About Last Night . . . Read online

‘Permanently? I thought she just popped in and out. I’m sad about that.’

  ‘Cleo’s not. She’s living on salmon and cream.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, feed the rest for me, there’s a love.’

  ‘And put some drugs in Nutty’s?’

  ‘Certainly not! He hasn’t been lame for months. I don’t sell dodgy horses.’

  Muttering about a mare with a persistent cough who I’d moved on last year, and one just before Christmas who he’d test-driven out hunting and who didn’t seem to have any discernible brakes, Nico nonetheless took his tea upstairs to get changed, go out, and feed what remained of our stock.

  ‘Also, I opened a lot of your brown envelopes,’ he said, pausing at the top of the stairs. ‘The ones you hide down the sofa. They made interesting reading. But one was that tax rebate you’ve been waiting for.’ He delved in his dressing-gown pocket and frisbeed an envelope down to me. It landed on the table. I fell on it. Ripped it open. A cheque fell out.

  ‘You can at least get the council tax paid.’

  I stared at it. Then I clutched it to my bosom and gazed up at him, starry-eyed. ‘Oh Nico! Why didn’t you say?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just have. You have to open this stuff, Ma. Not all of it’s bad.’

  And off he went; tall, skinny and dishevelled, knowing he’d delivered the best news of the week.

  I instantly rang Tia and promised her that once it had cleared the money would be hers, to pay whatever bills she thought best.

  ‘All of them,’ she said happily. ‘Get the lot off your back. Oh, I’m so pleased. But Molly, you’re still going to have to think about selling. Tax rebates don’t fall out of the sky every month.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Shall I get Peter to come round?’

  Peter Cox was the local estate agent in the office next door to hers on the high street. Kind, avuncular and tweedy, he was no shark and would, I knew, have my best interests at heart. Get me the very best deal. I hesitated.

  ‘Why not? It’s just … the animals, Tia. What am I supposed to do with them all? In a cottage? In the village?’

  ‘Who says you can’t find a cottage with a few stables? And paddocks?’

  ‘But probably only a two-up two-down if it’s got land. And then what about the children?’

  ‘They’re huge, Moll, and migrating to London. Couldn’t Lucy and Minna share a room?’

  ‘They could …’ But then they might not come back, I thought, but didn’t say it. Also it was premature. Minna was still at college locally. So maybe not destined for London eventually. All her friends were here.

  ‘And if they did decide to stay,’ she went on, reading my mind – oh yes, Tia and I had shared a lot of tea and biscuits – ‘they could even pay some rent. Most kids around here do.’

  ‘Yes, but not for ages. Lucy’s the only one who’s got a job, and I can’t ask her to send back money like some mother in the Philippines.’

  ‘I’d say Herefordshire is the British equivalent of the Philippines,’ she said darkly. ‘And let’s face it, your own mother would have no such scruples. I saw her just now in town, by the way. She said your uncle had died. Sorry about that.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t have an uncle.’

  ‘Oh. How strange. Funny name. Custer or something.’

  ‘Oh. Cuthbert. David’s uncle. Has he? I didn’t know. Not sure I even met him, actually. How sad. But he must have been ancient.’ I frowned. ‘How on earth did Mum know that?’

  ‘No idea. That famous crystal ball? Perhaps for once it really did give off some information. She was on her way to see you, anyway. Perhaps she got a vibe.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  At that moment a throaty exhaust pipe backfired in the yard, making me glance out of the window. An old black Volvo was pulling in. Ah. Talk of the devil. The woman herself was getting out and going round to open the boot to remove some shopping. ‘She’s already here, Tia. The eagle has landed. No doubt come to press-gang me into lending a hand at the Hereford show, where she’s taken a tent – reading palms, no less.’

  ‘Blimey, remind me to give that a swerve. OK, I’ll let you go. Come and have lunch with me next week, though, Moll. We can even splash out and try that new veggie place. My treat.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  I put the phone down as my mother came beetling across the yard, shopping bags in hand. Her hair was piled up in a sort of mad haystack bun but then, as she said, it befitted her image as Cosmic Pam, which the children had originally called her as a joke, but which had stuck and become, God help us, her professional name. Oh yes, I was lucky enough to have a mother with psychic powers. She paused to stroke Nutty’s nose over the stable door and I noticed her eyes were very bright this morning, her cheeks flushed. She turned, headed, no doubt, for the Romany-style caravan sitting in my back garden where she read tarot cards and now, it seemed, palms. I’d let her park it there temporarily a year ago as her own back garden was minuscule, but since one of the wooden wheels had rotted and fallen off last winter, I think we both knew it was moribund and permanent. I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked having her close by. And I’d hazard she liked it too. It might even be why she was there. Also, we had rules to prevent the situation becoming a time-waster. She’d breeze on by with a cheery wave first thing and I’d wave back. We didn’t chat and eat biscuits for – ooh, ages – although the children had no such scruples. They were in there a lot, fascinated by their fates.

