Chapter 10
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 the kitchen 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.
Rita’s mind started to wander. With hard work, and vision, she had no doubt that the farm could easily become a seaside haven in which to rest, relax and recover.
The website, sprinkled with a few of Zenya’s suggestions, was nearly finished, and Rita had been diving into yurt research, slowly coming to terms with just how outrageously expensive they were. Who knew a canvas tent could cost more than a small car?
She took in her surroundings, once central to the farm’s success.
The barn created a huge undercover space which would mean she could operate in all weathers.
And this time, it could serve a whole new purpose, one that didn’t involve her eyes streaming or her breathing like Darth Vader in the middle of a panic attack, thanks to her ridiculous allergy to Archie’s beloved herd.
Rita pushed open the expansive double doors, tugged off her gloves, reached in her pocket for her mobile and took a photograph of inside the barn and the view from it. She immediately sent it to Sennen.
RITA
Welcome to the Seahaven Bay Retreat
A reply pinged almost instantly.
SENNEN
Are those pitchforks or murder weapons?
RITA
Ha! Well, I did say I was basing it loosely on The White Lotus.
SENNEN
You know you’re meant to soothe people, right? Not terrify them. Soz. Got to go, the mother of a bridezilla is trying to reach me.
Rita smiled, slipped the phone away, and rolled up her sleeves. The smile didn’t last long when she found a dead pigeon under an old tarpaulin.
By midday, she’d cleared out all the scattered junk, uncovering treasures as she went: a stack of forgotten apple crates (now earmarked for yoga mat storage), a couple of antique milk churns (potentially good for seating), and randomly a faded photograph of Sennen in her role of Ophelia during a brief stint of amateur dramatics.
She gave it a fond smile, put it in her jacket pocket, then flinched on hearing a noise behind her.
‘Don’t mind me,’ came the familiar rasp. She turned to see Granny Jory standing in the doorway, in a leopard-print dressing gown.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rita brushed dirt and straw from her hair.
‘Thought I’d see what foolishness smells like.’ Hilda stepped over a coiled hose with surprising agility for someone of her years. Rita looked to the old girl’s bright pink Nike trainers and smiled. ‘I was expecting crystals and chanting. Instead, I find rust and potential litigation.’
Rita laughed. ‘Not quite at the chanting stage yet. I only started clearing today. Sennen, Alex, and Kelly are coming down at Easter to help, I hope.’
‘And Thomas?’
Rita’s face downturned. ‘He’s as elusive as his father could be at times, so who knows when we shall see that grandson of yours next.
’ Her words cut hard as she remembered that Thom hadn’t answered her last two check-in messages.
It really did feel like he was ignoring her.
How long would it take, if ever, for him to forgive her for selling out?
Hilda surveyed the barn, looked out at the magnificent view that spread down to the clifftop, then fixed Rita with a shrewd gaze. ‘You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Very.’ Rita nodded.
The old woman gave her a wry smile. ‘Good. It’s about time you did something silly.’
Rita blinked. ‘That sounded almost supportive.’
‘Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.’ Hilda winked, pulling a fat brown envelope from her pocket and pressing it into her daughter-in-law’s hand. Rita opened it and peered in, amazed. There had to be at least ten thousand pounds in fifties, maybe more.
Rita cocked her head. ‘What’s this?’
‘Danger money.’
‘Oh my. This is too much! I’ll pay every penny back.’ Rita’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Hilda tutted. ‘I feel insulted at even the offer.’
Tears started to flow down Rita’s cheeks.
Hilda was brusque. ‘Get a grip, girl, and reserve all that nonsense for when you manage to open. And don’t forget you will need some kind of insurance, I expect.
And for God’s sake, get your hair done or something; you’ll be frightening the goats soon, let alone any potential punters. ’
With the same elation she’d felt on having the idea of the retreat, Rita smiled. ‘You’re not going to be wandering around like that when the potential punters arrive, are you?’
Granny Hilda lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘Only if they deserve it.’
A flicker of movement at the doorway made Rita turn. Zenya was standing there, hair scraped into a messy bun, boots spattered with mud, wearing an oversized army jacket that had definitely seen better days. She gave a tentative wave.
Hilda looked her up and down with a snort. ‘Good Lord. I thought the scarecrow in the south field had got loose.’
Zenya raised her brows, entirely unfazed. ‘Morning to you too. Love the dressing gown. Late night at the bingo?’
Rita clamped a hand over her mouth to stop a laugh escaping as Hilda narrowed her eyes like a cat preparing to pounce. ‘Zenya, meet Hilda Jory, my indomitable mother-in-law.’
Zenya reached out her hand to a tut from the old woman. ‘Well, Zenya, that’s a name with bite. And I don’t know why she says that, if not for you to assume I’m some kind of old battle-axe.’
Zenya didn’t react, just looked to Rita. ‘I was popping down to the bay and saw you were clearing out the barn.’ She stepped over the tarpaulin. ‘Thought I’d lend a hand.’
Rita flushed. ‘Oh. I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t ask because I can’t pay you yet.’
Zenya blinked. ‘Who said anything about money? I’d like to help get you up and running.’
‘She means she’s cheap,’ Hilda muttered, puffing on her cigarette. ‘And anyway, you can pay her now.’
Hilda tapped the brown envelope tucked into Rita’s jacket pocket. ‘That’s not for flapjacks and frippery, girl. It’s seed money. So use it, and get decent bollocking staff on the payroll. Anyway, I’ve got death notices to read.’ With that Hilda Jory headed towards the door.
Zenya shouted after her. ‘Just say the word, Hilda, and I’ll happily balance your chakras.’
‘You’re all right, dear.’ Hilda’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Last time someone touched my chakras I didn’t walk straight for a week.’