A home from home, p.11
A Home From Home, page 11
Nicola elbowed her brother as she walked past. He glared at her.
‘It’s all right for you,’ he said. ‘But we haven’t all made a bomb on our property.’
Nicola sighed. She loved her brother, but he did always get chippy about money when he’d had a few.
‘You’ll always be welcome here, Dad,’ said Tabitha. ‘Assuming he has left the farm to us. For all I know it’s going to be a donkey sanctuary.’
‘Thank you, darling.’ Robin leaned back in his chair and drank from his glass of red wine. He was smiling, but his eyes weren’t.
‘I don’t care about me,’ said Georgia. ‘But what if he hasn’t left it to Tab? Where will she go?’
‘Of course he’ll have left it to Tab,’ said Nicola. ‘She’s the one who looked after him. Him and Joy.’
‘They looked after me,’ said Tabitha, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
‘No, darling, you were fantastic to them. You looked after Joy when she was so poorly, right up to the end. Gum would have been lost without you.’ Nicola could sense everything unravelling. Food was essential if there weren’t to be tears or, worse, arguments. She handed Chris the chicken platter. ‘Chris, darling, could you carve?’
‘Course!’ said Chris, glad of a distraction. He always found the Melchior family banter bemusing, and he was wary of Robin. Robin could be the life and soul, but he had a side, and Nicola and Chris had never approved of how he had brought Tabitha up. They had discussed taking her in themselves, just before she had descended on Gum and Joy. Chris had been relieved that Tabitha had absconded to Somerset, for although he loved his wayward niece, he hadn’t been keen on the idea of her influencing his own daughter. Georgia was nearly two years older, but far less streetwise than her cousin. He’d had visions of Georgia being dragged around nightclubs and introduced to unsavoury characters over whom Chris had no control. Every loving father’s nightmare.
Now, at thirty-one, Georgia was perfectly capable of looking after herself and Tabitha had calmed down considerably. Chris had observed how close they had been all day, and how they had supported each other. As only children, they valued each other.
He finished carving the chicken, then tapped his fork on the edge of his glass.
‘I just want to say,’ he said, ‘how proud Gum would have been of you all today. And as the only non-Melchior here, how proud I was to know him and how I know his generosity of spirit will live on in all of you.’
Oh God, thought Nicola, looking at her husband and feeling her heart swell with love and pride for him. Please don’t let the past break up our future. We’ve all been through enough.
15
The morning of his meeting at Melchior and Sons, Gabriel parked in Nettleford town square, in front of the medieval market with its rounded columns and Gothic arches. He’d been in the car just over three hours, finally leaving the motorway at Honisham to meander through the soft greyness of the Somerset Levels. The morning mists shimmered on the horizon then gradually cleared as the autumn sun broke through to reveal patchwork fields stretching away into the distance, their flatness broken by the occasional tor.
This was a mystical county, he knew, full of secrets and magic and myth. He wondered just what he was being drawn into, with this mysterious summons. He would know soon enough: he saw by the hands on the town clock he had twenty minutes before the meeting at eleven.
He pulled out the jacket he’d hung in the back of the car. It was so English, he thought, to feel the need to dress up like a solicitor for a meeting with a solicitor. He should be confident enough in his own skin to rock up in his usual plaid shirt and jeans. But in a funny way it was nice to be formal and dress up in the suit he rarely wore. He’d even put on a tie: a silk tie Lola had given him, burnt orange with black spots. It gave him confidence. He checked his appearance in the driver’s window: his shoulder-length dark hair might be a tad unconventional for Nettleford, but he scrubbed up quite well.
Once, Gabriel thought, a small country town like Nettleford would have held no appeal for him. Provincial, slow, with no edge, no opportunity, no nightlife. But as he looked around today, he found himself wondering what it would be like to live somewhere like this. Not having to brave the London traffic and take your life in your hands every day. Being somewhere everyone knew your name, where the pace of life was gentler, and you chatted in the post office queue, instead of staring ahead and clutching your parcel to your chest, like he did when he sent a new knife off to a customer.
