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

Reverend Villiers checked his diary, and told me I had a choice of dates. I settled for eleven o’clock on the Friday of the following week. My father had been so keen to join my mother in the shady plot that he had drunk himself to death, so I wanted them to be side by side, as quickly as possible. Reverend Villiers marked down the date and time, and I said that I’d get on to Mr Jenkins, the funeral director, straight away.

At exactly nine-thirty, Mr Jenkins rang me to see if I had finalised a date for my father’s funeral. I was beginning to think I had developed some sort of telepathic power; this was the second time in the space of a few days where I had mentioned a particular businessman and he had miraculously appeared on the end of a telephone line.

I gave Mr Jenkins the details of the funeral, and he checked his own diary. Thankfully, there was no conflict. When Mr Jenkins asked if I wanted him to arrange the floral display, I agreed. Apparently, he had a deal with the local florist. I ordered a simple wreath. My father wasn’t big on flowers.

Next, I telephoned the local newspaper, and booked a slot in the obituary column.

Robert Tansley. February 18th 1890-June 26th 1938. Reunited at last. Funeral, St Wilfred’s Church. Friday July 8th 11 AM.

After a cup of tea and an attempted cuddle with Martha, I went upstairs and pulled my favourite polka-dot dress out of the wardrobe. I laid it on the bed and sorted out my best heels and my one pair of silk stockings, then headed for the bath.

In the bathroom cupboard was one of my prized possessions. A box of rose-scented bath salts that Amy had given me for Christmas in 1937. I only used them once in the hip bath, and not at all since Frank had been sharing the water with me but, since the new bath had been installed, I’d poured a measure into the water, twice.

After the bath, I dried my hair and brushed it slowly, so that my chestnut curls were displayed at their beautiful, best. I dressed, then gave myself a spray with my mother’s Tabu perfume, a gift from her well-heeled sister, who had married well and lived in London.

At eleven forty-five, Frank started up the old truck, and I clambered up to sit beside him.

‘Who are you all dolled up for?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got to go to the solicitor’s office to sign off the farm transfer and some other stuff. You don’t go to those sorts of places stinking of pig shit.’

He leaned across and sniffed. ‘You smell like a tart,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t know what tarts smells like, Frank. This perfume isn’t cheap. I doubt even the most expensive tart could afford it.’

‘You never wear it for me,’ he complained.

‘No, and I won’t ever wear it now; you don’t want me smelling like a tart in bed, do you?’ I was angry, and he knew it. We drove in silence for the rest of the trip.

When we reached Mr Wilson’s office, I waved Frank away and wriggle-walked across the forecourt just to piss Frank off even more. I stopped the tart act as I stepped through into the reception area.

‘Miss Tans… Mollison,’ said Miss Johnston, giving me a smile that was as fake as the necklace that hung around her neck. She pointed to the open door of an office to her right. ‘Mr Wilson is expecting you.’

My gangster lawyer smiled his dreamy smile at me as I entered his office. I was tempted to do my wriggle walk again but thought better of it. He looked me up and down appreciatively. ‘My goodness, Alice, what a vision of loveliness you are. He closed the door, and pulled out a padded chair for me to sit in. I crossed my legs in what I hoped was a ladylike manner, and fiddled with my curls. Mr Wilson stepped around to his side of the desk and smiled at me again. My heart flipped.

‘Business before pleasure,’ he said, pushing three documents across the desk. ‘Please take your time to read, then sign them please, Alice.’

I couldn’t understand a word that was written on the pages. The text was made up of words like herewith, forthwith, and notwithstanding, it was like a foreign language. I tried not to let on how out of my depth I was, and not wanting to drag things out, and because I trusted him implicitly, I just picked up the beautiful fountain pen from his desk, and scribbled my signature in all the marked places.

Mr Wilson blotted the wet ink and handed one of the copies to me.

‘Congratulations, Alice. You are now legally the owner of Tansley Farm. Do you think you will change its name any time soon? Mollison Farm for instance?’

‘Not while there’s a breath in my body,’ I replied. I folded the paper in half, then in half again, and stuffed it into my bag.

‘Have you registered your father’s death yet?’ he asked.

‘No, Frank’s doing it just now. He’s registering Martha’s birth at the same time.’

‘Was Frank the man driving your truck? I saw him drop you off. I must admit, I have been looking forward to your visit all morning.’

I bit my tongue before I could blurt out what I’d been thinking about, lying in my scented bath, and gave him my best smile.

Mr Wilson gathered up the documents, and stood up. ‘Right, let’s go and see what you fancy at my brother’s house.’ He looked at me as I got up from my seat. ‘Did anyone ever tell you; you look like Rita Hayworth?’

We walked out into the reception area, together. Miss Johnston watching my every step. Mr Wilson dropped my documents on her desk. ‘File these away please,’ he said, before turning back to me. ‘Right, Mrs Mollison, shall be go? My car is