Chapter 3
‘WHERE’S THE BOLLOCKING WHISKY?’ John’s brother, Tom, hollers his question from inside one of Paula’s cupboards. His huge pink head reappears moments later. He squints angrily at her across the room, awaiting a response.
‘The cupboard under the stairs,’ she bleats, wondering what John would think of his bullish older brother stealing their very limited supplies of expensive alcohol.
Tom stands up, grunting and huffing, stalking through the kitchen and back out into the hallway.
John’s other two brothers – Pete and Leonard – both stand to follow.
The three of them have always done things as a pack, usually leaving their youngest sibling, John, on the outside.
‘Found it!’ Tom yells, and Paula shoots an apologetic glance towards the non-family member in the room. The solicitor blinks back, looking vaguely alarmed.
‘Shall we get on with this?’ Tilly asks anxiously as the men pile back into the room, sourcing glasses and sloshing liquid.
The solicitor smiles uneasily. ‘You know, we don’t usually do these anymore,’ he gestures around Paula’s small kitchen. ‘People always ask if there will be a will-reading, like they see on TV, but it’s really not necessary these days.’
He takes a seat in John’s chair at the head of the table and Paula feels panic rising in her chest. John wouldn’t like someone else sitting in his chair, never mind a stranger.
She makes a sort of strangled noise and her daughter turns in her direction.
She reddens as John’s three brothers exchange a smirk.
‘You OK?’ Tilly’s wife, Misha, leans in closer. She’s always been very kind, and Paula nods gratefully. She is OK. She just has to keep trying to remember that John is gone and it doesn’t really matter who sits in his chair. It only feels like it matters.
‘So why are we even here then?’ one of the brothers booms, looking irritated, swigging from his amber drink. ‘If this could’ve been a goddamned email, what are we doing here?’
The solicitor glances over at Tilly, and Paula understands that it is her daughter who has requested this.
‘I just thought it would be better if Mum could hear all this,’ Tilly says with self-assurance, ‘y’know, out loud.’ She looks around at the group, making pointed eye contact with Misha, then her three uncles, followed by Seb.
Paula stares down at her lap. She has been having a little trouble hearing things since she got that call about John.
It’s not that her ears are failing her, it’s just that the words don’t settle.
They act like a fine snowy mist that melt into nothing the moment they land.
She can hear the words OK, but she can’t quite understand them.
She can’t internalise them. She’s been having particular trouble with words that have been written down.
Every time Paula tries to read, everything jumbles up in a confusing blur.
Which is no doubt why Tilly’s made this poor solicitor come all the way out to their house, instead of letting him send everyone an email.
‘Do I need to be here?’ On her left, Seb sounds bored, his tone childish. ‘Can I go home?’
When Seb says home , he’s referring to the shed at the bottom of Paula’s garden, where he currently resides.
There is no running water and no electricity.
Unless you count the very long extension lead he has running all the way from the main house, in order to power his game console.
There’s also a single bed, squeezed in beside Tilly’s childhood chest of drawers. And a lot of spiders.
But Seb likes living there because he has – his word – ‘independence’ and can just about claim publicly that he doesn’t live at home.
And it is, at least, a step up from his previous accommodation; a dilapidated, rusty old caravan on Paula’s driveway.
Seb is thirty years old.
‘Can we get on with this?’ Tom booms, pouring himself, Pete and Leonard another quadruple whisky.
Tilly brightens. ‘If everyone else is having a drink, maybe we should have one, too?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer, getting herself, Misha and Seb a beer – John’s beer – and placing a tall glass of Malibu and Coke in front of Paula.
Paula stares at it. She can’t stand Malibu and Coke. It’s like drinking fabric softener.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ she says carefully. ‘But I think I’ll just stick to water.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Tilly says cheerfully. ‘It’s your favourite and everyone else is having one!’
Paula nods, and takes a tiny sip of the fabric softener. It’s horrible.
‘So first off,’ the solicitor clears his throat, ‘I should say that John appointed his daughter’ – he looks up from the page, pointing a flat palm at Tilly on his right – ‘as his executor. That means you are responsible for administering the estate and dealing with any assets, Ms Sheldon. We can talk this through in more detail after the will-reading.’
Tilly looks a little surprised and Paula feels a few eyes on her. She senses confusion from the room, but of course John appointed their daughter! Paula’s always been hopeless with that kind of thing and Tilly is so very capable.
‘It also means you’re technically in charge of funeral arrangements, which I understand’ – he pauses, glancing up for confirmation – ‘hasn’t taken place yet?’
Taking the lead, Tilly nods. ‘We’ve had to wait a couple of weeks for the paperwork and we’re still waiting on Dad’s .
. . remains.’ She pauses to swallow. She’s only two years older than Seb, but while he seems like a teenager, sometimes Tilly seems even older than Paula.
‘But we’re hoping it’ll be soon.’ She glances at Paula. ‘We have it in hand.’
Paula nods, though she’s done nothing.
‘This is an informal process,’ the solicitor continues, ‘I’m just here to read out John’s statement and wishes, and then help clarify anything.
So, if anyone has any questions, please do speak up.
’ He leans back in John’s chair. It creaks in the same way it did for John.
Paula fights back that urge again – the one that wants to scream for the man to move.
But people are allowed to sit in chairs. Even John’s chairs.
‘I’ll crack on then.’ The solicitor nods around the room, then clears his throat.
‘I’ll start with John’s opening statement, which he wrote as follows: “Hello everyone, John here. It seems I’m dead, how strange.
Hopefully I went peacefully in my bed at the age of 99, beside my loving wife, Paula.
”’ Next to her at the table, Misha reaches for Paula’s hand but she shrinks away from the kindness.