‘For the purposes of safety, can you tell me what’s in the parcel?’ They always looked alarmed when he said it was a knife, but he packaged them up safely, in extra-thick cardboard boxes with his name printed on the lid in bold capitals.
He wouldn’t be doing that for much longer, he thought gloomily. He’d given himself until the end of the year to decide on his next move. The rent wasn’t due to increase till next April, which bought him a few months. By then, Lola might be pregnant. In the meantime, he had polished up his CV and was going to start sending it out. His mates were on the lookout – Josh knew of a few places that were looking to expand. And, after all, if he was offered a job, he didn’t have to take it …
As he approached the offices of Melchior and Sons, his stomach began to churn. Was it nerves about the upcoming meeting? He’d had no reason to suspect there was anything to worry about. At least he hoped not: you never knew in this day and age. Perhaps he was being sued by another knife maker who thought he had stolen his brand? But then Nettleford didn’t look like somewhere that was harbouring a shit-hot intellectual copyright lawyer. And this was about a will, not a lawsuit. Though was that just a cover? Was he being paranoid?
Then he realised what was troubling him: he was uneasy about being so far away from Plum. Since she’d been born he had never spent any length of time away from her. Lola had, of course, when she went on shoots, but being this far away from her made him fearful. It was rather like homesickness. A kind of longing combined with loss. He looked at his phone. He couldn’t call the nursery to check on her. That really was helicopter parenting. Lola was on it. He reminded himself that she had to go through this all the time, and she had been quite happy to be in the role of chief carer for once.
Reassured, he bounded up the steps of a handsome double-fronted building to the left of the marketplace with a pale-blue front door and pushed his way inside.
‘Mr Culbone.’ A young girl with a country burr like thickset honey smiled at him. She had bright red hair, a very tight houndstooth dress and fuchsia lipstick. He recognised her voice from the answerphone message, the day he had got the letter. ‘I’m Lacy, Mr Bickleigh’s secretary. I’ll be your first point of contact if you have any queries.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gabriel. He sat down in a leather club chair in the waiting area. The walls were dark red, hung with hunting prints, and there were copies of Country Life on the table. It smelled of polish, percolating coffee and money. Old money.
‘Everyone imagines this is what probate solicitors do every day,’ said Thomas Bickleigh as he ushered Gabriel into his office moments later. ‘Sitting people down to tell them they’ve inherited an unexpected fortune. But this is the first time it’s happened to me. Not that this is a fortune,’ he added hastily. ‘But you have been left a share in a local farm. A third share. Equally split. Between you and the testator’s two great-nieces.’
Gabriel thought Mr Bickleigh was probably in his mid-fifties. He was looking at Gabriel’s passport now with his horn-rimmed glasses for scrutinising the small print – he had been asked to bring photo identification with him.
‘Are you sure,’ said Gabriel, baffled, ‘you’ve got the right person?’
Mr Bickleigh read out his name, age and address. ‘This was the information given to me by Matthew Melchior.’
‘Good,’ said Gabriel. ‘Because you never want to be left a farm one minute and have it snatched away the next.’
Mr Bickleigh smiled politely at his attempt at a joke.
‘The good news is that Mr Melchior left provision by way of a life insurance policy for the inheritance taxes on his estate to be covered. So there is no reason for the property to be sold in the first instance. You and Miss Melchior and Miss Melchior-Hawkins will own it outright, once probate has been granted. So it will be up to the three of you to decide what to do with it, between you.’
‘Right,’ said Gabriel. ‘So where is it? What is it?’
‘Dragonfly Farm is a small farmhouse set in about ten acres just outside a village called Rushbrook. Four miles from here. Outbuildings, a couple of apple orchards and a bit of pasture that runs down to the river Rushbrook.’
‘Nice.’
‘Very. Though I can’t tell you exactly what it’s worth yet. We’ll have to have it valued for probate.’
