It was the first time Ruth had cried since her father died.
She found herself sitting on the makeshift sofa sobbing uncontrollably. These were all her mothers things. She recognised them; she could see letters and papers scrawled with her mothers large cursive handwriting; she remembered the old handbag that lay on top of one of the boxes, the little make-up case, her hair brushes, her faded silk bathrobe, scarves, hats.
Had her father pushed them all in so carelessly, or had someone else forced open the cupboards and ransacked them? It had to be Timothy who had so terribly violated her mothers privacy. Who else would have done it? Her father was a meticulous man. If he had kept her mothers things, he would have kept them neatly. Standing up, Ruth fingered them miserably. Now, when it was too late to talk to him about it, was this a sign of her fathers love and his loss when her mother died? He had bullied his wife, and harangued her, questioned everything that made her who she was and made her life unbearably unhappy, and yet he had kept all these memories of her. It doubled the insult that Timothy had gone through the cupboards and then shoved the contents back out of sight, not even bothering to hide his depredations.
Why hadnt she come up to Scotland sooner? Unable to reconcile herself to her fathers treatment of her mother, she had never visited him again after her mother died, not until these last weeks, when he was too ill to speak to her. It had been his next-door neighbour, Sally Laidlaw, who had found her phone number and called her. Timothy had done nothing to contact her and seemed to have been surprised that she existed at all. He had been living in this house for several months and her father had not mentioned to him even once, or so Timothy claimed, that he had a daughter living in London.
Suddenly she couldnt bear to stay there a moment longer. Running downstairs, her cheeks wet with tears, she went into the front room. She didnt turn on the light. She just sat there as the colour faded from the sky outside while indoors, behind the heavy net curtains, everything grew dark.
It was only as she was falling asleep that night that it occurred to her to wonder if Timothy had stolen anything.
She had made the room next to her fathers into her base when she had moved into the house; the small box room next to it had been occupied by Harriet for the few days she had stayed. A carer had slept there during her fathers last weeks, but Harriets vivacious personality still filled the room now, as did the scent of her various lotions and creams. Glastos best, she had joked as she was packing to leave. All herbal; all guaranteed to give me a luscious skin or spiritual insight or both. Here, have them. She had pushed several bottles into Ruths hands. Your need is greater than mine. They will soothe your aura. I can always get more. And heres the book I told you about. Ive marked the first place Lord E is mentioned, though he seems to have guided her through her whole life. She clasped her fingers round Ruths wrists. Remember, for a couple of weeks or so I wont be too far away. Call me, any time, if it all gets too lonely.
It was a complete surprise when next morning Ruth received an email from her fathers solicitor inviting her to the office to discuss an unexpected problem.
James Reid had been a friend of her fathers for many years. The tall, grey-haired man who rose to greet her with great courtesy, pulled out a chair for her then returned to his own side of the desk and produced a folder which he aligned on his blotter without opening it. This was an office, she noticed, where all signs of modernity computer, scanner, printer had been relegated to a shelf along the back wall beneath a solid phalanx of old law books. It was somehow comforting.
Im sorry to ask you to come in so soon after our telephone conversation, he said once she was settled, but there is something that needs to be addressed as a matter of urgency. They had spoken briefly on the phone after her fathers death, and again at the funeral. Her fathers affairs, he had assured her then, were relatively straightforward. Donald Dunbar had left her, his only child, everything, the house and all his money of which there was quite a substantial sum. Now James Reid glanced up at her with what appeared to be some anxiety. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his mid-sixties, she guessed, and was blessed by a natural expression of wise benevolence. She felt her stomach tighten with anxiety.
A possibly contentious issue has arisen. He paused.
Ruth felt her mouth go dry. Whats happened? It came out as a whisper.
Do you know a Timothy Bradford?
Her heart sank. Yes. He was staying with my father in the last months of his illness.
In what capacity?
Capacity? She echoed the word helplessly. What do you mean?
Was he there as a friend? A guest? A carer?
A bit of each, I suppose. I dont really know.
Not a relative?
No. Absolutely not.
And you hadnt met him before?
