B a r r i e S t a c e y

L O V E I N T H E

A F T E R N O O N

Copyright © Barrie Stacey (2015)

The right of Barrie Stacey to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

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recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 9781785540707 (Paperback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

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Canary Wharf

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Printed and bound in Great Britain

Formerly printed under the title:

‘ONLY ONE LEAF LEFT ON THE OLD OAK TREE’

1

CHAPTER ONE

The attendant ushered her into the room. It was neat. There

were four beds, two on the left, and two on the right.

“You can choose your own,” said the attendant. “My

name is Bessie.”

Emma smiled a weak, wan smile. “And mine is Emma.”

The attendant managed a wry look.

“A nice name to be sure,” she said. “Have you been in care before?”

Emma pondered. Shall I tell her everything? Was she

friend or foe? Bessie gave nothing away. She was impartial to old ladies. Especially ones who had done more living than she; one who had enjoyed a career... and she didn’t seem that

old. Maybe sixty going on seventy. Not that she cared either way.

Emma looked querulous.

“Oh, you can be sure the beds and linen are clean,” ventured Bessie.

Emma selected the first bed on the left and lay down her suitcase.

Bessie grinned. “Is that all you have?”

Emma looked at her long and hard. “Oh, there’s a small trunk that will be coming, sometime, someday.”

Bessie glared. “I hope it is not too much. Space is rationed here, you know.”

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“I am sure I can manage to pack everything away.”

Bessie flicked dust from the bedside table. “I’m sure.” “Lights out at nine, you know.”

“Really!”

“Yes, really. Well, I have work to do. You can rest,

perhaps read a book. After all, you have no deadlines, no hassle. Your day is your own.”

She withdrew and slammed the door hard.

Emma took stock. This is not what she wanted. Why had Fred dumped her here? She knew he did not love her, never had. That marriage was a mistake, and she should have known

better. But Robert was taken away, so fast, so quick. Just a month after his collapse and he was gone. He had a reasonable

business, but it enabled them to live very well, and Emma had no complaints. He was generous with money, and she managed their affairs.

She reminisced for a moment. They had been married for twenty years. He had never minded about her twins, her early mistakes, but her twins had left her early. Nicholas had gone

to college, and then there was Russell.

The door opened, and Bessie ushered in an old lady.

“Here you are.” Bessie said, “And Emma is here already, so you have company.”

The woman retorted. “Who said I wanted company?” She

slammed down her tatty suitcase which no doubt contained her only possessions.

Emma took stock of her. Tall, lined, hands showed she

had done much manual work. Not much flesh on her bones, and Emma reckoned she would be a good seventy-odd.

Bessie spoke. “Choose your own bed. You are lucky we

are not crowded. And, you keep the room clean.”

The woman spoke. “I have never been known to be a dirty

type, so keep your remarks to yourself.”

Bessie made a face.

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“So that’s the way the wind blows, is it? We’ll soon see who’s boss here. Mark my words!”

The woman sat on the bed. She looked long and hard at

Emma.

“My name’s Rosie,” she said.

“And mine is Emma.”

Rosie gave Emma a smile. “You don’t look the type to be dumped here, I must say.”

Emma managed a wan smile. She shouldn’t tell the new inmate too much, she thought. After all, I hardly know her.

Bessie smarted. This Cockney newcomer was going to be

trouble, she just knew.

“Well, I have work to do, you know. I can’t stop here

gossiping.”

Rosie gave her a look that would have silenced many. “On your way then, woman. You are an employee after all,

and we have to pay for the privilege of staying here.”

Bessie gave her a look and went out slamming the door.

Rosie took off her coat and opened her suitcase, laying

out a few clothes; a jumper, two skirts, and a blouse. “Not much change out of that one, I’ll be bound.”

Emma smiled. “I think you could be right. “Do you think you will be here for long?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“They do charge extortionate fees, don’t they?”

“I suppose so. My son is paying. About the only thing he could do. I had nowhere else to go.” Emma smiled. “Quite.”

Rosie sat on the bed. “Of course I am a dab hand at the gee-gees and there is always the lottery. I could be lucky and win some decent money, and then I’ll be off.”

Emma reasoned. “You never know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Rosie laughed. “I’m going to like you.”

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Emma’s life had really begun when she left school at the early age of thirteen. Her father had died of cancer when she was very young and her only brother, John, emigrated to

Australia when she was just nine years old.

