“Take a seat while I fetch us some tea. Then we can talk.”
With his aunt gone, Leonard scanned the living room. A worn pair of leather slippers, men’s style, sat next to the room’s old electric heater. Most of the titles on the bookshelf meant nothing to Leonard, except for the Bible. But the collection had theological themes or made direct reference to faith and Christianity. To one side of the shelves, only one photograph stood pride of place, of Aunt Millicent in the middle, with Matthew on one side, probably in his teens, with a girl he assumed to be Mary on the other. Apart from her shoulder-length hair, they looked almost identical. Even though they dressed in summer wear, only Mary smiled at the camera.
Five minutes later she returned and lowered the tray onto the glass coffee table before perching on the edge of her seat, back stiffly upright. Barely bending forwards, she poured tea from the white teapot into each mug, one plain purple, the other with the red and grey crest of a football team.
“With or without?” she asked, holding up the carton.
“With, please.”
After pouring a splash of milk into the chipped football team mug, she stirred the tea with a white plastic spoon before handing the drink to Leonard.
“How is your mother?” she asked, handing him the mug.
“Thank you. She seems to be coping well. I’ve been checking in with her regularly, maybe a little too much. She’s always been fiercely independent.”
“Everyone grieves in their own way. Some of us prefer solitude, time alone with the Lord, when dealing with our losses.”
Knowing his mother’s stance on religion, the words of solace would have meant nothing. She had been far from alone spending much of her free time in the company of his Aunt Marcie. But then his aunt appeared to be alluding to her own mechanism for coping with loss. Was she referring to the death of her son? After taking a sip of her tea, she appeared to get straight down to business and Leonard steeled himself.
“Can I assume you’re planning on keeping Bryn Bach, Leonard? Seeing as you’re already in the throes of restoring the old place. And that you’re not planning to sell?”
How she knew about the renovations, he had no idea. He had told Mary, but Mary said they didn’t talk to each other. Maybe Mary still communicated through Matthew.
“Yes, I’m keeping the house. Surely that’s not why you asked me here?”
“In part,” she said, before plucking a crisp white letter from her lap and handing the single page to him. “The main reason for inviting you here was to tell you I’ve formally dropped any legal action concerning the will. This is the acknowledgement letter from my solicitor. Matthew convinced me to see reason, to respect the legal process and my brother’s wishes and to realise that keeping the house in the family is what’s important. We’ve enjoyed the home for many years and I’m grateful nobody else, outside the family, is going to become the new owner.”
Leonard studied the concise letter from Hope and Masters briefly before handing it back. So Matthew had eventually persuaded his mother to back down. Maybe his cousin had some influence and common sense after all, although Leonard had a feeling that somewhere in the background, his cousin Mary may have played a part.
“No, I am going to keep the house. But just so we’re clear, because I don’t think you have a true measure of who I am as a person yet, I was fully prepared to drag you through the courts, if that’s what it took. And even if it had taken years, and thousands in legal costs, I would not have lost. Do we understand each other?”
His aunt sat studying him impassively for a few moments.
“We do,” she said, her lips pouting. “Yes, I recognise certain traits of my brother now. The same single-minded stubbornness.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Whatever you wish,” she said, before reaching into her pocket for another envelope, this one old and well-worn, and removing an aged piece of paper. “But just so you understand my original concerns around the property, this is a letter I received from my father many years ago.”
Leonard took the crumpled letter and read. The words, written in his grandfather’s cursive handwriting, confirmed what Leonard already knew. In a clear and steady hand, the crux of the message stated—
Traditionally, ownership would have passed to the eldest surviving male member of the family, which in this case is your brother, Colin. However, I have decided to break with tradition and leave the house to your eldest. I have arranged for my solicitor to amend my will accordingly. Your brother knows of my intention and is fully supportive of my decision.
“With the property being transferred to my side of the family, Leonard, I hope you can see that it was only natural for me to expect the house to revert to me.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, handing the letter back. “After your eldest died, and long before my grandfather’s death, he amended the will again to leave the house to my father.”
“Without my knowledge.”
“I seriously doubt that,” he said, not caring if he rattled her. “My grandfather had no reason to hide anything from you. If you’re so adamant, why don’t you check with his solicitors, if they’re still around. In any case, you would have known at the reading of your father’s will, an occasion I can’t imagine you would have missed. Not that any of this matters to me. In changing his mind and his will, he did nothing illegal.”
“Unless he was coerced into doing so by my brother.”
“Good luck trying to prove that.”
Whatever ridiculous point she was trying to make, Leonard knew better than to listen. He had somewhere to be. Leonard’s father had inherited his integrity and common sense from his own father. Aunt Millicent seemed to sense Leonard’s hardened resolve because her face softened a fraction.
“Have you written up a will of your own, Leonard? And have you considered who would inherit Bryn Bach if anything were to happen to you?”