  This morning, however, I wanted a word, and so, apparently, did she. She came straight to the back door when I opened it, and before she’d even said hello, to the point.

  ‘Uncle Cuthbert’s died,’ she told me importantly as she swept past me. She set her shopping down on the floor and jangled a veritable armful of Gypsy Rose bracelets as she reached for the mug of tea I’d been about to drink myself on the side. ‘Thanks, love.’ She fixed me with beady dark eyes as she slurped and settled herself down on a chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘I know.’ I shut the back door behind her. ‘Tia told me. Apparently you’ve seen fit to spread the word around town before you even told me. And he wasn’t even my uncle, Mum, let alone yours. He was David’s.’

  ‘Exactly. Your husband’s uncle. And he was his only relative.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘David.’ She gave me those eyes again.

  I stared at her for a long moment. Then slowly I sat down opposite her. I had a nasty feeling I knew where she was going with this.

  ‘Mum … if you think for one moment …’

  She raised her eyebrows disingenuously. ‘What?’

  ‘I know the way your mind works.’

  ‘Well, it’s a thought, isn’t it?’

  I gaped at her in disbelief. ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ I snorted eventually. ‘Cuthbert’s an uncle-in-law, he’s not going to remember a woman he’s barely met! I’m not even sure I did meet him. And anyway, how do you know he’s died?’

  ‘I read it.’ She reached in her bag and flourished a copy of the Telegraph. Cosmic Pam had some surprisingly trenchant right-wing views. ‘I make it my business to know these things. After all, you never know who might be trying to get in touch.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘From beyond.’ She jerked her head meaningfully. ‘Particularly if they’ve only just popped off, all sorts of things they might have meant to say. Important to read the announcements.’ She set her reading glasses on her nose and peered down at the Court and Social page, which she’d already folded into a neat quarter. ‘Ah – here we are.’ She cleared her throat and raised her chin importantly. ‘Faulkner: Cuthbert James Christopher. Died peacefully at home on April the sixth.’ She removed her glasses and looked up.

  I blinked. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Bit sort of … short, isn’t it? Aren’t they usually much longer? Funeral details? Stuff about flowers? Donations?’

  ‘Exactly.’ My mother was making her fa
mous face. The one with wide eyes and pursed lips. ‘Interesting, eh? Sort of …’ She contrived to look concerned, ‘… solitary.’

  ‘No, not remotely. Just succinct. And anyway, even if he doesn’t have family, he’ll have left whatever he had to – I don’t know – friends, a dogs’ home, a charity. Something close to his heart.’

  The lips became a pucker. A cigarette was placed between them, set alight and inhaled deeply. She removed it and released the thin grey line ceilingwards.

  ‘He might,’ she agreed thoughtfully, eyes following the smoke. ‘But on the other hand,’ she lowered those bright eyes for dramatic effect, ‘he might not.’

  2

  I regarded her, the Wise Woman of the West Country, no less, on her metaphorical throne, my old Windsor chair. I took a deep breath. Let it out wearily.

  ‘I despair of you sometimes, Mother. I really do.’

  ‘Look, love, I’m just being realistic. In all probability you’re right, his estate will go to a charity or something, but it could go to his nearest blood relative, and judging by this announcement,’ she jabbed it with her finger, ‘it doesn’t look like he’s got anyone else. No children or it would have said so, beloved father of Jimmy and Anne or whatever – so that’s you.’

  ‘Oh hardly,’ I scoffed, turning to make more tea. ‘A niece-in-law. Not much blood there. And actually, Mum, I’m ashamed of you. The poor man is barely cold and you’re rubbing your hands with glee, wondering what’s in his coffers. Talk about ambulance chasing.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find it’s an ambulance I’m pursuing,’ she remarked, sotto voce, bending down to pull a packet of digestive biscuits from her shopping bag.

  I swung about. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said hastily, opening them and munching furiously. ‘And I’m not being gleeful, just practical,’ she continued, with her mouth full. ‘The man was ninety-odd, for heaven’s sake. Had a rich and fulfilled life. It’s not like I’ve bumped him off.’

