Inheritance

The house of my father’s father stood at the end of a tree lined driveway, overgrown and untended. Muscular roots snaked under the road, opening gaping potholes into which the rainwater pooled, causing my old Ford to lurch alarmingly, creaking and complaining at every indignity.

It’s probably relevant to say now that I had never met either my father or grandfather. The two had lived their whole lives in the once-resplendent Georgian villa before me, nestled amid a phalanx of trees: a copper beech, silver birch and ancient cedar overshadowed by a gigantic monkey puzzle. Rendered in smooth white stucco, now sporting a stubble of mildew, its windows were shuttered, the lawn ragged. Saplings encircled a headless, limbless and weathered statue, like a guard of honour. A black car was idling by the portico its wipers sweeping rhythmically but ineffectually against the driving rain.

I’d been called by my father’s retinue of lawyers and executors the previous week to initial some paperwork. It had been a condition of the will that everything should be sold, and that what couldn’t be sold, be destroyed. The proceeds of the sale were to be distributed to a number of charities and institutions. As the only surviving heir, I was allowed to pick a few items for myself.

The offices of Sowerby, Ogilvy & Whipple stood within the enclaves of one of the many hidden alleys and ginnels of York city centre. Its approach barely a man’s width, cobbled and ancient as the walled city itself. A Hague Blue door sported a brass plaque and oversized knocker, fashioned as a falcon’s head. It had impressive heft and, as it struck the doorplate, the return echoed through the courtyard.

After what seemed like an age the door was opened by a prim woman in her fifties who enquired sharply as to my business. I suspect she mistook me for a hawker, although I had arrived promptly at the appointed hour. I may have many failings, but tardiness isn’t among them. I told her I was expected by Mr Sowerby in connection with my late father’s will.

“Sebastian Betteridge?” She assessed me with a critical eye. “I was expecting someone older.” Stepping grudgingly aside she led me to a tiled reception area and introduced herself as Margaret Ogilvy. A partner, then.

We approached an ornate oak door, bearing the name A. Sowerby in a gilded flourish. Rapping loudly once, Ms Ogilvy opened the door. “Mr Betteridge for you, Aloysius. You might answer the door yourself next time; I’ve got enough on my plate without having to look after your clients as well.” Having delivered the admonishment, she awaited no reply, turning sharply on her heel and closing the door with a firm hand.

Sowerby was reclining in an opulent green leather office chair behind a huge partner's desk littered with papers, books and coffee mugs. He looked to be in his 60s, gold half-moon spectacles perched on his nose and sporting an unruly mop of thick grey hair that looked like a hat. He had one of the ruddiest complexions I’d ever seen: the result of an overindulgence in port, perhaps, rather than a penchant for the outdoors. Rolling forward in his chair, he stretched out his arm and offered a huge paw in greeting, the grip overly assertive and lasting just a bit longer than was comfortable.

“Good afternoon Mr Bettridge, Aloysius Sowerby at your service. I understand you have some paperwork with you?” Unlatching the straps on the satchel I had been carrying, I released a sheaf of papers into his care. Sowerby repositioned his spectacles and inspected the documents, mumbling and harrumphing to himself whilst he read. “That all seems to be in order. I assume you’re happy to make your own way to the house?” I nodded my agreement and asked him if he could tell me something of the father I had never known.

Sowerby’s revelations were brisk and barely edifying. My father, Arthur Fitzroy, an artist of some repute and a member of the Royal Academy, had lived well into is nineties, succumbing eventually to old age, ill health and a penchant for single malt whisky and fine dining. He’d lived in Hong Kong for a while and America, too, before returning to London to live out the remainder of his years. My grandfather, Laurence, a ‘man of independent means’ met his end at the age of 79 after taking a tumble, whilst riding with a woman half his age. I’m assuming horses were involved, although Sowerby didn’t elucidate further.

Sowerby fiddled irritably with the drawer of his desk and pulled out a bunch of keys which he used to unlock the oxblood safe that occupied a corner of his office. The lock clunked satisfyingly as it turned and Sowerby puffed audibly as he leaned in to open the door. Another drawer within the safe was duly unlocked – after a further jangle of the keys – and he retrieved a small package and handed it to me. “You’ll find directions to the house in here, together with a number for Ms Fotheringay, who’ll arrange to meet you and show you round, etcetera.”

I put the package in my bag and rose to leave. Sowerby demurred. “One more thing before you go,” he said, rummaging among the paper mountains on his desk. “You’ll be wanting this too.” He handed me a small black notebook, scuffed with wear and held together with an elasticated band. I raised my eyebrows in further query, but Sowerby appeared minded to remain silent, so I thanked him and slipped the notebook into my pocket.

Stepping outside the dusty confines of Messrs Sowerby and associates, I noticed that the rain had got heavier; huge splashes bounced energetically off the cobblestones and my raincoat was no match for the persistent rivulets that penetrated its seams, leaving me as wet as if I’d ventured out in a summer shirt. It felt like a cleansing.

