd spent a lifetime together selling newspapers, cigarettes and sweets from their little shop on a council housing estate. No such cosy homilies accompanied the notice of Uncle Eric and Aunt Joan's demise, inadvertently confirming their lives were duller and less noteworthy than those of provincial newsagents. Only Gran and their children missed them, though in the case of John and Sheila it was only in the sense that their parents didn't appear to be around anymore, which was at times inconvenient. Like now, when Gran had died.

            And like their Aunt Freda they had notions of sharing in the spoils. If their father had had the good sense to stay alive he would no doubt be inheriting the lion's share of Gran's estate, from which John and Sheila assumed they'd benefit (indirectly) too. His absence was a blow, but they were pinning their hopes on Gran transferring her unaccountably huge affection for her dull-witted eldest, Eric - who incidentally, made Uncle Tony look like an Einsteinian intellectual giant - to them. But, like Aunt Freda, they possessed enough self-awareness to realise their chances of inheriting had taken a nose-dive of epic proportions the day that slovenly Caribbean chef had failed to safely prepare that fatal fish dish, especially since they'd expended so little effort ingratiating themselves with Gran. They rarely visited, and Gran noticed. (Of course, I visited all the time.) But as at Gran's funeral, John and Sheila had brought their spouses and their children to the reading of the will, perhaps hoping this belated show of widespread familial devotion might evoke some alchemical, beyond the grave recognition and mysteriously influence, in their favour, the extent of Gran's largesse.

            Aunt Freda's kids had stayed away, perhaps influenced by lingering resentment over their mother's continued wayward ways a l'amour - they were no fans of Findlay, that's for sure - or perhaps they knew Freda was chasing a lost cause and didn't want to be around to catch the fall out when confirmation came. I couldn't have cared less. Nor had I brought my wife or my own kids. They were too young to understand or care, and Maureen had declared herself a disinterested party - she wasn't "blood" after all. She'd been fond enough of Gran, but with two small children to look after, a job of sorts to pursue - she has a modest on-line business promoting and selling arts and crafts - and a husband who worked long hours, for the last few years she hadn't been as involved with Gran as she possibly might have liked to have been. Besides, she was always telling me before Gran popped her clogs, I was doing enough for her for the both of us, for the whole family, really, which of course, in a way, led to the stink after Gran's final wishes were revealed.

            By all reasonable expectations my parents should have been there too, Reg, my father being the youngest of Gran's children, and Molly, my mother, a couple of year's younger than Dad, would have been late middle-aged, not quite officially old. But long before Uncle Eric and Aunt Joan croaked it in the Caribbean, Mum and Dad kicked off the sort of run of bad family luck once associated with the Kennedy clan in America. They had the grand misfortune to be caught in a dense fog covering the Thelwall Viaduct on the M6 Motorway, which led to a catastrophic multiple vehicle crash. Dozens of cars, trucks and tankers piled up and five vehicles burst into flames, one of which contained my parents. Burnt to a crisp! It was hard to take. I was on the cusp of starting university, looking forward to escaping the family home and the overbearing presence of my parents. Now I was orphaned and head of a household, with a younger brother, Ben, to comfort and look out for.

            Aunt Freda was keen for Ben to move in with her and Uncle Tony and her brood, and for me to disappear to Uni. Of course what she was really after was getting some sort of power of attorney - control in some way - over Mum and Dad's estate. But she was out of luck. I'd come of age, Dad's will was rock solid, and he'd seen to it that there was all the insurance in the world to cover our needs under any circumstances. Aunt Freda was flabbergasted; she'd never have credited Dad with having such foresight. Ben and I inherited the whole estate, all debts cleared and more by insurance, and I was granted guardian/parental rights over Ben, until he came of age, which wasn't far away. Our position became impregnable and unchallengeable when I took the decision to defer my university career until Ben was an independent adult himself. In short, I looked after him for a couple of years and then we both went to Uni in the same year. Aunt Freda was furious. Uncle Eric felt slighted, believing his kid brother should have entrusted mine and Ben's welfare to his tender mercies, but to be fair, it was a matter of pride for him and he had no pecuniary interest whatsoever. He was far too dim to spot the chance, or perhaps far too decent. In any case, my parents' cruelly shortened lives set me and Ben up quite nicely from a financial point of view, a fiscally turbo-charged start in life that propelled Ben to the States from where he's never returned, at least not on a permanent basis. He made the effort to get to Gran's funeral, but he wasn't interested in hearing her will read, and he was flying back home before Gran's ashes had cooled, trusting I'd tell him anything affecting him. And it was to him, my kid brother, I turned for advice when the ructions erupted.

            It started, naturally, in Fotheringay's chambers. I can still feel the shrill blast of Aunt Freda's scream. Whatever the reality of her expectations, she wasn't going to let the moment pass without the strongest possible protest. Gran left her a hundred quid, as she did John and Sheila, and Freda's two boys, Dennis and Tony (junior). In addition, Shelia was left a few trinkets, cheap jewellery. My brother Ben was left nothing, which was in reality a respectful acknowledgement of his non-relationship with Gran rather than the calculated slight her token gifts to the others were. The rest of her estate, her house, the balance of her savings, all her personal possessions beyond the few allocated to Sheila, was left to me. I was flabbergasted; Aunt Freda was apoplectic; the rest of them as stunned as me.