So it had been just her and her mother. Not being more

than just a modest Student, Emma did not qualify for going to a secondary school, for without some financial support from her mother she was forced to leave. Not that she minded that

much, for, like most girls of that age, she had aspirations and dreams for her future. What she would do and what she would achieve.

Soon after Emma left school, her mother became ill and took to her bed from which she never rose again. Her funeral

was quiet with just a few neighbours attending, and a modicum of flowers. John never bothered to come over, and that, really, was that! Across the road in the big house lived

Mrs. Fraser and her son Rupert.

Emma had been on nodding acquaintance with them for several years, and liked what she saw. Mrs. Fraser was fifty

going on sixty, a tall, high boned woman with a face that had been handsome when younger. She was still a smart figure,

with her grey hair carefully mounted on her long angular face.

Rupert was another matter – a very good-looking lad, with a strong friendly face and a personality to match. Even

then, he was a little on the feminine side, but that appealed to Emma even more than if he had been ruggedly handsome with the stance of a footballer. She liked the pretty boy much more

than the obvious ‘butch’ one. Rupert had been several years up from her at school; and he was sixteen going on seventeen, whilst Emma was just thirteen years of age. A year before,

Emma had been invited to tea on Rupert’s birthday. The house was spotless and well furnished. Nothing was ever seen of a

father to Rupert, and nothing was ever mentioned.

The table was spotless and laid out in style. The tea cups were dainty, with roses decorating, scones were there to be

devoured, homemade of course, with a generous dish of strawberry jam, and an equally inviting jar of double cream

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delivered by the milkman that very morning. A very large sponge with the flavour of lemon was also present and a large variety of mixed biscuits were also on display.

Mrs. Fraser poured the tea as if she had been created for that very purpose, and the cosy over the teapot was hand

knitted and extremely attractive in a homely colour of mauve.

Emma had never forgotten the tea or Rupert. It had been a lovely afternoon and she had relayed to her mother every bit

of her visit to the Frasers.

And so it came to pass that Mrs. Fraser was suddenly taken ill and the doctor was summoned. He examined Mrs.

Fraser and decreed she was extremely ill and needed careful care and attention. And that is how an occupation for Emma

arrived. Soon after her mother departed, Emma had to leave the rented apartment that she and her mother had shared within a week after the funeral. So, when Mrs. Fraser asked

her to come and attend her, and live in, it couldn’t have been more welcome. The house was not small, with a lounge, a morning room, and three bedrooms.

Mrs. Fraser had one room, Rupert another and the third was a guest room which became Emma’s. Emma was all of

nineteen years of age with Rupert just twenty-two. The new arrangement suited Rupert down to the ground for he was more than smitten with young Emma. Tilly, the helper, took

over the kitchen and although her culinary feats were ordinary, she did manage to turn out meals that would not have disgraced a wealthier household.

Emma attended Mrs. Fraser assiduously, caring for her patient with kindness and discipline, for Dr. Brent, who attended the sick lady, was quick to point out to Emma that

Mrs. Fraser had long-term cancer, which could linger and go on for months. Mrs. Fraser became very attached to Emma,

which was only natural, as Emma was now most of her world. Emma would read to her each and every day and Mrs. Fraser would look forward to this with great fervour. Daphne Du

Maurier and, Agatha Christie, were very much in vogue and Martha Fraser was content to while her life away re-enacting

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life as it appeared in the novel of the moment. Emma received an agreeable sum each week and managed to save regularly as her outgoings were small indeed.

After Martha Fraser nodded off to sleep for the night Emma would share supper with Rupert, and together they

would talk of the day’s progress or staleness, and usually end with a glass of wine or perhaps some sherry. As the days went by Emma grew more and more fond of Rupert, and he of her.

He was a tall fellow, with a slim, youthful figure, and a fresh, reddish face that held a most fetching smile. He had not yet succumbed to thinking of, or even assessing, the world of the

boudoir. He was content to share a solid friendship with the young woman who had always lived opposite. Emma had

now, in turn, become an intimate friend. She was a slip of a girl, almost five foot three, and favoured simplicity of dress. She mostly wore a blouse with a modest skirt, and at

weekends a dress of silk, either pale mauve or pink, whichever pleased her on that particular day.

