‘No, but he understands the law. And here’s the truth, Thom. The farm was in both our names as joint tenants. That means when your dad died, it passed to me automatically. It’s mine now. Not part of the estate. End of story.’
‘I know that. But what about the rest of it? You can’t just ignore…’
‘There’s nothing else to ignore. The savings are gone, spent on funeral costs, keeping this place afloat and the ridiculous financial mess your father left me in.’
‘What about the money from the sale of the cows and the tractor?’
‘Thom… it’s gone. I have the house and now the money coming in from the retreat. That’s it. Please don’t do this to me.’ She coughed to push back her rising emotion.
‘So, you’re saying there’s nothing,nada, not one penny left for me and Sennen?’
At the mention of her daughter’s name, Rita felt a surge of fear that Sennen may be involved too. She hadn’t given anything awaywhen they had just spoken. No, surely that wasn’t the case, for that would destroy her totally. ‘Not from the estate, Thom. No.’
He stared at her, stunned, not by the answer, but by the fact she’d dared give it so directly.
‘But Mum, you haven’t even seen Dad’s will. This isn’t fair.’ Thom’s handsome face suddenly turned ugly.
‘It’s not about fair.’ Rita’s voice softened. ‘You sent a solicitor’s letter thinking it would scare me. It did. But I’ve spent too long keeping this place going with or without your father… so to be pushed out of it now, well, it ain’t happening, sunshine.’
A long silence.
‘You could still sell,’ Thom muttered. ‘Like I said before, live somewhere smaller. Easier. You’re not getting any younger, Mum. You’d have no money worries then, be set for life. You could split what was over with me and Sen and then everything would be sorted.’
Rita stood slowly. ‘I may not be getting younger, but I am getting stronger by the day, yes.’
Thom suddenly looked awkward. And then out it came with a whoosh. ‘What if the will says something different?’
A red mist came over Rita, the same steaming fury she had felt towards Jago days previously.
‘What do you mean?’ Rita felt the temperature in the room suddenly lower, her voice coming out in a low growl. ‘Thom, is there something you know that I don’t? Are you broke? Are you worried that you’re not going to be left with any money? Don’t worry, I’m not intending to remarry any time soon. What is it? What is wrong with you?’
Her tall, handsome boy stood up and with what Rita thought looked like tears in his eyes reached for his car keys. ‘Maybe there was more to Dad than any of us knew, that’s all.’
Rita frowned. ‘Thom? You can’t say that and not expand on it. You know where the will is, don’t you? This is what this is all about. It has to be.’
He didn’t answer.
Rita was now shouting. ‘Thom, have you seen your father’s will?’
Thom cracked. ‘NO! NO, I fucking haven’t, but one of us needs to.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Rita screeched as Thom headed for the door.
Again, no answer, instead, he just huffed, and walked out, leaving the door as wide open as the crack that had just split straight through the centre of Rita’s heart.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Rita’s sharp knock echoed through the unusually quiet annexe. Normally, the place would be alive with the tinny theme tune ofSix Feet Underor the murmur of her mother-in-law commenting loudly on the acting in it. Today, though, there was only silence, thick, still, and faintly unsettling.
Hilda opened the door, cigarette poised between two fingers, the thin smoke curling lazily upwards. Her black funeral suit clung tightly to her tiny figure, and her hair, tied neatly in a perfect bun, made her look like an aged Audrey Hepburn.
Knowing Rita wasn’t here for a friendly chat, the old woman took a drag, exhaled through pursed lips, then after checking her watch, ushered Rita to sit at the table in the kitchenette. ‘I have twenty-three minutes precisely until I need to leave. It’s going to be a good one today. Myrtle Tregowan was the perfect snob and highly likely to have arranged her own wake down to the last vol-au-vent.’
Rita swallowed hard. ‘I need you to tell me the truth, Hilda. None of this bullshit insinuation lark. Did Archie ever say anything, anything at all, about his will?’
Hilda flicked ash into a chipped saucer, fingerstrembling ever so slightly. Her eyes, usually sharp with judgement, now shimmered with something softer, regret, maybe even sorrow.
‘I promised my son I would never ever tell a soul.’