No. I had no idea he was even there until I came to Edinburgh. I assumed he was some kind of lodger. He claims Dad never mentioned me. It was a neighbour who got in touch to tell me about his illness.
So your father didnt tell him he had a daughter?
He said not.
I see. He sighed. Mr Bradford has written to us informing us that he has a copy of your fathers will. A far more recent will than the one which I have, leaving everything to you, which was originally written fifteen years ago. He paused for a moment. The new will leaves the house and all your fathers possessions to Mr Bradford. Before Ruth had a chance to interrupt he went on, He further claims that he is your fathers son by a liaison formed in the late 1970s before your father and mother were married. I am sorry. This must be an awful shock to you.
Ruth sat speechless for several seconds. I cant believe it. Daddy would never have done such a thing. She looked across at him helplessly. It wasnt clear whether she was thinking about her fathers affair or the fact that he had changed his will.
I find it incomprehensible, James Reid said gently. I have known your father for over forty years and I remember no mention of such a circumstance, but we are forced to take this claim seriously. The will is, as far as we can see, properly drawn up and signed and witnessed by someone from a reputable firm. I am so sorry.
Who was his mother? At last Ruth managed to speak.
He doesnt give her name. He opened the folder on his desk. It contained a single sheet of paper. He gives no details of how long he has actually known your father, or of how he came to be living in Number 26. He looked up at her. As soon as the will is processed, he wants vacant possession of the property. In other words, he wants you to leave.
4
Ruth took a cab back from the lawyers, terrified that she would come home to find Timothy had returned. Her hands were shaking as she inserted the key in the lock, but to her relief the front door opened normally. She closed it behind her and drew the bolt across, then she paused to listen. The house was silent.
Tiptoeing into the sitting room she sat down on the edge of the sofa just as she had the night before. Velvet-covered, under a tartan rug, it was placed in the window so the light fell over her shoulder. She remembered from her childhood how it had been a favourite place for her mother to sit and read. Now it was dusty and faded; the room smelt stale and cold and unloved. The whole house felt abandoned and empty. Even the ticking of the clock had stopped. She had hated that clock as a child. It had underlined the echoing quiet of the place, the passing of time, her loneliness as the only child of two older parents, and she had felt it was mocking her with every jerky movement of its hands.
4
Ruth took a cab back from the lawyers, terrified that she would come home to find Timothy had returned. Her hands were shaking as she inserted the key in the lock, but to her relief the front door opened normally. She closed it behind her and drew the bolt across, then she paused to listen. The house was silent.
Tiptoeing into the sitting room she sat down on the edge of the sofa just as she had the night before. Velvet-covered, under a tartan rug, it was placed in the window so the light fell over her shoulder. She remembered from her childhood how it had been a favourite place for her mother to sit and read. Now it was dusty and faded; the room smelt stale and cold and unloved. The whole house felt abandoned and empty. Even the ticking of the clock had stopped. She had hated that clock as a child. It had underlined the echoing quiet of the place, the passing of time, her loneliness as the only child of two older parents, and she had felt it was mocking her with every jerky movement of its hands.
James Reid had assured her that nothing would happen while he appealed on her behalf against the new will. The absolute worst that could happen was that, if it was proved genuine, she would have to share the inheritance. As her fathers undisputed daughter, she was entitled to at least half of everything. He also told her that she was quite justified, at least for now, in changing the locks if she was nervous; after all, whether or not Timothy was related to her, he was still a stranger.
Her phone made her jump. It was Harriet. How are things going? Im loving it here in North Berwick. Liz and Pete are being so kind. I can stay as long as I like, so Ill be here for a while, working on my book.
The sound of her voice broke the spell. Ruth stood up and, walking round the sofa, drew back the curtains that had blocked half the light from the room. She stood staring out as she relayed the mornings events.
Shit! Harriet summed up in one word.
Id never given the inheritance a thought; of course I hadnt. Id spoken to James on the phone after Daddy died; he had told me that my fathers will, which he made after Mummy died, left everything to me.
Harriet snorted. I told you Timothy gave me the creeps. What a bastard! So, what happens next?
