Читать книгу Secrets Between Sisters: The perfect heart-warming holiday read of 2018 - Kate Thompson - Страница 14

Río had just said goodbye to the last mourner, a maudlin Mrs Murphy–who had been utterly mortified to find out that she, and not Río, had inherited her neighbour’s garden–and now she and Dervla and Mr Morrissey, Frank’s solicitor, ‘needed to talk’, and Río just felt like getting drunk and going down to the beach to huddle in the dunes and watch the waves.

‘Glass of wine, Ma? Dervla?’ Finn emerged from the kitchen with a bottle and fresh glasses, on loan from O’Toole’s pub. ‘Mr Morrissey, you’ll have a glass of wine, won’t you?’

‘No thank you, young Finn. I’m driving.’

‘I’ll have one,’ said Río, thanking God she wasn’t driving.

‘We’ll take it into the study, shall we?’ suggested Dervla.

Turning on her heel, Dervla walked briskly into the study, where she perched herself on top of the old partner’s desk, which had belonged to Frank, and where their mother had used to sit crying over the household accounts. The way she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap reminded Río of one of her old teachers, and she felt as if she were back at school again. How had her sister become such a grown-up?

Finn poured wine and handed round glasses, and then he and Río and Mr Morrissey sat down on the kitchen chairs that had been borrowed from Mrs Murphy for the occasion. She’d also lent plates for the sandwiches she’d made, and teapots for the tea she’d brewed, and a cake stand for the cakes she’d baked. Mrs Doyle from Father Ted would have been lost in admiration for her.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t turn my phone off?’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘I’m expecting a rather urgent call from His Grace.’

‘Not at all,’ said Dervla. ‘Shall we get down to business? Perhaps you’d like to outline my idea to Río, Mr Morrissey?’

‘Certainly’

Mr Morrissey took some papers from his briefcase, and shuffled them importantly. He wore the self-absorbed expression of an actor getting ready for his close-up, and Río couldn’t help thinking of all those Agatha Christie novels where relations gather together to hear the will of some deceased family member. ‘Oh, get on with it!’ she wanted to say. ‘I already know I’ve been cut out of the bastard’s will!’ She felt like reaching for a zapper and fast-forwarding him.

‘As you know, Ríonach,’ began Mr Morrissey, eyeing her over the rims of his glasses, ‘your father left no provision for you in his will. However, your sister is keenly aware of the injustice of this, and is prepared to gift you a portion of the estate.’

Río turned to Dervla. ‘Jesus, Dervla! That’s bloody decent of you.’

Dervla shrugged. I can’t claim that it’s entirely for altruistic reasons. I have a professional reputation to safeguard, and it’s a small town. ‘It wouldn’t do my credibility any good if word got out that I’d shafted my own sister.’

‘You didn’t shaft me. Our father did. Or rather, your father did. I take it that Mr Morrissey knows why Frank cut me out of his will.’

‘I do,’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘And you may rest assured, Ríonach, that I shall not breathe a word of your–er–paternity to anyone.’

‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ said Río, ‘since I don’t have a clue about my paternity myself. How many men called Patrick were living in Lissamore in the early nineteen seventies?’

Dervla shot her a warning look, and Río remembered that Mr Morrissey’s Christian name was Patrick. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘No disrespect intended, Mr Morrissey I mean, I’m sure–um–you know–um. Sorry.’

Río was stifling an overwhelming impulse to giggle. This afternoon was turning out to be increasingly like something off a daytime soap. Maybe she’d wake up and find herself in the shower, like Bobby Ewing.

‘No apology necessary,’ burbled Mr Morrissey. ‘No, no, no.’ His ears had turned red, which made Río want to laugh even more. ‘I’m sure, Ríonach, that if you were desirous to learn the identity of your real father, it could be done. With DNA testing, nowadays—’

‘D’you know something, Mr Morrissey? At this moment in time–’ (it felt right to be saying ‘at this moment in time’ to Mr Morrissey) ‘I actually don’t want to learn his identity. I couldn’t bear to find out that my real father was some salaryman with halitosis.’ Oops. That was a pretty accurate description of Mr Morrissey. She’d better do some backtracking. ‘I mean, I’d really rather think of him as some heroic adventurous type who swept my mother off her feet and then–um–left Lissamore for ever when he realised she was never going to leave my father. Your father,’ she amended, turning to Dervla. ‘Hey! I guess this means I can’t call myself Kinsella any more. I’ll have to be just plain old Río.’

