The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1616 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I seemed to be busy the rest of that day, and just after I returned with the girls at four o’clock the phone rang. I was closest so I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Could I speak to Lady Catherine Cameron?”

“This is she, who is that?”

“Ah, Lady Cameron, I’m John Thorneton from Appleby, Crossdyke and Weightcombe.”

“Who are they when they’re at home?” I asked, admitting that they didn’t sound like a double-glazing company.

“We are a large firm of solicitors situated in Gosport, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us.”

“Sorry, look is this important because I do have loads to do?” and making a cuppa was a priority.

“I’m sorry, of course you’re busy, it’s regarding your late great aunt, Mrs Una Pennecuik.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Are you aware she named you as her next of kin.”

“Sort of, but only because the hospice manager told me.”

“If you could arrange her funeral, I’d be grateful but if you require any assistance, please do let us know.” He gave me a phone number.

“I presume there are sufficient funds to cover the cost of the funeral?”

“Oh yes, the estate should be able to authorise that.”

“Are you executors?”

“Yes, but we’ll obviously try to follow your wishes as regard to the funeral arrangements–you are her only remaining relative.”

“I’m not actually, I have an aunt–my father’s sister.”

“Oh do you now–we didn’t know that, could you give me details.” So I did.

“Does that make her next of kin?”

“No, your great aunt rewrote her will a few days ago and named you as her next of kin–so you will be chief mourner and as such will arrange the funeral within the guidelines she laid out.”

“Which are?”

“A non-religious ceremony before her cremation and her ashes to be sprinkled in Portsmouth harbour.”

“Okay, do I organise a death certificate or do you?”

“We already have, it’ll be waiting for you at the hospice if you then inform the registrar and bring us at least three copies, preferably five, we can get on and execute the will.”

“Do I choose the undertaker?”

“No, she did, the Co-op, she prepaid it years ago when they first diagnosed her cancer. We’ve already arranged for them to collect her body.”

I eventually finished the conversation with John Thorneton and organised the dinner. The evening was much as usual, I read the girls a story, chased Danny off to bed as soon as the football was over after making sure he’d done his homework.

Simon was up in town so I was alone in bed. On getting there I couldn’t settle to read my book, I just kept wishing I’d had more time to get to know Great Aunt Una. We weren’t a close family, as must be obvious, and my dad and his sister loathed each other. Mind you Auntie Do is quite easy to dislike. Uncle Arthur is a bit nicer but does what she tells him.

Did I mention they’d phoned while I was trying to make the dinner? Auntie Do would be onto anything where there might be money like a shot. Me–I’d be happy if she left all the money to the cat’s home.

“Char–I mean, Cathy?”

“Yes, Aunt Do?”

“Did you hear we’ve just lost a near relative?”

“Near? You live in Swindon, that’s miles away,” I said playing deliberately stupid.

“How can you be so glib at such a time?”

Quite easily you daft old gowk, “I wasn’t aware I was.”

“Your mother raised you to be a better than go for cheap jokes at a time of sadness.”

“So why are you sad, Auntie Do?”

“How can you be so heartless, Char–I mean Cathy? My Aunt Una has died, her solicitors called half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t know she existed until a week ago when I saw her in hospital.”

“Well that’s your father’s fault. I was well aware of her.”

“Were you, so you know what she did for a living then?”

“Um, in those days women were just housewives...”

“Of course they were, I mean Grandma was, wasn’t she?”

“Yes she was, so her sister would be the same.”

“Of course though it would be difficult while she was up at Oxford, wouldn’t it?”

“She went to Oxford–the university?”

“Yes, before she ran off with Erwin Schrodinger.”

“Who?”

“One of the founders of quantum theory.”

“I don’t like any of those pop stars, Cathy.”

“He was a theoretical physicist and so was she.”

“Goodness, well all that stuff isn’t much practical use is it?”

“Not unless you want to make atomic bombs and things,” I said because it was the most dramatic thing I could think of.

“Goodness, she didn’t make atomic bombs did she?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t been to her house yet,” I almost laughed out loud. I didn’t even know if she had a house of her own.

“Well you be careful, young m–um–woman. I don’t want you blowing up her house and yourself of course.” Yeah as an afterthought. “When is the funeral?”

“I don’t know, I can’t get the death certificates until tomorrow, the executors made an appointment for me with the registrar. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Cha–Cathy.”

“You’re welcome, Auntie Do–I have to go, supervise the cook or the soufflés won’t be just right. Byeee.” God I despise that woman. She’ll probably ask the solicitor to read the will while we wait for the old lady to burn.

The next day, after taking the girls to school I got the death certificate from the hospice and went to the registrar who was a pleasant middle aged woman. I explained that until a week ago I didn’t know Great Aunt Una existed and were it not for Trish going to chat with her and discovering she used to teach at the convent, I’d not have spoken to her let alone discovered we were related. Is that meaningful coincidence or what? I suppose all coincidences mean something, but not in necessarily a Jungian sense.

I dropped the death certificates into the solicitors and they invited me to see the will when I asked about the specific arrangements–did she want flowers and so on.

Mr Thorneton was a very pleasant late thirty something man who was beginning to run to seed. His belly arrived a moment or two before the rest of him, but he was convivial in his job.

“She redrafted her will a few days before she died. Most of her estate goes to local charities including her old school, Oxford University and a University in Ireland. The money to the school is in the form of a grant of five thousand pounds a year for the best essay written by a sixth former on a science subject–she was going to say physics or maths, but after meeting you, she left it as a science subject. Apparently, you’ll be one of the judges.” Gee thanks, as if I haven’t got enough to do.

“She has left you a bequest of ten thousand pounds towards your dormouse studies and a bequest to your daughter Patricia of ten thousand pounds payable when she goes to university.”

“That’s nice, she’ll probably need it then, give her a step up. What about my auntie?”

“There is no mention of anyone else.”

“She’ll create hell.”

“She’s entitled to petition the probate court but the will is quite specific, Trish and your good self are apparently the only two of her family to have spoken to her since she went to Ireland. Apparently the rest of her family shunned her.”

“That was probably before my dad was born.”

“It might have been.”

“I suspect it was long before then, she had a fling with Schrá¶dinger and he died in 1961 or thereabouts.”

“Goodness–oh yes she was ninety years old, so it could have been a long time ago. Who was Mr Schrá¶dinger?”

“Quantum Physics?”

“Um–no,” he shook his head.

“Take a look on wiki when you have a few minutes.”

“I will. Oh, she was quite impressed with you and your daughter, she said it was a shame she was dying before she met you.”

“Yes, I felt the same. The money is nice but I’d have preferred to have known her and learned more about her romp with Erwin, and some of my family history as well.”

“Quite so.” He got me a copy of the will and I went off to the undertakers to sort the arrangements.