Chapter 7 Zoe Spring 2025
Zoe
Zoe wakes with a start and is already on the gallery on her way to her mother’s room when she remembers.
She stops, a dizziness spreading from her head down to her fingertips.
Mum’s not here. She drops her head, and retraces her steps back to her bedroom and stands at the window, where the dawn is already stealing through the trees and across the lawn.
She knows she won’t get back to sleep now.
Two days without Mum. It seems impossible.
All the thousands of days she has been with Mum are behind her.
She does a quick calculation. Almost thirteen thousand days they spent together.
And now the days stretch out ahead without her.
Until eventually, when she’s an old lady, she will have spent more time without Mum than with her. What a strange thought.
She sees a black figure emerge from the woods, and momentarily freezes. But it’s only Fiona running. She must still be jet-lagged.
Zoe puts on her dressing gown and goes downstairs to put the kettle on, just as Fiona comes through the kitchen door.
‘Morning,’ Fiona says, standing on one leg and pulling the other behind her to stretch the muscle. ‘Today’s the day. Hopefully we’ll get some answers.’
Of course, Mum’s solicitor is coming. Zoe forgot.
Later that morning, the four of them wait in the drawing room, their mother’s copy of the will on the table.
They sit in the same positions they were in that first evening.
Steph on a sofa alone, Zoe and Sara opposite her, Fiona in their father’s armchair.
Funny how we’re all creatures of habit, Zoe thinks.
It is the same at mealtimes. They all sit where they did as children, but with two empty places at each end of the table.
The sun comes out from behind a cloud and there’s a sudden flash of light from the grand piano.
One of her sisters has polished the frames and the silver is glittering in the sun.
Zoe gets up and looks at the photos. Mum and Dad on their wedding day, the lifelong love evident in the way her mother is looking into his eyes.
Granny Evelyn with her tiny cinched-in waist flowing into a long, full skirt holding Mum in her christening gown, a besuited Grandpa Edward behind her.
A faded yellowed photo which she knows to be of Mum’s grandparents even though they died before she was born.
A rather awkward one of Dad’s parents on a windswept beach.
And then school photos of each of her sisters.
Mum chose her favourite ones through the years.
Mainly from when they were old enough to pull a smile but not look sulky.
Then separate ones of Sara’s three girls.
The door knocker goes. ‘At last,’ says Fiona, getting up.
The solicitor’s grey suit is too tight across his shoulders and too long in the arms. He looks like he’s dressing up for a work-experience day.
He takes the cup of tea Steph makes him and settles himself into their mother’s wing-backed armchair.
None of them have sat in it since she died and Sara winces as he lowers himself down. Zoe sits back on the sofa.
‘I’m very glad to meet you all,’ he says, looking at each of them in turn. ‘I only met her twice but Mrs Wright spoke very fondly of the four of you. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
They all nod a fraction, waiting.
He takes out an old leather folder from his bag and removes a sheaf of papers. ‘I understand from what you said on the phone that you’ve already seen the copy of the will your mother kept here.’
‘Yes,’ Fiona jumps in. ‘We know what’s in it, we’re hoping you can shed some light on it. Why it was written that way, what we can do about challenging it.’ She has a pile of the letters from the boxes with the will.
The solicitor must be about the same age as Zoe but has the manner of someone trying to behave as if he were much older.
‘Well, I may not be much use to you.’ He flicks through the papers until he gets to what must be the will and lays it on top.
‘I didn’t draft this will. I work at the local practice and your mother asked me to hold a copy of the will and to be the executor.
’ He takes a sip of tea. ‘When the time came.’
‘You didn’t draft it?’ Fiona repeats, her voice rising at the end of the sentence.
The solicitor shakes his head. ‘It was drafted by a London solicitor. I believe they were your mother’s mother’s solicitor.’ He looks down at the papers. ‘Wilson Cartwright Esq. of the Temple. The full version here is dated nineteenth of May 1991.’
Fiona looks across at Zoe. ‘Not long after you were born,’ she mutters. ‘So you had nothing to do with this will? You didn’t help put it together?’ she asks the solicitor.
He seems to clench his jaw. ‘I am the will’s executor.
