Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

of the page. Others took up an eighth, a quarter, half, or even a whole page. The advertisements did look very professional, I wondered whether we ought to advertise our milk in it.

I flicked through the directory until I found a quarter page advert for Wilson, Kendall and Beanney, a firm of solicitors, whose offices were in Armskirk, which was only about five miles away.

I immediately thought of the comedy trio, Wilson, Keppel and Betty, who I had seen on the cinema screen performing the Egyptian sand dance. Still smiling, I picked up the transceiver and made my first telephone call.

I almost leapt out of my seat when the intermittent buzzing was replaced by a woman’s voice.

‘Wilson, Kendall and Beanney, solicitors, how may I help you?’

I forgot all about using my posh voice.

‘Could I speak to Mr Keppel… I mean Betty, please?’ I stammered.

‘I’m sorry?’ the obviously confused receptionist replied.

I wracked my brains trying to remember the names. ‘Erm, a solicitor, it doesn’t matter which one.’

‘Mr Wilson is in his office, one moment and I’ll put you through. Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Alice M… Tansley,’ I replied, almost giving her the surname I wanted my own name changing to.

‘Mrs Alice M. Tansley,’ the receptionist replied. ‘Putting you through now.’

Her voice was replaced by more of the infernal buzzing, then a man came on the line.

‘Good morning, Mrs Tansley, this is Godfrey Wilson, how may I assist you?’

‘Erm, I err… well, I’m not Mrs Tansley, I’m Miss, but I’d like to talk to you about becoming Mrs Mollison.’

‘You want advice on getting married? I don’t think I—’

‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I’d like to change my name to Alice Mollison without getting married.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Mr Wilson cleared his throat. ‘You want to change your surname by Deed of Name Change?’

‘If that’s the same as Deed Poll, then yes, that’s exactly what I’d like to do.’ I took a breath. ‘I would also like advice on how I would go about putting our family farm into a trust, so that no one from outside of the immediate Tansley family would ever be able to take it away from us. Even if my name is Mollison by then.’

‘We do provide that service. May I ask, does the farm belong to you?’

‘My father is still alive, but I don’t think he’ll last for much longer,’ I replied. ‘This has to be done quite soon. The name change, especially.’

‘Could you pop in for a longer chat, Miss, err, Tansley, isn’t it?’

‘Could you come to me instead?’ I asked. ‘I have the piggery to clean out this morning, and the slaughter house men are coming later. Then I have a crop planting meeting with my foreman this afternoon.’

‘Oh, it won’t be today, Miss Tansley, let me just check my diary.’

The line went quiet for a short time.

‘Mrs… I mean, Miss Tansley… I can spare an hour or so tomorrow afternoon. Could you give my receptionist your address and telephone number? She’ll ring you in the morning to confirm the appointment.’

Mr Wilson was replaced by a series of buzzes again, then the receptionist came back on the line. I gave her my details and waited for her to jot them down, but apparently, she had done it while I was talking.

‘Mr Wilson will be with you at two PM tomorrow afternoon. Goodbye, thank you for calling Wilson, Kendall and Beanney.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ I said to the dial tone.

By Wednesday lunchtime I had finished with the piggery, and dealing with the men the abattoir sent a day late, to pick up the latest lorryload of pigs that were the right size and weight for slaughter. I always felt a tinge of remorse when the time came for them to go. I understood the ways of the farming world but I always felt a real sadness inside whenever the bullocks and lambs went, but seeing the pigs driven away, always left me with a heavy heart.

The eighty sows we kept gave birth twice a year, and each one produced around twenty piglets during that time, so they were an integral part of the finances of the farm. The new pig shelter we had built would pay for itself by September when the first of the new sows would give birth.

I stripped down to my underwear and had a wash in the sink as there wasn’t time to boil the copper for a bath. I couldn’t really plan my future with a solicitor, stinking of pig shit.

As I stood at the sink, washing myself in the cold water from the tap, I happened to look across to the parlour, one wall of which backed onto the outside toilet. I suddenly had the brilliant idea of bringing that toilet indoors and maybe putting a porcelain bath in there too. Now that Frank wasn’t sleeping in there anymore, it would hardly be used, and although it would mean installing a boiler of some kind, the thought of not having to sit in a tin bath in a draughty kitchen in winter, made whatever the cost might be, seem like a bargain.

I decided to call the local building firm I had seen advertised in the directory, to get a quote.

I dumped my dirty farm clothes on a seat next to the kitchen table and waddled upstairs to get changed into my newly altered trousers and one of my father’s old woollen jumpers that hung on me like a sack. I came back downstairs just as the clock struck two.

Mr Wilson was a good-looking man with a medium build, dark hair and Clarke Gable moustache. He wore a dark blue pinstriped suit, with a white, spearpoint collar shirt, a navy coloured silk tie, black brogue shoes and a dark grey Homburg hat. He reminded me of a gangster in one of the James Cagney films. He carried a wide, tan briefcase.

He took off his hat as he stepped through the front door. My father stared at the wall and said nothing.

I led him across