Affection is only going to make all of this harder.
The solicitor continues, ‘“I lived a good life. I tried to be a good man. I worked hard and made sure I provided for my wife and children. I hope I will be remembered fondly by one and all. Goodbye. See you when I see you. Love, John.”’ Paula stares down at the table as, across from her, she hears Tilly start to cry.
Either side of her, both Misha and Seb sound a little sniffy, too.
Should Paula be crying? Probably. But if she starts crying now, goodness knows what might happen.
‘I’ll read out his estate bequests now,’ the solicitor begins, and the room shifts a little with expectation.
‘To his brother Pete, John leaves his collection of pool cues, along with his lifetime membership of the local snooker club.’ Pete looks pleased with this and nods slowly, sipping his whisky.
‘For his brother Tom, John leaves his clothes, along with his famous collection of belt buckles. His brother Leonard is to take possession of his stamps, his chess set, and the whisky under the stairs.’ Tom and Pete exchange guilty looks, whisky in hand, as Leonard regards them with outrage.
Tom quickly downs the remaining liquid in his glass.
The solicitor watches them for a moment, his expression bewildered, then turns in Tilly’s direction.
‘Er, to his daughter Matilda, John leaves his most treasured possession: a signed, framed photograph of Ronnie O’Sullivan and a first edition of Ronnie’s autobiography.
’ Tilly releases a small guttural sob as he continues, ‘And to his son, Sebastian, he leaves the fishing equipment out in the garage and his unfinished memoir, titled Snookered .’ The solicitor adjusts his glasses.
‘Apologies, I can see that name has been amended to All Cued Up .’
‘That’s not better,’ Misha murmurs, but Seb looks pleased.
The solicitor continues, ‘The rest of the estate – including the house and any other assets, financial, etc. – have been bequeathed to John’s wife Paula.’
There is a moment of silence as the room digests this.
Misha leans forward gingerly. ‘Is there nothing specific or personal for Paula?’
‘Never mind that!’ one of the uncles shouts. ‘What about the lottery money? Does that mean she gets the lot?’
Paula’s head whips around. Pete is standing over them, hands on hips, his empty glass discarded on the kitchen counter. Behind him, Tom and Leonard are listening intently, their expressions hard and menacing.
Paula can feel shock making her face slack. How do they know about the lottery win?
Every week, when they checked the results, John would turn to Paula and say, ‘If we win, we won’t tell a soul. Lottery winners don’t make good friends.’
And of course he was right. He was right about everything. She had no intention of telling anyone about the win. No one beyond Tilly and Seb. She glances at her children fearfully. Seb is staring at the table, guilt painted clearly across his face. Tilly meets Paula’s eyes, then rolls hers.
‘Ah,’ the solicitor says, and it’s clear he, too, knows about the win.
He removes his glasses and adopts a serious expression.
‘From what I understand, the ticket was jointly bought, and even if it were John’s ticket exclusively, it would still automatically become part of his estate.
And – as I said – the will is very clear that it all goes to Paula. ’
Pete takes a step forward. ‘That’s outrageous!
’ He waves his hands and Paula cowers, though he’s at the other side of the table.
‘What does she even need twenty million for? I’ve got three ex-wives and six stepkids.
’ He huffs furiously, waving at Paula without looking in her direction.
‘John paid off this house years ago. She’s living on easy street! ’
Paula feels a stab of horror as Tilly jumps up, looking angry. ‘Hey!’ she says. ‘You have no right to speak to my mother like that.’
Pete waves at the solicitor. ‘I was talking to this guy, actually. We’re owed some of that money. He was our little brother. We should be getting at least a couple of million each. She doesn’t need it.’
Paula swallows hard. The truth is, they did indeed pay off their mortgage a long time ago.
But then they had to re-mortgage when the roof needed re-doing.
And then re-mortgage again a few years ago when a neighbour complained about the asbestos garage.
They’ve long since run out of money. John hadn’t had a pay rise at work in years and Paula never brought in much from her work at the care home.
Maybe they could’ve just about made ends meet, if the bills didn’t keep going up and things didn’t keep going wrong with this old house.
She glances anxiously over at the stain on the ceiling.
Never mind easy street , it has been quite difficult and stingy street for a long time now. John had to count every penny in the last few years. It’s why they played the lottery so religiously every week.
And now they . . . she has almost twenty-one million pounds sitting in the bank.
Tom and Pete are almost nose to nose with the solicitor, loudly debating the veracity of the will. Pete is hotly explaining how one of his stepkids urgently needs a new iPad. Apparently he is sick of the fifteen-year-old borrowing his computer for porn. The solicitor looks a little green.
Tilly gets involved.
Paula takes a long, deep drink of the fabric softener and stands up. She can’t listen to this horrible nonsense anymore. She’ll leave them to it; let them all shout it out. They can have the money if they want, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want it.
Everything is so different all of a sudden, she just wants everything back the way it was. She wants John to be here, taking care of things like he always did. At the very least, she needs him here taking care of his shouty brothers.
As Paula mounts the creaky stairs, more than ready to hide in her bedroom for as long as it takes, she hears the front door bell.
Somewhere in among the noisy din of men – and Tilly – shouting in the kitchen about how the tenth generation iPad isn’t modern enough, Paula catches the sound of Seb opening the door and speaking.
Curious, she turns back down the stairs, just as her son appears.
He’s holding a box and looking a little dazed.
‘What is it?’ Paula asks and he looks up at her.
He holds up the item in his hands. Paula stares at it. She suddenly knows what it is, what it must be.
‘Dad’s home,’ her son says simply, gingerly putting down the box. The box carrying John’s ashes.