  ‘How d’you know he was ninety-odd? How d’you know anything about him?’ I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been researching him, have you, you dreadful old druid?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, feigning hurt. ‘I certainly haven’t stalked his deathbed or anything, if that’s what you mean, but there’s a great deal to be learned through esoteric channels.’ She affected a vague, mystical expression.

  ‘And from a computer, by Googling him.’ I shoved the cutlery drawer in hard with my bottom so it rattled. ‘Frankly, I can’t think of anything more vulgar than profiting from a death, Mum. I’ve had one myself and the mere fact that it could be spoken of in the same breath as money is hideous. Can you imagine if David’s relatives had popped out of the woodwork and clustered round? Wondered what was in the kitty?’

  ‘They did,’ she said, brushing crumbs from her skirt. ‘At least, one or two godchildren did, although you were too grief-stricken to notice. Soon backed off when they realized he hadn’t even managed to provide for his family – and I know,’ she said quickly, seeing my face, ‘that he wasn’t expecting to have to do that, at his age, had no reason to think he should have made some clever investments, started a proper pension, I know that, Molly. I’m just saying you’ve been up the creek for five years now, and getting all pious about a tiny bit of good fortune that might finally have come your way is a bit short-sighted, that’s all.’

  ‘Good fortune. You don’t know anything about him. Don’t know what state his affairs were in.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I assume you mean Cuthbert’s affairs? You are now talking about Cuthbert’s estate?’

  ‘No! Absolutely not. Not in that way. I’m just saying—’

  ‘Obviously I’ve no idea,’ she interrupted crisply. ‘But when I met him he struck me as a very grand and very civilized old gentleman.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘Of course I have. At the funeral.’

  ‘Oh!’ I sat down. Gripped the tea towel I was holding. ‘Was he there?’

  ‘Of course he was there,’ she said gently.

  I’d barely been there myself. Had been in such a fog: such a mist of tears and shock and disbelief, I hadn’t rallied at all. I had since. Long-term I’d been pretty good and had kept the children on track – just – making sure they’d got through school and university – well, college, and only Minna – and had kept the farm and my small businesses going, and actually, had felt better as the months and years had gone by, as the self-help books said I would. More recently, albeit rarely, I’d even sat smiling in restaurants with other men, a glass of Merlot in hand. Ghastly. But, no, short-term I’d been a mess. Which was the right way round, everyone said. None of that stoic fortitude for the first few months and then collapsing in a heap later: I collapsed first. To the extent that I barely remembered the funeral. Here, in the village, in the little church in the valley. Barely remembered who came, except that it was full.

  ‘How far did he come?’

  ‘He was living in London at the time.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Delightful, as I’ve told you. And very sweet and sad about David. But quite ancient, even then.’

  I thought back. ‘On two sticks? Sitting with a rug on his knees in the corner?’

  ‘Er … possibly.’ She looked shifty. ‘Although that might have been Albert.’

  ‘White hair?’

  ‘Um, yes, swept back.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Vaguely.’ I summoned up a hazy mental vision of Cuthbert. David’s own parents had died in the Boxing Day tsunami ten years ago, on a much longed-for holiday, so they hadn’t been there. Oh yes, we’d had our share of tragedy in this family. And I for one would not be profiting from any of it. I roused myself: regarded her sternly.

  ‘Get thee to thy crystal ball, you old witch; I want none of your dark side. Be gone, and get cracking on your pubescent predictions instead. How’s that going, by the way?’

  Mum had recently been recruited by Just 15 website to write the horoscope page, something the children and I found hilarious, since she couldn’t, in reality, predict the next five minutes, let alone a week in the life of the entire female teenage population.

  ‘Oh, frightfully well,’ she beamed. ‘Although I’m a little stuck on Taurus. Their celestial circumstances are a bit turbulent this week. Venus is in ascendance and being an absolute madam. But I thought I’d couch it in terms of: “Challenging times ahead, but a great opportunity to assert independence.” ’

  ‘The boyfriend’s dumping them?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  She’d got into this slightly bizarre ethereal world the way most people do, apparently, by going to see a medium herself and being told she was ‘extraordinarily spiritual’. She’d rushed home, fag clenched between her teeth, thinking she was the Second Coming. ‘The woman literally flinched when she touched my hand!’ she’d gasped. ‘So much electricity, she said!’ The children and I had clustered around excitedly to witness her powers and discovered the extent of them was to peer into a cupful of tea leaves which Minna had made, frown and say … ‘You’re in a crowd …’

