Eleanor Whitaker, 60, has been living solo in a modest flat in the heart of London for as long as anyone can remember. No children, no husband she did have a brief marriage, though. At 25 she wed Martin Clarke because, well, love felt like a good idea at the time. That romance went pear-shaped when Martins affair moved in with his lover, and Eleanor, not one to tolerate such nonsense, packed her bags and decamped to her parents house in Manchester. Two months after the divorce she discovered she was pregnant. She never bothered Martin with the news; she simply decided to raise the baby on her own.
When little Jack arrived, the doctors delivered the grim bullet points: Born a bit frail, and unfortunately has a terminal condition. He might just make it to eleven or twelve. Eleanor didnt know whether to weep or laugh, so she chose the latter, fed Jack, burped him, and kept a single, stubborn thought in her head that the kid would soon be checking out of this world.
Jack grew up, turned fifteen, and then, in a cruel twist of fate, both he and Eleanors father died within a week of each other. She lost the two dearest people shed ever had. The old mans will left her his spacious citycentre flat a rare gem in London that most of her relatives would love to get their hands on.
All those years shed been a lone wolf, and the thought of having another child still made her shudder at the idea of history repeating itself, so she kept the romance department firmly closed. At fortyfive she finally splurged on a laptop for about £250, just to keep in touch with the family and browse the news.
Once the relatives learned Eleanor was living alone, they turned up like a troop of wellmeaning geese, bearing cake, biscuits and a steady stream of Have you thought about a will? questions. When they found out she hadnt drawn one up, the complaints about her financial state began. Some even tried to butter up other kin, hoping to look more respectable in her eyes. Eleanor knew exactly who would inherit the flat: her friend Peters daughter, Rosie, who always offers a helping hand without expecting a penny in return.
The rest of the clan just wanted the property. After a while she cut the phone line and blocked the emails, but that didnt stop them from popping up. One bright morning her cousin Nigel rang, cheekily asking, Are you still kicking, and wholl get the flat? So offended was Eleanor that she banned every relative from texting, emailing or calling her again.
And that, dear reader, is how Eleanor learned that family can be both a comfort and a nuisance especially when the family business is a flat in central London.