I wait to hear from James. He is formally going to contest the will. Apparently, if Timothy is genuinely Daddys son, he can claim half the inheritance, whatever the will says, but then so can I.
Ouch. Im sure hell sort it out. Keep calm, Ruthie. Itll be OK. Theres no way that vile toad could be a relation of yours.
Switching off her phone, Ruth sat for a moment, staring into space.
The house and all your fathers possessions, his money
Dont panic, James had said as he shook hands with her at his office door. Your fathers bank accounts are frozen and nothing will happen for a while. These things take time.
And, she reminded herself, he had told her she was entitled to change the locks.
The locksmith said he could make her his last call that evening. Pulling the curtains across once more after a quick look out into the street, she checked the bolt on the front door and then headed back upstairs to the cupboards on the top floor.
Looking at the rail of dresses and coats she was pretty certain they hadnt been touched; presumably Timothy wasnt interested in clothes. But what about the other stuff, the boxes and cartons? Now she was looking more carefully she could see paler patches in the dust. Parcel tape had been pulled off and not replaced, latches on old suitcases were standing open when she knew her father, even in the act of banishment, would have made sure they were all neatly closed. He had been too ill to have made it up to the top floor for a long time, never mind stir up the contents of the cupboards like this. This had to have been Timothy. He had rifled through all her mothers precious possessions, the things she had treasured and loved, her books, papers, jewellery, pictures. Even the little writing box with its inlaid brass initials that Ruth remembered from her childhood was there, lying crookedly on top of another box in the corner.
Methodically she began to take items one by one out of the cupboards and line them neatly on the floor. Tossed in a corner of one of the cupboards was a teddy bear. He had been hers, her beloved Pooh. She picked him up and held him close, burying her face in his threadbare fur. He had lost the warm comforting scent she remembered and smelt of sawdust. She had loved him above all her other toys and, knowing this, her mother had kept him for her; so too, she realised with a sob, had her father.
The locksmith did not miss the fact that her hands were shaking as she fetched him a cup of tea while he attended to the front door. Were you burgled, hen? he asked sympathetically as he wielded his screwdriver.
No. Expecting to be.
Thats tough. On your own here, are you? He was thorough and efficient, testing the new lock, handing her the keys, doing the same in the kitchen where the back door led out into the narrow garden. Im glad to see you have bolts here. Dont forget to use them. Maybe get an alarm fitted in the house. Motion sensors. If youre scared of being attacked, you can think about a link to the police; or at least a rape alarm.
It hadnt occurred to her that Timothy might attack her. It was the house and its contents he wanted; her mothers treasures. Surely she ought to hide them somewhere they couldnt be found.
Was there no one in Edinburgh she could go to for help? It was then her thoughts turned to Finlay Macdermott. He had been at school with her ex, and one of their greatest friends. It was worth a try.
So, what youre saying is, you need to hide stolen goods, eh! The familiar voice rang out of the phone after she called him and explained the situation. To her relief he had sounded pleased to hear from her.
Not stolen! she protested. Theyre mine. Legally. The solicitor said my mothers things would almost certainly be deemed to be mine as my father disowned them and locked them away. The law would presume he was planning to pass them on to me. She wasnt sure if that bit was true. Theyre probably not worth much either, so I am not cheating the government of tax.
Blow the government!
She realised suddenly how much she had missed Finlays irreverent humour, which used to echo so often down the line from Scotland and around their living room in London.
I will be over to see you tomorrow, sweetheart. First thing.
She smiled as he ended the call.
Whatever had precipitated that final quarrel between her parents had echoed in her head forever afterwards. She must have been very young but her mothers angry denials and pleas and eventual capitulation had haunted her. It was then that her mothers precious things had first disappeared. Ruth looked round, trying to remember what Lucy had brought to her husbands Scottish home from her parents house in Sussex. One or two of the more robust items were still there, downstairs, the others, the delicate chairs that Ruth as a small child had loved so much, the spindly-legged tables, had vanished overnight. Where were they? There had been portraits of ladies in exotic clothes and bewigged gentlemen and landscapes and drawings and paintings of houses and castles, horses and dogs. Where were those?