  Ignoring our hilarity, she’d persevered. Never one to start small, with a course, perhaps, with fellow budding psychics, or some sort of workshop, she’d gone the whole shebang instantly, buying herself a tepee in which to read palms – it leaked, hence the caravan found on eBay – and setting herself up as Cosmic Pam, so that practically overnight, there she was – ta-da! – a bona fide mystic. And in rural Herefordshire, what with the recession and unemployment and long winter afternoons, people had many gloomy moments: they needed a bit of hope. Plus Mum didn’t charge much and provided tea and biscuits, so they came in their droves, mostly because her news was always cheerful. ‘An unexpected pleasure is coming your way!’ Vague, too, note: could be a new lover, could be a cream cake. ‘Something is definitely on the rise!’ Could be a promotion, could be a soufflé. They all left beaming, vowing to
return again next week and cross her palm with yet more silver.

  I sighed and hung the tea towel on the rail of the old Rayburn I’d never got around to replacing. ‘You’re a charlatan, Mum. But never let anyone suggest you don’t do it with charm.’

  ‘I like to bring a little joy into people’s lives,’ she agreed, getting up and replacing her packet of digestives in her bag, one of three packs, I noted. Mum lived on digestive biscuits, strong coffee and gin, and not necessarily in that order. Her eye was already wandering to the cupboard where I kept my own bottle so I pre-empted what was coming.

  ‘No, I’m not going to join you at lunchtime for a quick one in the garden, principally because I’ve got a lot to do today, so if you wouldn’t mind sugaring off to your own lair, I’ve got a business to run here. I’ve got a couple of hundredweight of boxer shorts to send off in brown envelopes, and that idiot Paddy Campbell is coming to vet Nutty at twelve.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve chosen Paddy, have they, your purchasers? Well, you won’t get a dodgy fetlock past him. Give him a bit of anti-inflammatory – I would.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not drugging my horse to get it through a veterinary examination. I don’t know what sort of person you – and Nico – think I am!’

  She shrugged as she sashayed elegantly to the door. ‘The sort to sell a three-legged gelding to an unsuspecting buyer, but not to take advantage of a real stroke of luck when it comes your way, in the shape of a straight-up, no-wool-pulling inheritance, which if you’re not sharpish someone else will snaffle.’

  ‘Well, if it’s that straight up it’ll come to me in the form of an official solicitor’s letter, won’t it?’ I countered sweetly, to which, I was pleased to note, she looked a bit stumped.

  Ah. See? Not so straightforward. Definitely some monkey business going on. There always was with Mum. Nothing downright dishonest – when she read palms or wrote horoscopes she genuinely felt she got a glimpse of the future – but just a little shading of the truth: a little blurring of the facts to work to her advantage. As she wiggled away, hips swinging under her beaded skirt, I noticed her first lucky customer, Ena Mason from the village, already shuffling through the garden gate. I decided her last aside had been interesting: Cuthbert, in reality, probably had a whole host of relatives she wanted me to queue-barge. Mum might be the warmest, strongest, most resourceful person I knew, but she had a nose for a deal and she sharpened her elbows by night with a file. And don’t let the Gypsy Rose stuff fool you. She and Dame Fortune might be in cahoots today, but tomorrow she’d be in a blue suit, hair smooth and immaculate, on the forecourt of a Volkswagen dealership in Rainsborough covering for someone on maternity leave. Then on Thursday, she’d be in a white overall stuffing sausages with my friend Anna up at her farm before flogging them beside her in Ludlow market on Saturday. Mum was a grafter. She rolled her sleeves up and she didn’t care what colour they were as long as there was money to be made. She was regarded with awe and not a little terror throughout the valley, and if it was apt to go to her head, only my father, a mild-mannered man who lived solely for cricket and golf, could occasionally slap her down with a firm, ‘That’ll do, Pam.’ We all remembered The Great Terracotta Pot Disaster when a lorryload of frost-resistant urns she’d bought from Greece and flogged locally had promptly cracked during their first winter. Dad had made her refund everyone. Likewise he’d put his foot down when she’d advertised in the local paper to give A-level History tutoring without a GCSE to her name. Her acquisitiveness baffled him. He couldn’t understand why the modest amount of money he made from the academic tomes he edited for a publishing house wasn’t enough. And surely if the sash windows in their cottage fell to bits when you opened them, well, don’t open them. Open the door instead. Mum and Dad were surely from different planets.