            After screaming, Aunt Freda led the charge of recriminations. I'd been sucking up to, manipulating, unduly influencing and poisoning the mind of a defenceless frail old lady. It was a disgrace. Indeed. It was a disgrace I was the only one of her family who regularly visited her in the last four or five years of her life. Some of them had probably seen her barely once or twice in the same time. Yes, I'd visited her two or three times a week, in passing, her home being comfortably and fortuitously midway between my work and my home. I kept an eye on her, monitored her welfare, did some chores and got her shopping in. No one else was as handily placed as me to do this, and I accepted the role without grumble, not solely out of a sense of familial duty (which was surely there, of course) but also because it was simply the decent thing to do anyway, and I'd always got on well with Gran. I enjoyed her company. I did not engage in this with an eye to future pecuniary gain and I had always believed Gran would have settled her estate equally on all her surviving family members, including Aunt Freda, despite their antipathy.

            I did not say any of this, I simply noted they were shocked, angry and profoundly disappointed. I thought they'd calm down and come round to my way of thinking, which was I would monetise as quickly as possible all Gran's assets left to me and share out the cash proceeds equally amongst the family. I didn't tell them this either as they raged on in Fotheringay's chambers, beseeching him to explain how Gran could have done this and threatening a legal challenge. He called for order, and when he got a semblance of it, he solemnly declared that Gran's will was unimpeachable and we'd all just have to lump it. When they turned on me again I said why don't we all meet up at Gran's house (my house now) and discuss what should be done. To which John, to my surprise, said too effing right, with which Aunt Freda and Findlay heartily agreed. As we dispersed, I knew I had to phone Ben, which was a bit of a bugger since the call would cost a small fortune, but then again, I did have a small fortune to hand.

            The following Saturday I arrived at Gran's at the agreed hour to find a veritable throng on her doorstep. In addition to all the will reading attendees, Aunt Freda had coerced her children, Dennis and Tony, into appearing with their respective spouses and children, presumably as an intimidating show of strength, at least in their minds. She'd dragged along some in-laws too, her dead husband's blood, though it still baffles me why she thought it was any of their business. Strength (again) in numbers? I was alone, armed only with the supportive words of advice from Ben.

            Aside from the solicitor, Fotheringay, I was the only holder of a key to Gran's home. She'd let me get a copy cut of her master some years ago, but when I suggested getting some more and distributing them around the family, she had steadfastly refused and made me swear I wouldn't do such a thing behind her back. So the family had to wait on me, and maybe that exacerbated their sour mood, which had not sweetened one droplet since the day of the will reading. Before I'd barely got the door closed behind the last of them they were demanding to know what I was going to do to put right this evident injustice. I called for order, tried to fix my attention on Aunt Freda, to blatantly select her as their leader and spokesperson, since they'd clearly not bothered to do that themselves, when I caught out of the corner of my eye Gran's other grandchildren and their spouses surveying her possessions, which were legally now mine. I gave up on Aunt Freda and watched in horror as their covetous eyes slithered over Gran's furniture, the pictures on the walls, the lamps and stands, the occasional tables, the mantle clock (a big old ugly brown thing), candlesticks and place mats and coasters and ornaments, the mundane yet treasured bric-a-brac that transformed a house into a home. I began to hear them muttering about this and that, how much they wanted whatever it was, how much they'd fight for it, how they were entitled to it for some spurious reason they thought up on the spot. Aunt Freda drifted away from me and joined them, leading the division of the spoils between them as if Gran's will, and my rights, had nothing to do with reality. I began to realise I would have to take Ben's advice and abandon completely my prior plan. I began to realise I had to act quickly before they spread through the house like a swarm of locusts and started pocketing whatever they fancied.

            I exploded, raging, roughly ushering them out of the house, telling them they were not welcome, promising if they took anything I'd report them as thieves, I'd have the police on them, and I'd call them now to have them removed if they didn't go quickly. My cousin John called me a twerp and my cousin Dennis something much worse. Aunt Freda mixed insults with threats, but like the others she did eventually adhere to my wishes and left, maybe because like the rest she sensed she was on morally shaky ground and legally did not have a leg to stand on. Belatedly they realised that if they were to get anything out of me they had better at least pretend they were decent, honest human beings, instead of the uncaring, avaricious slugs they really were. They were calming down, bumping around like a gaggle of geese on Gran's front lawn, when I got round to telling them I'd be writing to them all in the next week and telling them what I'd decided. I would decide, I emphasised, not some ad hoc family committee. Sullen faced, they dispersed, and I stood outside Gran's for the best part of half-an-hour reining in my anger, quelling my trembling limbs, and standing guard in case any of my loathsome relatives should decide to return to Gran's to chance a spot of thievery.

            I wrote them as I said I would, and it was Ben's solution I presented, frankly one which hadn't occurred to me until I'd spoken to him the evening of that wretched day in Fotheringay's chambers. I was terse. They would not get a penny beyond what Gran had willed them.

            I sold her house and all her possessions, careful to ensure Sheila got the trinkets gifted her, paid the death duties and pocketed the rest, which along with Gran's surprisingly healthy cash savings made a tidy sum. I offered Ben half, even though he'd already said he wouldn't accept a penny. He refused again.

            I've not seen or heard from my cousin's and their families since, which in truth is not a radically different state of affairs to before Gran died. I certainly don't bemoan not getting a Christmas card from them. Aunt Freda lives nearby, as she has done for many a year, and it's impossible to avoid passing her from time to time. And that's what we do - pass each other - wordlessly without exchanging so much as a glance.

            My wife Maureen, who was as insouciant as can be over our windfall, though happy to help me spend it, catches me every now and again shedding a tear over my torn up family. I tell her I know I shouldn't feel guilty but I do. I tell her I know Aunt Freda and the rest of them don't give a fig about me, and never have, but they're still family and … And what? I tell her maybe we should give them something after all, before we've spent the lot. She whispers in my ear. She whispers, I love you. She tells me if I want to give away the rest of the money then fine; but give it to charity, give it to the deserving. And then she reminds me what I've always known, deep inside, and she rather quickly deduced not long after meeting me: it was no mystery at all why Ben had never come home from America.