Death in the Family by Carolyn Smith (e reader manga .txt) 📕

It was as I was standing by her bedside holding her withered, wrinkled hand, looking at her frail, ghostly grey, old face that it really hit me what I had done. I had been waiting for this moment for months. It had taken no end of hard work and effort on my part. All the planning, sneaking, plotting, trial and error had finally brought us here to this moment. Mrs. Wilkins, an upstanding member of the community, loving mother to my father, Nana Wilkins as she was known to me and my brother, lay here in this hospital bed having breathed her last. She had departed this world and left us all behind along with her estate and riches. As I looked down at her little body and her eyes staring, looking at nothing at all; with her mouth slightly open as if in mid sentence, I had to hide the excited glint in my eye. I had come too far; I couldn’t risk it all now at this crucial moment. My father, David Wilkins, a 35 year old office worker, put a hand on my shoulder in an effort to provide some comfort. My performance must have been more convincing than I thought. My dad was falling for it. Ok good. I just have to keep us this façade for a little while longer, until I could be alone.

When I was growing up I had no idea what my doting grandmother was worth. She lived in a simple terraced house in an ordinary street. She wore the usual ‘old people’s’ clothes that she would find in various charity shops and cheap markets. She did nothing out of the ordinary. She didn’t go on expensive holidays. In fact the ‘best’ holiday of her life was a week in Cyprus with her sister Margery. Why is it that most old ladies are called Margery? As it goes I didn’t like Margery very much. I thought she was a nosy busy body, always sticking her nose into everybody else’s’ business. She also smelt of old people that stale perfume, sweat and smoke smell. I don’t remember too much about her if I’m honest, but I do remember that because she was a heavy smoker her teeth were yellow which made her smile more scary than pleasant. Whenever we saw her she always insisted on pulling Karl (my brother) and I in close so we could get a really good waft of her stench, and giving us a kiss on both cheeks and the lips. I don’t know why, but she made the kiss on the lips a sloppy one. Did she save up saliva especially for this occasion? I don’t know but Karl and I would have to wriggle free before one of us wretched. We used to get her ‘smellys’ as gifts for Christmas and her birthday in an attempt to combat the smell, but she never took the hint. Luckily we didn’t have to put with it for too long. She died of pneumonia when I was 6. When Mum and Dad helped Nana to clear out Margery’s house they found drawers full of the same smellys we had been buying her for years.

My Granddad George or Mr. Wilkins as he was known by many, had died when I was only 8 years old. He was a well liked man, always the centre of attention who always had a funny story up his sleeve to keep all and sundry entertained. His favourite stories were usually about pranks he had played as a boy with his three younger brothers. I can’t remember any of them now which is a shame because I used to really enjoy them. Maybe it was the way he told them, rather than the stories themselves. He died of a respiratory problem. I was too young to understand at the time. I just know that he wheezed when he breathed, I remember it sounded like air being squeezed through a thin straw. I must admit, although I loved my Granddad very much, it used to scare me when he went into a terrible coughing fit. At that age, I had no idea that he was actually dying. He was only 52. I loved spending time with him though, not least because he would usually have a little white bag in his pocket filled with chocolate covered toffees. We would sit for hours at a time, talking about all kinds of random topics, making each other laugh (and cough and wheeze) while sucking on those lovely toffees. That was what I missed most about him after he was gone. I can’t make my mind up whether it was the laughter or the toffees. I have a feeling it may have been the toffees.

Granddad George had been a chef during the war. It wasn’t something I would brag about to my friends, who all had Grandfathers who had fought and died, or fought and had terrible war injuries to contend with for the rest of their lives. I thought that Granddad George was a coward, hiding away in the back of the kitchen making soup for all the brave warriors who risked their lives every day. I learnt later of course, of the value that my Granddad’s role really held. Without him the troops wouldn’t have lasted two days. He kept them nourished, strong and healthy. He was also trained in combat and could have been expected to drop everything and fight at a moment’s notice, which did happen on more than one occasion. He rarely spoke about his time at war and to be honest, due to total lack of interest I never asked. As a result I never had a chance to tell him I was proud of him. I did tell him however, that his broth was awesome. Another reason I miss him now. Lamb broth with carrots, potatoes and peas. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water, I can almost smell it. He used to make it on a Sunday afternoon and then freeze some for later in the week. Nana would bake fresh crusty bread to go with it. The delicious smell would fill the house and tempt our taste buds for hours while it simmered on the stove. “Can’t rush a good broth,” Granddad would say when I pleaded with him to let us have some, “Now!”