I am legally responsible for carrying out the instructions in your mother’s will and handling her estate.
Now, in this case, although the property and its contents – art, furniture, books, etc.
– was left to the three oldest sisters, the rest of your mother’s estate was left to the youngest daughter.
When looked at from a financial perspective, the value of the jewellery is equal to a quarter share of the property. ’
Zoe’s teeth start to ache and she realises she’s been grinding them. The jewellery seems so inconsequential when compared to the house she’s lived in all her life.
‘It’s slightly unusual in that I’d expect a house like this to be left to the eldest child which is . . .’ He looks down to consult his notes.
‘Me,’ says Steph. ‘Stephanie.’
‘Yes,’ the solicitor says. ‘To be handed down to the next generation. But in this case your mother split it equally with her three older children.’ He takes another sip of tea.
Zoe looks sideways at Steph and wonders whether she feels aggrieved.
Houses like this are usually left to the eldest child.
Why did her mother not do that? Steph has a right to feel annoyed and upset.
But she’s sitting there, her foot tapping on the floor.
Zoe bites her lip. She’s been so caught up feeling sorry for herself, she hasn’t thought about her oldest sister.
She tries to catch her eye now, but Steph’s gaze is darting around the room, not fixing on anything.
‘You need to agree what you want to do with it. There’s a stipulation that it cannot be sold.
The only way it can be disposed of is to pass it down to the next generation.
But you can rent it out, live in it yourself or whatever else.
The will stipulates that Zoe, the youngest sister, has a right to remain on the estate until she dies. ’
A right to remain in her own home. Highdown Hall was bought by their great-great-great-grandfather in the 1700s with the fortune he made from textiles.
It is impossible to think about dividing it up in some way.
They’ve already had to sell so much land over the past thirty years, just to keep going.
‘We will need to get the property valued by three separate agents, just for the paperwork, whatever you decide to do with it. The other issue that you need to be aware of is inheritance tax. This is a sizeable estate and the death duties are going to be significant. It may be that you need to sell something to pay these. But we can discuss that further down the line.’
Fiona uncrosses her legs and leans forward. ‘I understand that when my grandparents died, my parents gave a painting to the National Gallery in lieu of inheritance tax. That’s one option we could look at, as our mother died with very little capital left.’
Zoe stares at Fiona. She had no idea that was what happened. Their mother never mentioned it. She’s torn between admiration and annoyance, but ultimately grateful that Fiona is taking charge.
The solicitor shuffles papers together. ‘I’ve never come across that,’ he mumbles.
‘Well, that was what happened.’ Fiona clears her throat.
‘Anyway, what we’re interested in today is why the will was written like it was – if Mum decided not to leave the house to Steph, as would be traditional, why it was not split equally between us, including Zoe. And what we can do to challenge it.’
The solicitor is scribbling with a cheap biro. He jerks his head up at the word ‘challenge’. ‘You want to challenge your mother’s will?’
Fiona nods. ‘Yes, we want to find out why it was written like it was and how we can challenge it and split everything equally. Even though, and I’m sure we all agree, we want to keep the house as it is. It’s part of our family.’
Zoe relaxes. Thank God.
The solicitor looks at each of them in turn, scratching his cheek. ‘That’s not my role. I’m here to ensure that your mother’s wishes are followed through.’
Fiona sighs and raises her eyebrows at Zoe. ‘The thing is, I don’t think this was our mother’s wishes. She was always fair, always treated us the same. She wouldn’t have wanted Zoe not to receive a share of the house she’d lived in all her life.’
‘You don’t think the will reflects your mother’s wishes?
But that’s exactly what a will does. Reflects the person’s wishes.
’ He shakes his head slightly as if they are all particularly dim children.
Pompous. That’s the word for him, thinks Zoe, staring at his too-bright tie and shiny shoes.
‘This will was written some time ago, that is true, but there’s no reason to believe that it doesn’t reflect what your mother wanted.
I agree that for one child not to receive a share of the family home seems irregular in this day and age.
But if you look back in history, it was usual for only the eldest child to inherit the house, to avoid the issue of splitting up homes. ’
Irregular makes it sound like some sort of French verb she should be practising. She stares at his face, which is without expression.