‘That could be pretty cool, Ma,’ said Finn. ‘You’d be like those famous one-name dames, like Madonna or Britney or Angelina.’

‘You need have no worries on that account,’ Mr Morrissey assured her. ‘Your surname was always and always will be Kinsella. That you have legally inherited from your–er–stepfather.’

‘Wow. At least he left me something other than destitute.’

‘Let’s get on with the matter in hand,’ said Dervla. ‘I’m sure Mr Morrissey has more pressing concerns.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Morrissey, checking his watch. ‘His Grace may phone at any minute.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your sister, Dervla, Ríonach, is prepared to let you have a third of this house, on condition—’

A third! A third? Río turned shining eyes on her sister. ‘Dervla, thank you, thank you! I can’t tell you what a difference that kind of money will make to—’

‘I suggest you listen to the conditions before you fall upon my neck, Río,’ warned Dervla. ‘You may not want to accept them.’

‘Oh.’ Río turned back to Mr Morrissey. ‘In that case, bring ’em on.’

‘It is not your sister’s intention to sell the property—’

‘What? Why not, Dervla?’

‘Listen,’ said Dervla.

‘It is her intention,’ continued Mr Morrissey, ‘to convert this dwelling house into two apartments, and to offer you the uppermost one. I have drafted a contract, which I shall leave with you to peruse at your convenience. If you agree the terms and conditions of said contract, I shall require your signature to make it legally binding.’

Río took a swig of wine. ‘Um. What are the conditions?’ she asked.

‘They are contained herein,’ said Mr Morrissey, patting a manila envelope.

‘You’re making me nervous,’ said Río. ‘There’s something about the words “terms and conditions” that always strikes me as dodgy.’

‘There is nothing dodgy about the conditions in this contract, I assure you,’ said Mr Morrissey, fishing his ringing mobile out of his pocket and studying the display. ‘Ah. Excuse me, please. This is the call I was expecting. Your Grace! A pleasure, as always. Yes, yes. A most unfortunate occurrence…’

Mr Morrissey’s voice faded away like the dialogue in a radio play as he left the room and moved down the hall towards the kitchen.

Río turned to Dervla. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.

‘I took advantage of the seasonal lull to get my personal life sorted. Once I’m back in business, I won’t have time for anything else, and right now, time is of the essence. It’s important to get details like this nailed down before the shit hits the fan.’

‘There’s more shit on the way?’

‘I’m reliably informed that before the year is out, the country will be in recession.’

‘In that case, why don’t you want to sell the house right now?’ Río asked curiously.

‘Simple. The market’s about to hit an all-time low. Property isn’t shifting.’

Río knew this. Her friend Fleur had had her house on the market for months, and had been so insulted when someone had offered her a hundred thousand less than the asking price that she’d withdrawn it.

‘We could sit it out and wait until things start to improve,’ continued Dervla, ‘but we could be waiting a long time, and in the meantime this house will not only depreciate in value, it will deteriorate materially. The roof needs replacing, and a damp-course will have to be put in.’

Yikes. Río couldn’t afford the luxury of sitting it out. Her bank statement had arrived that morning, and she had tossed it straight into the recycling bin without bothering to open it. She didn’t want to know.

‘The alternative would be to apply for planning permission to have the place demolished and rebuilt, but that’ll take time and there’s no guarantee that permission will be granted. Whereas we will almost certainly get permission to extend. And if we don’t, we just go ahead and then look for retention. It’s a no-brainer.’

A no-brainer for an estate agent like you, Río wanted to say. Instead she said: ‘But, Dervla, there’s nowhere to extend now we’ve no garden.’

‘Yes, there is. We go up. We raise the roof.’

‘You mean, like, put in a mansard?’ asked Río.

‘We’d be unlikely to get permission for a mansard because that would affect the skyline, and the planning department’s very strict about that. But we could raise it enough to incorporate a mezzanine.’

‘And you’ll convert the downstairs for yourself?’

‘No. I don’t want to live here. I’m very happy in the Sugar Stack, thank you very much.’

‘So if you don’t want to sell your part and you don’t want to live here, what do you want to do with the joint?’

‘I want to turn my portion of the house into a holiday let. There’s money to be made from holiday rentals. And I can’t do it if the top storey isn’t in good nick. So I’m prepared to invest money in the place. I spoke to an architect friend, and asked him to come up with a design for a one-bed loft apartment in the attic’

‘For me?’ asked Río, feeling a bit uncertain.

