A bluishhaired octogenarian perched on the edge of the solicitors desk, tapping her foot like a nervous metronome.
What’s the business today? the solicitor asked.
Just a will, she replied, settling deeper into the worn leather chair.
Go on, he prompted, pen poised.
I want my brain, after Im gone, handed over to the Institute of Medical Research. If they decline, let them claim it was from Clara Whitfield. All my cats at the time of my death are to be given to my friends; if no friends remain, the felines pass to my son, James. Any books I own, if no one wants them, donate them to the public library but at least turn a page through them first. Three years ago I forgot which volume held the cash. I bequeath to my son the right to scatter my ashes on a hill in the Lake District.
The solicitor choked on his coffee.
Excuse mewhere?
In the Lake District, the Lake District, she repeated, eyes distant.
But thats so far! Why such a complication?
The trouble is the fivetotwo grind and the onehour lunch break. He never travels because of it, always buried in paperwork. I was the same once. Regret now sits on my shoulders. He’s got his whole life ahead, and travel brightens a soul. It reshapes a man; he wont return to who he was. Let him cross half the country. Ill watch him return to his office, but he wont be dragged back without a reason. I must show him another life, thats my work after Im gone
And I dont want to rot in the earth. Flying to the Lakes is far better, she murmured, the solicitors lips tightening.
Next, the old lady continued, I want my beloved cat, Poppy, to be cremated with mejust as they did ages ago. Im kidding! Im kidding! Its just that you look rather peculiar, so I thought Id give you a little
A fright?
A shake, she smiled.
Done. Now, the property? Movables? Immovables?
My flat and my motorbike go to James. I dont actually own a motorbike yet, but Im signed up for a course and will buy one soonnote that too. My scooter I leave to Arthur Blake, provided hes still alive. Hes been eyeing it for ages; the last time we rode together he smashed it into a tree.
When the lady finally drifted out, the solicitor called for a short recess. The image of the bluehaired visitor lingered like a lingering perfume. He read the will again, rubbed his eyes to be sure it wasnt a dream, stared at the towering stack of papers, then reached for his phone.
Hey, Mabel, fancy a trip somewhere? Ive always wanted to see the savannah
