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

what a genuine one would mean for you and the farm. It’s only a mock-up, it’s not a legal document.’

I skimmed the papers. They looked genuine to me.

‘Whenever you are ready to proceed, be it now or at a later date, we can use this as a basis for the real thing. You can keep that one, I have a copy.’

I put it back on the table with my Deed Poll sheet and my family identification stuff, and thanked him profusely.

He gave me that bloody smile again, and I blushed again, and started patting my curls into place. I dropped the dreamy-eyed look as his face suddenly became serious.

‘Alice, I don’t know the state of the farm’s finances, but there will be quite a hefty tax bill to pay to the government. They have a thing called Estate Duty that is triggered whenever a landowner dies and the estate is left to a descendant. Sadly, there is no way around it.’

‘How much are we talking?’ I said, suddenly regretting the money I had spent on the new bathroom.

‘I’ll need the deeds, accounts, expenses sheets and anything relating to the business before I can work it out. We also have to transfer the ownership of the farm to you. Did your father leave a will?’

‘Yes, he wrote it after my mother died. It hasn’t been drawn up by a solicitor, it’s just a single sheet of paper saying everything goes to me.’

‘Could you get it for me, and the deeds, accounts, everything I just mentioned? I’ll get them all back to you later in the week.’

I collected all the documents from the tallboy and took them back to him. He slipped them into his briefcase, snapped it shut, and fixed the brass clasp.

‘I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea,’ I said, aghast.

‘Don’t worry about that, Alice. People treat solicitors like vicars. I drink so much in a workday that I can’t face another drop when I get home.’

I walked him to the front door, he opened it, stepped outside, then thanked me again for the business, before donning his hat. Suddenly, James Cagney’s gangster partner was on my doorstep again.

‘I’ll call you in the week,’ he said.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said, giving him the goofy smile again.

He tipped his hat to me, turned on his heel and walked back to his gangster car. He climbed inside and waved to me from the open, driver’s window.

‘Bye, Bugsy,’ I called out, much louder than I had intended.

When I had stopped daydreaming about running away to some dingy hotel on Sheppey with Mr Wilson, I picked up the phone directory and called the funeral directors that we had used for my mother. I explained the circumstances of my father’s death, and the owner, Mr Jenkins, promised to pick my father’s body up in the afternoon.

‘Has a doctor seen him yet?’ he asked.

I tried the same joke that had worked on my lawyer.

‘It’s a bit late for that.’

‘Miss Tansley, this is not the time for brevity,’ he said sternly.

‘It’s Mrs Mollison now,’ I replied, refusing to apologise for my little joke.

‘Well, Mrs Mollison, I’ll see you around two o’clock,’ he said, and hung up.

Next, I searched the directory for the doctor who had treated my mother over the years. My father always distrusted him because my mother never got any better, but at least he knew where we lived. He’d called here often enough.

Dr Philby wasn’t available to call, but his partner in the practice, Dr Patterson, was. Because of the situation and the time of year, he promised to call before noon.

I suddenly felt incredibly weary, and went back to my seat by the stove, leaving the trust sheets and my Deed Poll document on the table.

Miriam had her coat on, and was ready to go. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?’ she asked.

‘Just aspirin,’ I said. ‘Oh, and did you pick up the note for Amy?’

Miriam waved it at me and set off for the market, leaving me in charge of my own child for the first time. Thankfully, she was asleep.

I wasn’t alone for long however. Elsie arrived at eleven on the dot. After checking on Martha, she ordered me to take off my pants, get onto the table and spread my legs. Twenty seconds later her head assumed its usual position, between them. She had only been there less than a minute, when there was a knock on the window and a man in a black bower hat, got exactly the same view as Elsie, albeit from slightly further away.

I screamed, and closed my legs, trapping Elsie’s head between my thighs. She must have thought I’d done it on purpose because muffled threats arose from my bottom end, and those great, ham sized hands took hold of my knees and forced them apart again. As she came up for air, red-faced and shaking with anger, I pointed to the window, where, thankfully, the bowler hatted man was still standing.

Elsie forced my legs closed, pulled my skirt over my knees, and stormed to the door.

‘You disgusting individual, why the hell are you spying on a new mother, receiving her post-natal examination?’

The man in the bower showed his card as proof of identity, and said that he had come to remove a corpse.

‘She’s not dead, you moron, she’s just had a baby.’

The man from the funeral director’s tried to explain, but Elsie was having none of it. In the end I had to get off the table and join the fray myself.

‘Elsie, my father died last night, he’s in the parlour.’

Elsie stopped berating the young man and, red-faced, this time with embarrassment, hurried back into the kitchen.

‘I’m John,’ said the young man. He motioned to two other men who were standing by the back gate carrying a shiny coffin.

‘You can’t take him yet. The doctor hasn’t seen him.’

‘I thought he was dead,’ said John.

‘He is,’ I said, cursing him for stealing my joke. ‘The doctor