Nana Wilkins was distraught when Granddad George died. She was literally lost without him at first (she probably missed his broth too). As kids my brother, Karl and I would go and stay with Nana Wilkins and Granddad George almost every weekend. It was wonderful; we were spoilt rotten with sweets and late night movies. I loved going there. Karl and I would run amok in the quiet little street, but no one seemed to mind. The neighbours would often invite us in for soft drinks and biscuits. We always obliged, it would have been rude not to. Now that I think about it this was probably their way of getting us off the street and to give other neighbours 15 minutes of peace while we refreshed ourselves. They did seem to take it in turns to call us in. A couple of weeks after Granddad George died Karl and I went to stay with Nana Wilkins as usual, for the weekend. She spent the whole weekend crying in the kitchen. I have to admit, it really did put a dampener on our weekend. I remember thinking “I don’t like it at Nana Wilkins’ without Granddad George.”

It was during these stays at Nana’s when I would let my imagination run loose. I had an over active imagination in those days and I still do to some extent. Nana’s back yard has been home to various invisible farm animals which I made her swear she would feed everyday in the week while I was at school; a mine field which couldn’t be stepped on under any circumstances lest the ill fated ‘walker’ wanted to lose a limb, and the castle of a Giant who would sooner eat us all up than share his vegetables, which made gardening in the vegetable patch very trying for Nana who “Just wants some carrots for dinner!”

More often than not I would become an explorer on a mission. While everyone else was sitting quietly in the living room, eyes glued to the image on the T.V. screen I would sneak upstairs and ‘explore’. My exploring expeditions basically meant me rummaging through Nana’s things. I was looking for ‘treasure’. I was sure I would find a pot filled with money or lots of expensive jewelry hidden away. I don’t know why I expected to find anything of the sort, as I mentioned Nana lived in a very simple house and she certainly didn’t wear any expensive jewelry. I’d convince myself that this was because it was hidden away somewhere secret where thieves and pirates couldn’t find it. I would open every draw and cupboard and look in every nook and cranny. She must have known what I was doing. I’d excuse myself from the living room by saying I needed to visit the bathroom and then I’d be gone for hours. There couldn’t have been anything THAT interesting on the telly that she didn’t notice my absence.

It was during one of these ‘expeditions’ when I came across her will. It was inside a brown envelope, in a tin box hidden inside a closet behind some of Granddad’s old gardening boots and tweed jackets. Nana Wilkins had obviously felt too attached to these items to dispose of them along with all of his other things. Either that or even the charity shops didn’t want them. The closet had a very dry and musty smell. It must not have been opened for a long time. When I opened the closet the first thing to draw my attention was an SLR army issue rifle (I later found out that Granddad had procured this illegally). A strange thing to keep I thought, especially as she doesn’t know how to use it…or does she? I lifted it out of the closet careful not to touch the trigger. When I put the butt of the gun on the floor the nozzle end just about reached my shoulder. This would not be an easy gun to fire seeing as how it was almost my height. I cautiously opened the chamber which was so stiff the little round knob on the end of the handle made a red mark on the palm of my hand where I had clutched it so tightly. Empty. I was searching the closet for ammunition when I came across the tin box. I was 13 years old when I found it. I was pleased to see that the envelope was not sealed. I eased the paper out, unfolded it and read it. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I read it. I must have read it 5 or 6 times that afternoon. There was a lot of legal jargon which I didn’t really understand, but I did understand that my father, Karl and I all stood to inherit a very tidy sum each upon her demise. Where had my nana got her hands on 60,000 pounds sterling? The only job I have ever known her to have was as a cleaner at the local mental institute. There is no way she could have saved up this much money from doing that 3 times a week. Unless…maybe she had become great friends with a patient who was quite affluent. Maybe they had given her the money to look