The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

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       1

      Tuesday 1 September

      The offices of Wilson Richardson solicitors were on the first floor in a block on the main road through Chiswick in London. The carpeted stairs smelt musty and I noted that the reception area on the first floor was in need of a lick of paint. Rose, my neat, petite sister, was already there, not a hair of her dark bob out of place and still dressed in black though it was almost eight weeks since Mum had died. I’d decided against funereal clothes and, it being a warm September day, had dressed in grey trousers and a pale green kaftan top. We were spared the awkwardness of our meeting because we barely had time to greet each other or sit before we were ushered into Mr Richardson’s office by a receptionist with blonde hair pulled back severely from her forehead. My youngest sister, Fleur, used to call the style the Dagenham facelift, back in the days when we were still speaking to each other.

      A tall, bald man with glasses was seated behind a heavy oak desk. ‘Mr Richardson,’ he said.

      ‘I’m Rose and this is Dee. You may have her written down in your papers as Daisy,’ said Rose.

      ‘I am here and can speak for myself,’ I said.

      Rose sighed. ‘Go ahead then. I was only being helpful. Your two names can be confusing for people.’

      I focused on Mr Richardson. ‘I’m Daisy, Dee. Most people call me Dee but my mother liked to call me Daisy.’

      ‘As I said,’ said Rose.

      Well this is a great start, I thought, as the solicitor gestured to three chairs that had been placed opposite the desk for the reading of Mum’s will. ‘Please, have a seat,’ he said.

      ‘My sister Fleur will be with us shortly,’ said Rose as she sat down.

      ‘She’s always late. She’ll be late for her own funeral,’ I said, then half coughed and cursed myself.

      As we waited, I felt as if I was back at school and had been called in to see the headmaster. I wanted to get the reading over with and get home. Rose’s left foot was twitching so I reckoned she was feeling the same. She was the most in-control person I had ever known, but that foot gave her away; it always had, as if she wanted to be up, out and anywhere else. Out and away from me, away from Fleur, I imagined.

      I don’t know about her life at all any more, I thought as Rose checked her watch. I wonder if she’s happy. How are she and Hugh getting on? What will she do with her share of the inheritance, and does she need it as badly as I do? Probably not.

      We already knew that Mum would have left us equal shares of her money; she’d told us all years ago. The house in Hampstead, where we grew up, had belonged to Dad’s parents back in the 1950s and Mum and Dad had inherited it when they died. Victorian, four bedroomed and near the Heath, it had accumulated in value over the years. Mum did shabby chic before it was trendy, and the house had an old-fashioned charm about it, with original features, fireplaces and wooden floors so, despite being in need of modernization (the estate agent’s word for falling down) and the ancient plumbing and life-endangering electrics, it still went for just over two million when Mum sold it and moved to a retirement village. My share would be more than enough to sort out my finances, have a good pension pot and some to help my daughter, Lucy if she needed it. No substitute for having Mum here, though, I thought as a wave of grief at her loss, still so raw, hit me.

      We didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes later, the receptionist ushered Fleur in. Her skin was brown and her hair a sun-kissed blonde as if she’d been away. She had also decided against black and was dressed in a crepe summer dress with tiny coral and cream flowers and red kitten heels that looked like they cost a bomb. I tucked my scuffed M&S loafers under my chair as Mr Richardson indicated that Fleur should take the empty seat.

      ‘Traffic was awful …’ she began but didn’t continue when Rose sighed heavily to express her disapproval. Part of Rose’s anal personality was that she was obsessively punctual and disapproved of anyone who wasn’t on time. Fleur must have realized that we’d heard it all before, even if it was a long time ago. She took a seat with a brief nod to me.

      Mr Richardson cleared his throat and picked up some papers from his desk. ‘So let’s get on, shall we? Your late mother, Iris Parker, instructed me to invite you all here today. She left her will, which I’ll get to, but she asked that I read a letter to you first. Shall I go ahead?’

      Rose glanced at Fleur and me. ‘Letter? When was it written?’ she asked. She was clearly put out that she didn’t know about this. Hah, I thought, good. Though I hadn’t known about it either.

      ‘April СКАЧАТЬ