As the weeks went by, Martha Fraser weakened, and it

was obvious to the doctor and everyone else, that the end could be near. She lay back on her pillow and it was difficult

to decipher whether she would be glad to die, rather than linger on for another month or so. Cancer at this stage was mostly deemed incurable and Rupert was aware his beloved

mother was not long for this world.

Rupert had a strong talent as an artist, and had been taken on by a local draughtsman and his progress, really, was

remarkable. The draughtsman, Robert Sinclair, was a kind and caring man, somewhere between thirty-five and forty. A bachelor, his family all dead, he lived for his work and was

becoming a man sought after by locals for his expertise. Rupert had been with him for a mere eighteen months and his

pay began to rise a little each quarter. Robert had seen Rupert progress from a youth to a handsome young man and, although he found the chap attractive, he never put a foot out

of place. The nearest he came to affection was a firm clasp of hand.

7

Rupert was, in turn, aware that there was a slight hint of affection between them, but was wrapped up in his work, and the only other people that mattered was his mother, trapped in

her bedroom, and Emma.

As she helped her sip the Ovaltine, Emma smiled at

Martha Fraser. She couldn’t know the pain Martha was going through, but she had some idea. “Emma, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Don’t talk,” said Emma. “Try and sip your drink. It will help you sleep.”

Martha slipped the liquid down her troubled throat. She

felt she wanted to talk and somehow managed to gain the strength.

“You will look after Rupert?”

“Yes, you know I will.”

Martha managed a smile. “It is strange you are going to

have a second death on your hands. I know I’m going to die and die soon. But I don’t mind. Life these last few months has not been a life at all. I know I’m not the only one to have a

tumour. Thousands have. But not many of those thousands have had a life to look back on like I have enjoyed. So many

good times.”

She fell back on the pillows. Emma could not tell if she was exhausted or wanted to rest.

“You just relax, Mrs. Fraser,” said Emma. “At least you have got the drink down.”

Martha Fraser somehow knew she was going. Where, she

did not know … neither did she really care.

Emma tucked her bed clothes around her and noticed that her eyes were closed. She tiptoed out of the room.

It was nine o’clock. Rupert would be back soon. He had gone out for a drink with some pals. Emma was still for a

moment. If there was a God, why did he let good creatures like Martha Fraser suffer? She did not know.

8

But, she thought it was really a question that religion should answer.

She went into her room, undressed, and slipped into bed.

She drew back the curtain and it was a nice night. Stars twinkled and there was a hint of a moon. Tomorrow was

another day. She dropped off to sleep as Rupert returned, slipping his key in the lock of the front door.

Autumn was unusually lovely that particular year. The

leaves of foliage were a combination of colour; russet brown intermingled with flashes of gold. As Emma walked through the park, the leaves formed a carpet of colour. She didn’t

know why she had chosen this morning for a stroll, perhaps to think, perhaps to pray, perhaps to consider. Last Tuesday had

been her birthday. Nineteen and the world could be her oyster.

Mrs. Fraser had wrapped up a beautiful trinket box, beautiful glass partnered with a gold top. For her birthday

Rupert chose Roger and Gallet. Rose flavoured and in their exquisite wrapping of tissue and seal quite superior to any soap of her recollection. Something special to be used for the

special occasion. A thoughtful present, but then Rupert was a thoughtful person. The fondness of affection he showed her

was obvious for anyone to see and Emma was happy to bathe in this. Rupert had become special and personal. Martha Fraser was aware of the deep friendship. It pleased her

tremendously as one of her passing questions that haunted her when the pain was at its worst came repeatedly: ‘What would happen to her precious Rupert?’ He wasn’t like other young

men.

No football or cricket, no golf or shouting for her boy. He was more in the poet mould, artistic, and a dreamer. Yes, that

was her son, now becoming a man.

Emma picked up a twig and caressed it. Two pigeons

were at her feet, searching for attention and perhaps a tit-bit of bread. An old man passed, walking his terrier dog. Seventy if he was a day, perhaps more; but he nodded and produced a

gentle smile, almost as if he knew her. The terrier dog barked at her as if he was glad to see her. And he was.

9

She came to the bridge and the stream beckoned. A cluster of swans swam by, majestic and proud, their bodies erect and noble, as they would always be. The nearby church

clock struck eight o’clock. Time to go back. She breathed in the September air, and was glad she had ventured out.