‘And what about the great-nieces? Would they have any idea why this has happened?’
Mr Bickleigh shrugged, spreading his hands and holding them upwards.
‘I’ve asked them both to come in at two o’clock, so I can outline the contents of the will to them as well.’
‘They’re going to love me, aren’t they?’ Gabriel made a face.
‘I expect you will come as a surprise.’
‘So – do you know why I’ve been left this? I don’t know Matthew Melchior. I’ve never even heard of him.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t throw any light on that. I was just taken on to follow Mr Melchior’s instructions. And make the will watertight. Which it is.’
‘You mean nobody can contest it?’ Gabriel felt sure the nieces would want to when they found out about him.
‘Mr Melchior was of sound mind when he made it. It was all done legally with witnesses. I’m the executor – my fee comes out of the estate. There are really no grounds for contesting it. Other members of the family who might have an interest have been given a small bequest in acknowledgement of their relationship with him.’
Gabriel looked at him. He suspected he knew more than he was letting on.
‘Can you give me a clue?’ he said. ‘Am I a random choice? Or is there a reason?’
Mr Bickleigh’s smooth round face became smoother and rounder with impassivity.
‘Mr Melchior’s affairs are completely confidential. My job is to oversee probate and distribute the estate as instructed.’
He seemed very keen to stick to the protocol and keep everything on a formal footing. Gabriel could see he wasn’t going to winkle anything out of him.
Then Mr Bickleigh cleared his throat, as if he was about to divulge something of value.
‘The name Culbone is a familiar one around here. They go back several hundred years. The family have a house on the other side of the river. Rushbrook House.’ He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to divulge more. ‘Dragonfly Farm used to belong to them. More than a hundred years ago.’
‘Oh.’ That was interesting. ‘Culbone is my grandmother’s married name. She divorced my grandfather a long time ago – I’ve never met him.’ He grinned. ‘And I’ve never met another Culbone. It’s a pretty unusual name.’
‘Well,’ Mr Bickleigh spread his hands. ‘Your family might be able to provide some clues.’
Gabriel didn’t want to mention that his grandmother probably wouldn’t. It still saddened him to talk about Diana’s condition. It was private. Not for strangers. Perhaps his mother would shed some light on the situation. For now, he was more intrigued about Dragonfly Farm.
‘Do you think I’d be able to see the farm while I’m here?’
‘I was going to suggest to the Melchiors that you visit later this afternoon.’
‘After you’ve given them the good news they’ve got to share their inheritance with a total stranger?’
There was a glimmer of a smile.
‘Yes.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘OK. Well, I’ll hang around then. Can you give me a ring to confirm it when you’ve seen them?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Bickleigh held his hand out for him to shake. ‘Thank you for coming all this way. You’ll have to come in and sign more paperwork as we head for completion. Are you a country person?’
‘Not really,’ said Gabriel.
‘People are very set in their ways around here,’ Mr Bickleigh warned him.
Gabriel couldn’t help feeling that he was judging the length of his hair and the brightness of his tie and the fact he was wearing blue suede shoes.
‘I’m sure I’ll cope.’
As he left the office, Lacy smiled at him brightly. ‘All right?’
‘A bit puzzled but … fine.’ She was gagging for feedback. He wasn’t going to give her any.
‘Betwaddled, we call it round here.’
‘Betwaddled. Yeah. That just about sums it up.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Is there anywhere good to eat nearby?’
‘Well. There’s the Golden Egg. Or the Nettleford Arms do a nice ploughman’s platter.’
‘What about the restaurant across the marketplace?’
‘Oh, that’s just for special occasions. The Glorious Artichoke?’
He loved the way her Somerset accent wrapped itself around the name.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think being left part of a farm is a special occasion. Don’t you?’
