And with that, Granny Jory pressed the button on her armrest and reclined like a queen refusing an audience.
Rita shut the door behind her and breathed in a huge glug of optimistic air. This was part of her new life: having to deal with Granny Jory alone. And despite all Hilda’s bravado, and while the annexe might reek of mischief and gin, there was still pain. She wasn’t a bad woman. She, too, was a grieving woman. Full of loss and longing of what could have been, for not only life with her husband but also her one and only son.
Also, to give her her due, the annexe had been Hilda’s idea. Once it was ready, she had graciously transferred the deeds of the farmhouse out of her name and moved into the ground-floor rooms of the adjoining building, giving Rita and Archie, then newlyweds, their own space and privacy. And, ironically now, her inheritance.
Throughout their lives, Hilda Jory had been consistent in her outrageousness, and also weirdly dependable in her own way. Rita understood why Hilda had never remarried. Because once Seahaven Bay and the farm got under your skin, it stayed there. And that was why, she resolved, the Seahaven Bay Resort–‘where the sea meets your soul’ – would happen. And whether she or the guests liked it or not, Granny Jory came as part of the package.
TEN
The next day Rita was awoken early by the soft light filtering softly through the gap in the heavy curtains. The house was still, except for the distant cry of seagulls and the faint rustle of leaves in the orchard. Even Nigel seemed quiet for once. But in her gut, after Hilda’s strange comment about a will, a restlessness lay in her stomach like a badly kept secret.
Sighing, she pulled on her hooded light blue towelling dressing gown and made her way to the old oak desk in the study, the one place Archie had always kept important papers.
She knew she should have addressed this earlier, but grief had swallowed everything, making even the smallest of tasks feel impossible, and anything involving paperwork was a mountain she simply couldn’t face. The whole administration side of death had nagged at the back of her mind for weeks. But every time she thought about picking up the phone to her solicitor, she would feel a pang of sadness, and she put it off again.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she moved aside letters, notebooks and an assortment of faded photographs. Nothing but memories. But it wasn’t memories she was looking for. It was a will – a will that had never been discussed, if there even was one.
Next, she moved to the heavy metal safe nestled at the back of Sennen’s old wardrobe. Kneeling, she wiped away a thin layer of dust and pulled open the door with a quiet creak. Inside were a few envelopes and the legal documents for the farm. Thinking something may have fallen down the sides, she searched again. Nothing. Well, at least this confirmed what she had thought was the case. He would have told her if he’d made a will; she was sure he would have told her. They had had no secrets, had they?
Determined, Rita went back to the study and searched every corner. The drawers, the filing cabinet, even the old shoebox Archie had once joked contained ‘the secrets of the universe’. On opening it, she put her hand to her chest, moved at revisiting so many memories from their past. Inside were love letters and silly notes they’d passed over the years, a train ticket from a sex-filled weekend they’d spent in Edinburgh. A painting that Sennen had drawn of the farm and a clay miniature of Buddy, the labrador they had had before Henry, that Thom had made in his pottery class. Sweet, sentimental fragments of their life together. Despite the big man’s stature and demeanour, Archie Jory had been an old romantic. And will or no will, she was certain that he had cared deeply, loved passionately, and would have fought a lion for her and those kids of theirs if needed.
With another weary sigh, she went downstairs, made herself some breakfast, fed the animals and, at nine o’clock on the dot, searched her phone for the family solicitor’s number. Although Archie’s share of the farm would automatically pass to her, the Land Registry still needed to be informed and today at last, fuelled by Hilda’s will comment, she was ready to face it.
‘Dickens, Bryant and Feathers, good morning,’ the young female voice trilled.
‘Oh, hi there. It’s Rita Jory – is Malcolm there, please?’
The line went silent. A brief pause.
The deep familiar voice of Malcolm Feathers came on the line. ‘Rita, how are you?’
‘I’m OK.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m err… struggling to find Archie’s will and thought you might have a copy?’
There was another brief silence on the other end. Then, the solicitor slowly replied, ‘Yes… I did have a copy. But in fact… it’s gone missing. I’ve been waiting for instruction from you on how to proceed, but when I heard the news of your husband’s passing, I did go to pull the file out anticipating your call, but I’m afraid to say the file’s disappeared from my office.’
‘And you didn’t think to ring and tell me this?’
Another silence. Rita felt the ground shift beneath her. There had been a will after all – but where was it?
‘And what do you mean, missing? How does a will just… disappear? You’re supposed to keep documents like this secure, aren’t you?’
Malcolm stuttered. ‘I’m as baffled as you. We’re looking into it, but for now, there’s nothing. I’m so sorry, Rita.’
‘And you have no other records?’
‘No,’ Malcolm said softly. ‘We keep one copy, and the client gets the other. In fact, I thought I would hear from you much earlier, because even if your husband has left everything to you in his will, you still need to apply for probate to access and transfer his sole-name assets.’
‘But he didn’t have any, did he?’ Rita paused, then tightened. ‘Malcolm, surely you can remember his wishes?’
‘I’m sorry, Rita. It was a long time ago. But you will be the first to know when it shows up.’
Rita felt anger rising. ‘Yes, I will be, Malcolm. This is diabolical, if you ask me.’ She hung up and swivelled herself around on the office chair deep in thought. What on earth was going on here?
Outside, the morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Rita showered off some of her anger, then made herself a milky coffee. As she sat at thekitchen table, she sighed deeply. It would be OK. She would do what she did best. She would work hard and make her own money. At least she knew there was a will now. But why had he not told her he’d written one and why was the key to Archie’s final wishes nowhere to be found?
Wanting to keep her mind busy, Rita yanked at the barn door with both hands, her boots sinking into the muddy track as she did so, and with a resounding creak, the heavy timber gave way, sending a cloud of dust, hay and mouse droppings into the mid-morning light.
‘Welcome to your sanctuary,’ she muttered, coughing, before letting out a strangled laugh. She looked up and around. A high-beamed wooden ceiling soared overhead, and the panelled walls were softened by tendrils of ivy creeping through the cracks. At the far end, the showstopper: grand arched double doors opening out towards the fields that rolled down to the sea beyond. The old hayloft was still intact, its ladder worn smooth from years of climbing. An old iron oil lantern hung from one of the beams, long unlit, but still steady in its place. For a moment, a long-held fantasy flickered through her mind: the image of her and Archie tangled together in the soft, itchy, sweet-smelling grass. The thought passed quickly, but not before a fleeting smile touched her lips, remembering the night they had conceived Sennen Hayley and Thomas Barnaby. The origins of their middle names had remained a secret between Archie and Rita, one no one had ever guessed, not even hawk-eyed Hilda.