Back at the house Rupert was frantic. Emma knew the moment she got home, Rupert was at his mother’s side, Martha was erect, lying on her back, her eyes closed. She had

left them. Gone. She would suffer no more. Her face told them so. She was at peace and her body still.

Rupert, tears streaming down his face, was inconsolable.

Emma took him in her arms, and soothed him.

“It had to come,” she said. “And now your mother is at

peace.”

Rupert looked into her face, his cheeks wet with his emotion. “I know, Emma, I know. I shouldn’t be like this. I

should be brave... and I’m not. I’m not. What will I do without her?”

Emma soothed his distress as much as she could. “I must

call Dr. Brent. You stay here with your mother.”

She left the room. Dr. Brent was there in no time. He bade

Rupert and Emma to go. He knew his duty, and he had liked Martha enormously. A woman to be treasured.

Emma put two extra spoonfuls of tea into the large teapot.

Rupert sat silently at the table.

“Emma,” he said. “You are so calm, so controlled.”

“Yes,” replied the girl. “I have been here before.” And

she had.

Dr. Brent came down and joined them. He accepted a cup of tea, and told the young people what he had to do. He would

get the undertaker to arrange the funeral for the following Wednesday...

Rupert came slowly back to life. “There is my Aunt Florence, Uncle Jim, and our cousins. They will all come.”

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Emma spoke: “You just give me their addresses and I will do the rest.”

“She had many friends,” said the doctor. “And she

worked for many charities.

Oh, it will be well attended. The funeral. So many people

will be there to pay their respects.” He looked at Emma. “You will see.”

Emma smiled. She knew the church would be full. A

funeral very different from her own dear mother’s. Almost lonely and remote it had been.

They finished their tea and the doctor picked up his bag

and was on his way. He rested his hand on Rupert’s arm. “It will all pass, my son, he said. “It really will.” And he was

right.

The church was packed. People came from far and wide. The wreaths filled the space and over. Flowers of every

variety, but a multitude of lilies and gardenias. Martha’s friends knew her well. The vicar was old but his speech was not. It was vigorous and pleasing. He had his own story to tell

of this woman, and he told it.

Rupert wore his Sunday suit, black with a pinstripe.

Emma, though, had on her simple grey costume, brightened a little by her pink blouse. After all, she reasoned, Mrs. Fraser was at peace and all was well.

Tilly had made the afternoon tea when they all came back to the house. Twenty-four people in all. They fussed over Rupert who had coped with the funeral much better than

Emma expected.

The table was loaded with food. Sausage rolls, cheese baguettes, florentines, fruit cake galore and a majestic sponge.

Tilly wasn’t going to let her late employer down. They talked. After all, they knew each other and Rupert was family. Emma

was not, and they were, – not that they had bothered with her. She felt an outsider, but then, perhaps, she was one. Rupert made sure Emma was invited to converse, but he could see

she knew she was an outsider. Aunt Florence was the helm, in

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a superbly cut black costume with a feather in her hat to make sure. Her husband Jim, was sombre, quiet, and it didn’t take a genius to see that he did what he was told. Always had done

and always would. The cousins were eating like vultures after a famine. They downed the food as if that had not eaten for

days, and talked to each other. They were obviously not interested in anyone but themselves and Rupert had not a thing in common with them.

The neighbours were caring. Was there anything they could do? What about Rupert? Would Emma be staying on? The questions came flooding out, but there were no answers.

Aunt Florence spoke. “Of course, Martha made a will. She was that sort of woman. I am surprised Claude, her

solicitor, is not here. I am not very impressed about that.” She indicated to Tilly that her teacup needed filling.

Rupert tried to get a word in.

“Did you say something, Rupert?” Florence asked.

“Claude Ransome has flu, there was a note.”

“Really. That wouldn’t have done for me. When you

think of his fees for thirty years. I would have expected him to get out of his deathbed, and be at the church.”

Uncle Jim said, “Quite.”

Jim helped himself to several chocolate biscuits and returned to his silence. Aunt Florence nodded her head to him.

“Such a lovely lot of flowers,” said one neighbour, a buxom woman called Rose. “I have never seen such a display.”

Aunt Florence looked at her. “Do you make a habit of attending many funerals then?”

Rose glared. “Not if I can help it.”

Teacups were filled. Goodies from the table were devoured, and then it was time to go.