‘Yes.’

‘Couldn’t he design one with two bedrooms?’

‘Not viable. There just isn’t the space.’

‘But what about Finn?’

‘Ma.’ Finn looked awkward. ‘I really don’t want you to worry about me. Once I get back from travelling, I think it’s best that I find a place of my own. So write me out of the equation. I don’t want you worrying about me–I just want you to be happy.’

‘You mean you don’t want to live with me any more?’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that it makes sense for you to grab the chance to have a home of your own.’

A home of her own. Those magical words! But did a one-bed apartment constitute a home? A one-bed apartment with no Finn to chat to when he came back from the boats, no Finn to share pizza with in front of a Bond DVD, no Finn to give out to for leaving the bathroom in a mess…

‘Presumably if you’re gifting Ma the apartment, Dervla,’ resumed Finn, ‘it’ll be rent and mortgage free?’

‘Of course. As long as we agree the conditions. I’m a business woman, not Lady Bountiful’

‘Giving your sister half a house—’

‘One-third of a house, Finn.’

‘OK–one-third of a house–is a pretty bountiful thing to do, I’d have thought.’

‘I like to keep things simple. Think of the alternatives. For instance, if you decided to contest Frank’s will, Río, things could get really messy’

‘Hello? I’m an illegitimate daughter. How could I contest it?’

‘They don’t use the word “illegitimate” any more. And, anyway, so-called “illegitimates” have the same rights as their natural-born siblings.’

‘So that means Ma could contest it if she wanted to?’ said Finn.

‘Yes. But do you want to, Río?’

Río thought about it. ‘No. You’re right. It would be messy. And risky. I’d end up in Stubbs Gazette if the case was decided against me.’

‘So what are the conditions, then?’ asked Finn.

Dervla recrossed her legs, and gave Río a look of assessment. ‘I don’t want you to sell your share of the house within my lifetime, nor do I want you to rent it out.’

‘Oh. Why not?’

‘If I’m letting it as a holiday rental, it stands to reason that I have someone to keep an eye on the place. And who better to have ensconced in the upstairs apartment than my own sister?’

‘So I’d be like a kind of caretaker?’

‘I don’t know that “caretaker” is the right word. It sounds rather menial, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m not proud, Dervla. I told you that. I’ve had a long history as a jack of all trades. I can turn my hand to most things.’

‘Well. Let’s use a rather more genteel euphemism. How about “resident supervisor”?’

‘But I could be a complete liability, for all you know. I could throw wild parties and trash the joint and entertain unsuitable men and—’

‘Ma!’

‘Sorry, Finn.’

‘But I know you won’t do any of those things,’ said Dervla. ‘Because I know you’ve always wanted a home you can call your own. We both have.’

The sisters regarded each other for a long moment.

Finn broke the silence. ‘Will Ma be consulted about the design of the place?’ he asked. ‘It seems only fair to let her have some say in what it’ll look like.’

‘Of course,’ said Dervla, reassuming her brisk manner. ‘You’ll be glad to know that I’ve asked my architect to include a balcony to the front, Río, so you’ll have a view of the sea. Subject to planning, of course.’

‘Hm. This all sounds very good.’ Finn reached for the wine bottle, and Río could tell by his expression that he was thinking that this all might be too good to be true. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Dervla,’ he said, moving across the room to top up her glass, ‘but I’d like to have a look at anything Ma has to sign, because she finds red tape a bit–well–intimidating.’

‘That won’t be a problem, Finn. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Río gave her son a big smile as he refilled her glass. How sweet of him to look out for her! And he was right about the red-tape thing. Río had a fear of filling in forms and signing contracts that verged on the pathological. ‘What will being “resident supervisor” involve, sis?’ she asked.

‘Turning the place around between rentals. Laundry, a bit of cleaning, making a note of meter readings, that kind of thing.’

‘You mean skivvying,’ said Finn.

He said it in a jokey voice, but from the detectable hint of steel, Río could tell that Finn didn’t like the idea of his mother doing Dervla’s dirty work. Hell, she didn’t mind! The prospect of living rent and mortgage free in exchange for doing a bit of housework was a heady one. She’d had worse jobs. She’d worked in a call centre once, where she’d been glad to be fired after she’d called a customer a dickhead (in her defence, he’d called her a cunt).

‘Will I have to clean the loo?’