16
Tabitha slung the Land Rover into the last parking place in the market square. Gum’s HiLux had been pronounced a write-off and Tabitha only had her treacherous motorbike for transport. She didn’t really want the truck back, under the circumstances. She’d have to buy something new with the insurance money. Jimmy O’Gowan had lent her the Defender in the meantime.
‘Don’t think it will make me come and work for you,’ she’d teased him. ‘I’m not open to bribery.’
‘Ah, no, I know. I’d do anything for you, you know that,’ he admitted. ‘No strings attached and you can have it for as long as you want. It’s just our back-up vehicle. We can do without.’
People had been endlessly thoughtful. Because, thought Tabitha, they had loved Gum so much, and she was now reaping the benefits. It made her feel a bit of a fraud. As long as she lived, she thought, she would never be as kind or thoughtful as Joy and Gum. She could try, though …
Tabitha, Georgia and Robin clambered out and huddled in the market square. It was a dull day with a bitter wind, and the little town looked even greyer than usual.
‘Jesus, it’s brass monkeys. I’m going to go and warm up in the Nettleford Arms,’ said Robin. ‘Come and find me when you know what’s what.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ sighed Tabitha, watching her father slope off to the pub in the far corner of the market square. ‘Funny,’ she murmured to Georgia. ‘He never bothers with me most of the time. But now there might be money involved, he’s all over me.’
‘He does care. He’s just not very good at dad stuff.’
‘No. He never has been.’ She sighed. ‘Not like Uncle Chris. You have no idea how lucky you are.’
‘I know.’ Georgia never failed to appreciate her father.
‘He was wonderful yesterday. He kept checking up on me. All Dad was interested in was flirting with any female mourner under sixty.’ Tabitha laughed despite herself. ‘Right.’ She looked at the facade of Melchior and Sons. ‘Are we ready?’
Georgia hooked her arm through her cousin’s. ‘Whatever we’re about to find out, you should get Dragonfly Farm.’
Tabitha laughed. ‘You are so much nicer than me. And that’s rubbish. Dragonfly belongs to all of us. It’s our home from home.’
Ten minutes later they were sitting in front of Mr Bickleigh. Never a relaxed man at the best of times, he was finding it hard to look them in the eye after delivering his bombshell. Beads of sweat started to pop out onto his forehead as he shuffled the paperwork in front of him.
‘Gabriel Culbone?’ said Tabitha. ‘Who the fuck is Gabriel Culbone?’
Georgia gave her a nudge with her elbow as Mr Bickleigh flushed raspberry and pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
‘Here are his details. I’ve checked his identity and I’m satisfied he is the beneficiary specified in the will.’
Tabitha flicked the piece of paper away, impatient.
‘Yes, but who is he to Gum? Why has he been left a third of the farm when we’ve never even heard of him?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not party to that information.’
‘You must know.’
Mr Bickleigh indicated the file in front of him.
‘I am simply the executor on behalf of Melchior and Sons. As laid out in Mr Melchior’s last will and testament.’
Tabitha gave a tut of impatience. He was obviously hiding behind protocol. ‘Well, when was the will made?’
‘It was drawn up eighteen months ago. Once we had settled everything in Mrs Melchior’s will. Obviously her estate passed straight to Mr Melchior, as is customary. Apart from a few bequests – I believe you were both left small sums.’
He looked at the two girls.
‘Yes. But he must have explained who Gabriel Culbone was?’
Mr Bickleigh shook his head.
‘It’s not our place to query our clients’ wishes. As long as we are satisfied they are of sound mind and are not being unduly influenced.’
‘But maybe he was? Maybe this Gabriel bloke was … I don’t know. Blackmailing him?’
‘I really don’t think so.’
Tabitha crossed her arms. ‘It just seems very odd, that’s all. Especially when he’s a Culbone.’
‘You’ve got to admit it looks suspicious,’ added Georgia. ‘You know the history between the two families, don’t you?’
Mr Bickleigh nodded.
‘I know Dragonfly Farm once belonged to Rushbrook House. And it was won off the Culbones in a card game.’