Emma gazed at Rupert’s face. He was as pale as a ghost. Aunt Florence spoke. “Rupert, you know where we are if we are needed. I shall get a copy of the will. Come, Jim...” She

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put on her hat and began ushering all the guests out. They nodded, some managed a smile. A few touched Rupert’s arm with a flicker of affection. Tilly was in attendance, and Emma

showed then out. Tilly started to cry a little. “It’s all so sad and with Mrs. Fraser gone...”

Emma put her arms around the woman. After all, she had been with the household for many years, and was nearing sixty years of age.

Rupert kissed her. “Don’t worry, Tilly, we will go on as usual.”

“Will we?” Tilly sniffed, and started to clear away.

That evening, soon after nine, Emma gave up reading. She had tidied Martha Fraser’s room, thrown some of the

things out, and arranged fresh flowers. Rupert spoke. “I’m not really hungry for any supper, are you, Emma?” She shook her head. It had been quite a day.

Emma took his hand, and stroked it. “Life will still go on, and Rupert, you have your work.”

“What about you?” he questioned. “You won’t leave me.”

Emma kissed him. “Of course I won’t, and there is much clearing up to be done. Letters to write. Bills to be paid and I

am here for you. What we need is a drink. Perhaps some sherry or even a whisky? What do you say?”

“I think you’re right.”

Rupert went to the drinks trolley which had been popular with the mourners.

“Shall I pour?”

Emma nodded.

They drank the liquid down quickly.

Rupert questioned, “Another?”

“Why not!” Emma had enjoyed hers’ immensely. It stopped her thinking about tomorrow, and the days that

followed.

The pair began to get tipsy. They chattered. Emma squeezed his arm.

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“Tonight will be awful,” said Rupert. “I shall never get to sleep. So many memories. So much to look back on.”

Emma smiled, getting a little worse for wear. “I know.

Why don’t you turn in with me tonight? We can console each other.”

Rupert smiled gratefully. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She took his arm. Tilly had gone home. Emma looked

around the room, which was suddenly silent and a little grim.

“Let’s go.” Emma led the way and Rupert followed, and it was all of 9:30!

***

It was a glorious sunny morning at the Care home and Emma was up early.

She had taken to writing to pass the many hours which were empty and unused. She found it soothing, almost as if she could play the piano, and it carried her away from her

present environment, away to different times and places. It took her to many people she had never met, never seen but

knew all about immediately, almost as if she did know them.

Bessie came in early and banged down the tea tray. Rosie was not impressed. “You make as much noise as a coal

heaver. Weren’t you ever told to be inconspicuous?”

Bessie glared at her.

“You have another guest!” she screamed. “Came last

night. She’s in bed three.”

“Really? Now there’s a funny thing.”

At this point, Emma joined the conversation. “Yes, I

heard you bring her in, around ten o’clock. But then I dozed off, so have not really met the old girl.”

Bessie indicated the tea, and then the new resident.

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“There’s no need to linger,” said Rosie. “She will get very little help or consideration from the likes of you.”

“Oh, really!” retorted Bessie. “And I hope your tea is

stone cold.”

She withdrew towards the door. Then turned, “Oh, by the

way, your new old girl is called Sophie.”

Emma was now taking it all in.

Rose poured the tea. “So we have another guest. It is

remarkable where we all come from. Ah, she’s waking up.”

The newcomer sat up. She smiled and gazed around her.

Emma went over to her. “Hello, you came in last night, I

believe. Bessie brought you in. I hope you managed to sleep.”

Sophie got out of bed. She wore a long nightdress, simple

but adequate.

Rosie poured her some tea. “The tea is not like the Ritz, and the grub appalling, so don’t build your hopes up.”

Emma gave Sophie a quick scrutiny. Sophie was old. Her lined face had a million creases, but her eyes were strangely much younger, and twinkled. She could be somewhere

between ninety and ninety-five. Obviously a survivor.

Emma greeted her. “My name is Emma, and our friend

over there Rosie.”

Sophie put out her hand. “I’m glad to know you.”

“No family?”

“I’m afraid not.” Sophie sighed. “That is really why I’m here. No one left.”

***

When Emma woke up in the morning after the funeral,

Rupert was already up. He boiled the water for the tea. Four spoonfuls of tea it must be, for a strong brew is required he

mused.