When I say I never knew my father, I mean that although I knew he existed, I had never met him. My mother was a very beautiful woman, a model who, in her first bloom of youth, had succumbed to the questionable charms of a much older, monied man who had soon tired of her once her belly had started to swell with me. Her stories had painted a man without much patience, and with a formidably well-developed temper which he regularly inflicted on those around him. When I was just a few weeks old, and one too many plates had been lobbed in anger, my mother had quietly packed her scant belongings and returned without fuss to live with her parents.

The old man – possibly in a rare fit of conscience – provided us with a small annuity that had allowed us to live a comfortable, if not extravagant, life. The news of his death, and of my role as heir, albeit to a modest bequest, was a matter of indifference to me, although I confess some little curiosity.

Now, on the evening of the same day, pulling up alongside the idling car, I suppressed a shudder of anticipation. The other driver, a tall, lean woman, nodded across and we made a coordinated dash for the porch. Introductions effected, Ms Fotheringay unlocked the door and we entered the gloomy interior. As my companion stooped to scoop up the small pyramid of correspondence from the floor, my gaze wandered across the hall.

The house was a hoarder’s paradise. While Ms Fotheringay took care of the mail, I wandered through its countless rooms, passing forests of unread newspapers, neatly stacked in man-sized piles. Overstuffed sofas and chairs were peppered liberally among the living rooms, each a tribute to Victorian opulence and a century of decay.

There was squalor, too. A dining table the size of a cricket pitch was awash with used dishes and plates, empty cups and what must’ve have been an entire canteen of cutlery. Buckets and pans littered the floor catching the drops of rain from a bowed, water-stained ceiling: some successfully, others not so much, now surrounded by puddles of water. Squares of rich colour punctuated the faded wallcoverings, declaring the former location of various works of art that had already been removed for safekeeping.

Slouching into a sofa for a moment, the notebook in my pocket nudged me in the ribs. Fishing it out, I unstrapped the band and leafed through the pages. Some were exquisitely illustrated with pictures of a woman, who may have been my mother, one of a baby and several portraits of a young boy slowly ageing across a double page. Others contained poetry and stories. There were illustrations of fantastic birds, botanical studies and of this house in its prime.

At the back was a fat pocket. The matt surface felt thick and expensive – a throwback to a different age. Inscribed in an elegant calligraphic hand were the words, For Sebastian, and a hand-drawn Chinese character 福. I slid my finger under its fragile edge and gently tipped its contents into my hand. Inside were pressed flowers in transparent envelopes; a postcard of the Hidden City, with an elegant stamp; a book of matches from a restaurant in Paris; a locket trailing a red ribbon, to which was attached a tiny key; and an Origami unicorn made from $100 bill. I was drawn to the key and curious about the lock it might fit.

The staircase to the upper floors was wide enough to accommodate a pair of crinolined grande dames. More detritus littered the bedrooms and bathrooms. The master bedroom was in slightly less disarray. The bed was unkempt, though, and the carpet threadbare. Discarded clothing was draped casually over buttoned satin chairs as if their owner had simply popped out for a shower.

A large Chinese wedding cabinet, lacquered in vermillion red stood like an exotic bird in a drear cage. I slipped the fastening and threw open its doors. The illustrated interior was fitted with shelves, each packed with bolts of iridescent silks and richly textured linens. At the base, a deep drawer ran the full width of the cabinet, a tiny brass-edged keyhole at its centre.

My key slipped in as smoothly as a knife into butter, turning with a dull click. As I drew it out, a veritable menagerie of origami animals was revealed, perhaps thousands of delicately folded deer, lizards, tigers and dolphins tumbled together in an ark-like hoard. I selected a beautifully crafted turtle and turned it over in my hand. I tentatively pulled at a corner, carefully unfolding the model before smoothing it on my thigh. The face of Benjamin Franklin stared back at me.

I wrote to Mr Sowerby, asking if I might have the Chinese cabinet and he sent a prompt response agreeing to have it delivered to my house without delay. After wrestling with my conscience, I rang Sowerby to confess my discovery of the banknotes. He sounded unsurprised. I painstakingly ironed the bills and stacked them in thousand-dollar piles. Twenty of them, in total. A tidy sum, as my mother would have said. There was one exquisitely accomplished figure that I couldn’t bring myself to part with so I made space for it on my bookshelf: a unicorn.

About a month later, an auction catalogue landed on my doorstep – sent by Sowerby – including a selection of my father’s own paintings, listed for sale at Sotheby’s. A page had been bookmarked with a strip of embossed leather. It featured a sublime watercolour of a mother and baby in a pose I recognised from the sketches in the notebook. The soft contours of my mother’s face were beautifully rendered and suffused with golden light, making her appear radiant, Madonna-like. Her obvious happiness was captured with confident strokes that illuminated her eyes and painted her lips in a subtle upward sweep. It carried the description: Inamorata. I smiled. So, there was love, after all.