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Mary. I told the solicitor to let any friends know.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I don’t think your Great Aunt Thirza had many.’ He added vaguely, ‘She was twelve years older than my mother and the last of her generation.’
He patted her arm, ‘Well, my dear, I think I’ve seen to everything. Arrange things with your mother, won’t you? I have an appointment later on today...’
There weren’t many people at the funeral other than the family. There was Mrs Cox, of course, tight-slipped and dour in black; she had said little to Mary but Mary guessed that she was worried about her future—she had been with Great Aunt Thirza for many years and another job might be hard to find now that she was past middle age. There were several old ladies there too—Great Aunt Thirza’s bridge companions. They said little, but ate Mrs Cox’s splendid tea with relish.
It was when they had all gone that Mr Shuttleworth, “Great Aunt Thirza’s solicitor, observed that he would now read the will. He was an old man, and Mary, who had a vivid imagination, thought that he looked as if someone had taken him out of a cupboard and dusted him down for the occasion.
Great Aunt Thirza having been Great Aunt Thirza, her will held no pleasant surprises. Mrs Cox was to have the contents of the wardrobe and two thousand pounds, Mr Pagett three thousand pounds, Polly the full set of Encyclopaedia Brittanica and Mary an early edition of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, with the hope that by its perusal she might improve her cooking.
The house, its contents and the remainder of her not inconsiderable fortune were to be given to various charities.
Mrs Pagett received nothing, which caused her no distress at all. Great Aunt Thirza had never approved of her designing Christmas and greetings cards; she had once observed that it was no suitable occupation for a lady. Mrs Pagett, even if she was whimsical, didn’t lack spirit; she had laughed and muttered, ‘Pooh,’ before going away to her shed.
Mary watched Mr Shuttleworth tidy away his papers. It was a pity that Great Aunt Thirza hadn’t left her father a larger portion of her fortune. All the same, perhaps now the roof might get a few necessary tiles and the old boiler could be replaced with something modern. She saw Mr Shuttleworth to the door, her mind busy with domestic problems.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS days later, when Mary took the household bills to her father, that he told her that he didn’t intend to pay them. ‘That is to say, of course, they will be paid, but they can easily be left for a few weeks. My credit is good...’
‘I do need some petty cash, Father—Polly’s bus fares and Mrs Blackett—and the window cleaner is due this week.’
He frowned. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mary. Your mother had a cheque this morning; ask her to let you have whatever you need—I’ll repay her.’
Her mother, absorbed in the painting of Christmas elves in a snow scene, told her to find her handbag. ‘It’s somewhere in the bedroom, Mary—there’s some money there. Take what you need, dear, and let me know how much so that I can get it back from your father.’ She paused for a moment and looked up. ‘Are we short of money?’
‘No, Mother. I need some petty cash and Father hasn’t enough.’
She didn’t like running up bills at the local shops but, as her father had pointed out, they were known to the local tradespeople and his credit was good. All the same, at the end of another week, when the butcher asked for something on account Mary waylaid her father as he prepared to leave the house.
‘I’m already late,’ he told her testily. ‘I have an important appointment—very important.’ His testiness was suddenly replaced by a broad smile. ‘Be sure that I’ll give you the money you require this evening, Mary.’
With that she had to be content. There was no need to worry, she told herself. It would be some weeks before her father received Great Aunt Thirza’s bequest, but when he did she could settle up the bills.
She frowned, for even without that money there had always been enough—just enough—for her to run the household. It hadn’t been easy, but with careful management she had contrived, but now, mysteriously, her father’s private income seemed to have dwindled; she had been told to borrow from her mother’s purse once more, and she knew for a fact that until the next batch of cards was sent away there would be very little money left in it.
She went along to the kitchen and found Mrs Blackett scowling.
‘Met yer pa in the hall,’ she said angrily. ‘Told me I don’t need to come no more—give me the sack, ’e ’as.’
‘The sack? Mrs Blackett you must be mistaken .. ’
‘Course I’m not; I got ears, ain’t I? What I wants ter know is, why?’
‘I’ve got no idea. Could you forget about it? For I’m sure he didn’t mean a word of it. I’ll see him when he gets home this evening and I’m sure everything’s all right’
She glanced at Mrs Blackett’s cross face. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea before you start on the kitchen. I’ll get the washing machine going and make the beds.’
Mrs Blackett, mollified, drank her tea—strong with a great deal of sugar—and began on the kitchen, and Mary loaded the washing machine and went upstairs. There was something wrong, something amiss somewhere, and she wished she had someone in whom she could confide.
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