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Emma lay back on the pillows. It had been quite a night. She vaguely remembered Rupert cuddling up to her, getting aroused and her pleasure was, she recalled, quite strong.

Rupert, in turn, sat on the kitchen chair. He was trying to recall if he had been aroused, used his manhood. All very

puzzling, but then this was another day. However, he was nervous about Emma.

He took the tea into the lounge, and heard Emma coming

down stairs.

She gave him a curious smile.

“Thank you for last night,” she said.

Rupert managed a nervous smile. “Yes. Was I alright?”

Emma spoke. “Of course.”

He passed her a cup of very strong tea, accompanied by several Petit Beurre biscuits.

She sipped her tea. “What a day.”

“Yes, What a day!”

“It was a first for both of us, wasn’t it?” she ventured.

“It was for me.”

“And for me. So we are now citizens of the world.”

They became silent as they took their tea.

Emma sipped her tea quickly. She was now a woman, she concluded, and Rupert a man. Oh, well, life would go on just the same.

They helped themselves to another cup of tea.

“Do you mind if I have the bathroom first?” Emma asked. “I think a hot bath will revive me.”

“Of course not.”

“It is a woman’s privilege, after all.” Emma stroked his hand. “You are a sweet boy, and I am so fond of you. It’s

funny how we have been thrown together. To cohabit, and it’s lovely as we have each other.”

Rupert was not sure what this meant, but he would think it out, and he did.

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Emma spoke on her way to the bathroom, giving Rupert a quizzical look as she went. “I’ll see you tonight, after you come home from work.”

“Of course.”

She managed a smile and went to run the hot water.

Rupert was still. Time was getting on and he had to prepare for work. He walked into his bedroom, giving a sly look towards the bathroom as he went.

A little while later Emma emerged. Towelling her shoulders, she thought about the day ahead. The solicitor would telephone, people would pop in to see if she was all

right. She was, just! Tilly was there. She was a good type, thought Emma. Tilly had married a farmer when young, and

borne him two sons. They were now grown and breeding themselves, and, although they adored their mother, as years went on, she seemed to see them less and less.

So, when Tilly saw Martha Fraser’s advertisement in the local paper for a cook and bottle washer, she went after it with abandon. They got on the moment they met. So, the world of

Martha Fraser became a part of Tilly’s world and she was glad of it.

“I see you have had tea already. That is a good sign.” Tilly looked Emma up and down. “Freshened up. Yesterday was a strain, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Tilly took the tray and vanished into the kitchen.

Emma did feel refreshed. It was a wonder what a good,

hot bath could do. It washed away any doubts. She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, she was pretty and winsome, but so she was the day before. Nothing had changed. Rupert had put

on his grey suit and had chosen a pink tie. His hair was brushed back and he looked smart and ready for work. He was

a handsome young man.

“Will you be all right?” he asked Emma.

“Of course,” Rupert replied. “For once I will welcome a

busy and hectic day.”

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“Not having your mother will take some getting used to,” Emma smiled sadly. “More for you than me. You will feel it, especially when you finish for the day and come home, but we

will console each other and Tilly’s preparation for supper will be more welcome than ever.”

“You are right,” Rupert nodded. “Well, I’m on my way. Tell Tilly not to bother with breakfast, will you?”

“Right.”

He went. She turned and disappeared into her room to select a dress for the day. That flowered cotton would be ideal, and so it was.

***

The days following the funeral of Martha Fraser seemed empty. There were things to do, tidy, and Emma was anxious

to arrange flowers in Martha’s room, but nevertheless the void was there.

Rupert bore up well. Robert Sinclair at the office where

Rupert was working helped tremendously and the two became almost father and son rather than employer and employee.

Eventually came the visit from the solicitor, almost three weeks after the demise of his client.

Emma, Rupert, Tilly were asked to be present, and Aunt

Florence came uninvited. Naturally, tea and a gigantic sponge were on offer. Tilly saw to that, and coffee was served for those who preferred it.

Charles Blake, the solicitor, was short and to the point, but there were surprises in store.

To Rupert, of course, went most of her estate, plus the

house and everything therein. He was the apple of his mother’s eye and she made sure he would never want. To

Tilly came a lump sum that would cover her wages for the next ten years. She was to tend to the house and garden as usual, cook her superb meals as she always had, and make

sure Rupert was fed and watered as she would her own