“No need,” Vera said abruptly. “You know what, take the house as it is. I’ll keep the cottage. Even if it’s worth less.”
“Marjorie, are you quite sure you read it carefully? Could there be something hidden between the lines?” Vera’s voice trembled with nerves.
“I read it, I read it! Here, see for yourself!” The solicitor slid the document across the desk. “It’s just the standard clause: ‘By this will, I revoke all former wills and codicils made by me.’ That’s all. Nothing more.”
Anne sat as if struck by lightning, twisting her glasses in her hands, putting them on and taking them off again. Vera fidgeted with the clasp of her handbag, while Edward, the youngest of the late Constance’s three children, simply stared blankly at the wall.
“But how can this be?” Anne finally managed. “Mum always said she’d settled everything—the house to me, the cottage to Vera, and the savings to Edward. Remember, Vera? She explained it all last summer.”
“Of course I remember!” Vera threw up her hands. “She said the house would go to you, Annie, because you’ve got the children, and the cottage to me since I spend every summer there. And Eddie was to have the money, him being in London and having no need for property here.”
Edward lifted his head and looked at his sisters.
“I thought she was just talking. You know how she liked to plan and speculate. I never imagined she’d actually put it in writing.”
Marjorie cleared her throat delicately.
“You must understand, Constance did write a will—ten years ago. But then, it seems, she changed her mind and drew up a new one, revoking the old. Only she never got round to specifying her wishes in the new document. It happens, unfortunately.”
Anne stood and paced the office. At forty-three, she was a schoolteacher, raising two children alone after her divorce. Her mother’s old house had been her last hope for a home of her own.
“So now we divide everything by law? Equal shares between the three of us?” she asked, fighting back tears.
“Precisely. The house, the cottage, the bank accounts—all split equally.”
Vera snorted.
“Well, that’s just fine! Annie here was already pulling a face, thinking she’d get it all. And what about me? As if a few square feet of garden could match my pension!”
“Vera!” Anne protested. “What has your pension to do with this? You know perfectly well what Mum wanted!”
“Oh, I know! But wanting isn’t enough—she should have put it in writing. Our dear mother, God rest her soul, always did leave things to the last minute.”
Edward stood and buttoned his coat.
“Enough, both of you. We’ll sort this out at home. Marjorie, when should we return?”
“In a week. I’ll prepare the documents for the division of the estate. But first, you must agree among yourselves who takes what. If you can’t, the court will decide for you.”
Outside, a miserable October drizzle fell. Anne pulled up her hood, Vera unfurled her umbrella, and Edward lit a cigarette, muttering under his breath.
“Shall we go to the café? We need to talk,” Anne suggested.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Vera snapped. “It’s plain as day you’re upset you won’t get everything. But Mum had three children, not just you.”
“Vera, why are you so cross? It’s not my fault the will is so odd.”
“Not odd—fair!” Vera snapped her umbrella shut so hard that water sprayed in all directions.
Edward stubbed out his cigarette on the wet bench.
“Enough, girls! It’s raining, people are staring. Let’s go to Anne’s, have a cuppa, and talk this through properly.”
Anne’s house was a fifteen-minute walk away. They walked in silence, each lost in thought. Constance’s house stood on a quiet lane, its paint peeling but the structure sound. The windows were boarded, the gate padlocked.
“Who has the keys?” Edward asked.
“I do,” Anne said, fishing them from her pocket. “I took them after the funeral, thought I’d start clearing things out.”
The garden was overgrown, the apple trees untrimmed, the greenhouse sagging. Inside, the air smelled musty and damp.
“Oh, Mum,” Vera whispered. “Look at the state of it.”
The sitting room held old furniture, the piano they’d all once learned to play, a cabinet with crystal glasses. Photographs lined the walls—their parents’ wedding, the children in school uniforms, grandchildren.
Anne put the kettle on and fetched biscuits from the cupboard. They sat at the round table where the family had once gathered.
“Remember how Mum made us do our homework here?” Vera said softly. “And how we’d sneak off to the garden?”
“And Eddie, that algebra test you failed in Year Seven,” Anne smiled. “Mum threatened the belt, then stayed up all night helping you.”
Edward nodded.
“Strict but fair. Never favoured any of us—scolded and praised us all the same.”
Vera stirred sugar into her tea.
“Fair, you say? Then why did she mean to write the will in your favour? The cottage for me, money for you, the house for Annie. The house is worth the most!”
“Vera, what does fairness have to do with it?” Anne sighed. “Mum just thought about who needed what. I’ve got the children, no home of my own—of course the house would help. You’ve got your flat, but you love the cottage. And Eddie’s in London—money’s more use to him than property.”
“Easy to say when you’re getting the lion’s share!”
Edward slammed his fist on the table.
“Enough! Vera, listen to yourself. Mum’s barely been gone a month, and here we are squabbling like dogs over her things!”
Silence fell. Only the ticking of the clock and the rain outside filled the room.
“You know,” Anne stood and went to the window. “Maybe Mum did this on purpose.”
“How do you mean?” Vera frowned.
“Think about it. Mum was clever—she always planned ahead. Do you really think she’d forget to say who gets what?”
Edward stroked his chin.
“What are you getting at?”
“Just that she might have wanted us to work it out ourselves. To divide things fairly, with a clear conscience. Remember how she always said, ‘You’re grown-ups—you should know right from wrong.’”
Vera scoffed.
“Oh, now you’re making her out to be a saint. Maybe she just didn’t have time. She was poorly at the end.”
“Maybe not,” Anne conceded. “But we’re still here. We can do what she wanted.”
“How?” Vera narrowed her eyes.
“Just as she told us. The house to me, the cottage to you, the money to Eddie.”
“Ha!” Vera leapt up. “I knew it! You’ve been angling for this all along. Do you think I’m daft? The house is worth twice the cottage!”
“Vera, calm down,” Edward said. “Let’s be practical. The house is worth more, but look at its state.” He rapped the wall. “Peeling wallpaper, ancient plumbing, wiring from the Stone Age. And the roof? It leaks. Annie, do you have the money to fix it?”
“I don’t,” she admitted quietly. “But at least it’d be mine.”
Vera sat back down, silent for a moment.
“And the cottage? The greenhouse’s about to collapse, the paths are weeds, the fence is crooked. That’ll cost a fortune too.”
“But the land’s good,” Edward pointed out. “By the river, lovely spot. Fixed up, it could fetch a fair price.”
“So what’s your idea?” Vera demanded.
Edward lit another cigarette—something he’d never have dared in their mother’s house before.
“We get everything valued and split it evenly. Either in cash or kind, but fairly.”
“How?” Anne asked. “Hire a valuer?”
“We could. Or we could sell it all.”
The sisters stared.
“What do you mean?” Vera said.
“Just that. The house is no good to any of us as it is. Annie, you couldn’t live there without spending a fortune. And, Vera, could you manage the cottage alone?”
“I don’t know,” Vera admitted. “I’m not as spry as I was, and my pension’s slim.”
“My point exactly. If we sell, we split the money. Then everyone gets what they actually need.”
Anne frowned. It made sense, yet something rebelled inside her.
“It’d be a shame to sell Mum’s house. Our whole lives happened here.”
“Lives pass, houses remain,” Edward said philosophically. “What’s the use if we don’t live in it? It’ll just rot.”
Vera twirled her empty cup.
“Maybe Eddie’s
