The Legacy: Trouble Comes Disguised As Family (Unspoken Book 2) by T. Belshaw (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

tarmacked drive. By the time she reached the car, Nicola had climbed out and opened the rear door for her.

‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, nervously.

Martha pointed at her wrist watch. ‘What time do you call this? We said eleven, not a quarter past.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I got stuck behind a tractor on the lane.’

Martha gave her a withering look and slid into the back seat as Marjorie scurried around the back of the car to the other side.

‘You’re late, dear,’ she said.

Nicola ignored her, climbed back into the car and started it up as Marjorie slammed the back door shut.

‘Seat belt,’ Martha snapped.

Nicola sighed, pulled the belt over her shoulder and clicked the tongue into place, ‘Are we still going to Nana’s, or—’

‘We’re going to The Farm!’ spat Martha. ‘It is no longer my mother’s property. She gave it up the day she died.’

‘It will be ours later on today, won’t it, Martha?’ Marjorie looked smugly at the back of Nicola’s head.

‘Oh, have you read the will already? That is good news,’ Nicola replied. ‘I hope you won’t forget me when you come into your inheritance.’ She looked over her shoulder towards Martha.

‘You’ll need to do something about that alcohol habit of yours before I hand over a penny,’ said Martha, caustically.

Nicola concentrated on the road and refused to be drawn into another argument about her drinking. She drove steadily, a few miles an hour under the speed limit, but not slow enough to attract the attention of a passing police car. Instead of driving through the town, which would have been the quickest route, she turned onto a narrow, hedge-lined, lane that meandered through the countryside and led back onto the main road just past what used to be the town’s railway station.

‘I thought I’d take you via the scenic route. I love the colours at this time of year, don’t you, Mum?’

Martha wasn’t impressed. ‘I didn’t ask for a guided tour, Nicola. I know what you’re up to. Now, just drive us to the farm for pity’s sake.’

Nicola took a deep breath and pulled up a little too sharply at the T-Junction causing both passengers to lurch forward in their seats. Before Martha had a chance to criticise her driving skills, she swung the car to the right and went through the gears as the car sped along the long lane that led to what was left of the farm. She pulled onto the asphalt drive with a squeal of brakes and came to an abrupt halt five feet short of the wide field gate that gave access to the rear of the farmhouse.

Nicola slipped out of the car and opened the rear door for Martha who strode purposely to the aluminium tube gate, pulled on the spring lever and pushed it open. She stepped onto the gravel drive and marched along the side of the old house towards another, smaller metal gate at the back. When she reached it, she stopped, placed her elbows on the top rail and looked into what had once been a busy farmyard.

‘I bet this brings back happy memories, Mum,’ said Nicola as she stood at the side of Martha.

‘Not all happy ones,’ Martha replied, quietly.

Marjorie pointed to an expanse of bare concrete on the far side of the yard. ‘There used to be pig pens there, lots of them. And just to the side of the barn there was a milking parlour.’ She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘I liked it better then, it looks so empty now.’

Martha slipped the latch on the gate and the three women walked into the farmyard. She took in the rear of the sturdy old house then stepped across to a long, wide strip of concrete that had been breached here and there by thick clumps of grass.

‘This was where the milking parlour stood. I was only a baby when it was built.’ She stamped on the cold concrete. ‘These foundations could still support a couple of new bungalows.’ She turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘The barn looks solid enough still. Maybe I could build one of those conversions there, people pay a fortune for those… and… I’m not sure how thick the concrete is where the sties were built but, if that area is going to be built on, it would probably have to be dug up. Old smells might linger.’

Martha turned back towards the old, red brick house. She looked down at the concrete beneath her feet, swallowed deeply and cleared her throat before she spoke.

‘I can imagine my father standing here looking at the farmhouse, imagining that he’d be running the place one day. I bet it was his idea to build the milking parlour too.’ She looked down at her feet again. ‘I can almost feel his presence here. He probably stood on this very spot before my bloody mother forced him away… to die a hero’s death in the cold sea.’

Marjorie, not to be outdone, walked across the farmyard and came to a halt in front of the barn.

‘My father must have stood here at some time too,’ she said.

‘Maybe so,’ uttered Martha, ‘but he wouldn’t have done anything to help build this place up, like my father did.’

‘He was a pilot, he died a hero’s death too,’ Marjorie replied, sulkily.

‘We don’t know that. We just know he died. He could have been bombed at the RAF base for all we know. He could have crashed his plane into the sea, trying to run away from the German planes. We just don’t know; we only have Mother’s word for it, and we know what a liar she was.’

‘It’s just the same with Frank. There’s no record of his death either. We just have Mother’s word for that too,’ replied Marjorie, sticking up for herself for once.

Martha was about to hit back, but decided that punishment for such insubordination could wait until later. Instead, she gave her a look that made Marjorie quake in her boots.

‘Right, I want