Dervla looked taken aback. ‘Well–yes,’ she said.

‘In that case,’ said Río with mock hauteur, ‘I might have a few conditions of my own.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Can I keep a marmalade cat?’

‘Yes,’ said Dervla, with a laugh.

‘Then I guess it’s a done deal. W.B.’ll be glad to know that he’s found a home. Have you got your Dalmatian yet?’

‘No. I’ll have to move into the Great House first.’

‘With the Pierce Brosnan lookalike?’

‘I’ve lowered my standards a bit since then.’

‘What are you two on about?’ asked Finn.

‘We used to have a fantasy,’ said Río, ‘when we were little, that Dervla would marry a man who looked like Pierce Brosnan and live in a Great House with a Dalmatian and manicured lawns.’

‘And where were you going to live, Ma?’

‘I was going to marry a Pierce Brosnan lookalike too, and I was going to live in a cottage by the sea with an orchard and a marmalade cat. Ha! I’ll have to forgo the orchard–unless I get a load of bonsais for my balcony.’

‘Well, at least you got the cat bit right,’ said Finn, as WB. marched into the room, authority manifest in his ramrod-stiff tail. He was followed by Mr Morrissey, who was saying: ‘Yes, yes, yes. I am, of course, Your Grace’s most obedient servant.’

Mr Morrissey ended his call, and slid his phone back into the pocket of his suit. ‘His Grace is ebullient as ever,’ he announced with a self-satisfied smile. ‘Now. Is everything settled?’

‘We think so,’ Dervla told him.

‘Excellent!’ said Mr Morrissey, with great enthusiasm. ‘In that case, I’ll be off. His Grace has invited me to cocktails at the palace.’

‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ quipped Finn.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Stop being facetious, Finn,’ said Dervla, waspishly.

At the front door, they all shook hands, and Mr Morrissey said: ‘May I just say again how sorry I am for your trouble. Your father was a real character.’

And Río and Dervla smiled and waved as he walked to where his Lexus was parked further down the street.

Río stooped to pick up a cigarette butt that someone had ground out on the doorstep. ‘Time to clear up,’ she said.

‘I’ll start on the dishes.’ Finn retreated into the kitchen trilling, ‘Where are my Marigolds?’

Dervla raised her eyes to heaven and retrieved her Hermes handbag from the hall table. ‘We’re nearly out of washing-up liquid. I’ll nip up to the shop for some.’

‘You might get some Solpadeine too. I feel a headache coming on.’

Río felt very tired suddenly. She shambled back into the study to begin tidying up the remains of the party. And as she started collecting plates and glasses and piling them onto a tray, she thought about what Finn had said earlier, when he’d told her he’d find a place of his own to live. She knew she could survive without him for a year, while he was off doing his round-the-world thing–especially now that there were loads of ways of checking that all was well via Skype and MSN and email. Keeping in touch wasn’t what it had been when she was his age, when long-distance phone calls had been too expensive and letters too much of an effort. But she hadn’t allowed herself to think about what it would be like once Finn left home for ever.

For ever! Río remembered what Dervla had said on the day of their father’s death, about putting childish things behind her, and she understood that that was what her son was trying to do. She supposed it couldn’t be easy for him–a twenty-year-old man to be living with his mammy still. Maybe he got grief about it from his mates. Maybe he’d been angling to move out of their little rented house for years, but just hadn’t had the bottle to tell her because he knew how much she’d hate to lose him, hate to find herself living life solitaire–a childless hackney driver who scraped by working in other people’s gardens and part time in bars, and painting indifferent watercolours to sell like some old-time spinster. Hefting the tray piled with dirty dishes, Río moved down the hallway and kicked the kitchen door open with such force that Finn looked round as she came through.

‘Ma? Are you OK?’ he asked. The concern in his voice made her want to drop the tray and fling her arms around him and weep.

‘Yes. I’m fine,’ she said.

Stapling on a smile, Río looked at her son standing by the sink, waiting for the washing-up bowl to fill. He’d kicked off his trainers; they lay beside her Doc Martens on the kitchen floor, making them look like Barbie boots in comparison. He wasn’t her little boy. He was a grown man; he was his own man. He didn’t belong to her any more. And, as she’d said to him earlier that week, he never really had belonged to her. He’d only been hers to borrow for a couple of scarily short decades, and now she was counting down the days until he was no longer even on loan to her.

But what would become of her without him?