Out on a Limb by Lynne Barrett-Lee

is with dancers). ‘Of course I know what’s in it. He’s left me everything, of course.’
    It seem ed to me that there was no ‘of course’ about it. They had, after all, been married a scant three and a half years. And she was 100% out on the offspring count, wasn’t she? Not a terribly auspicious start. ‘Bet that’ll go down well,’ I said. ‘No wonder his daughter was so frosty at the funeral.’
    No wonder she’s so frosty now. Because it seems Mum was right. He has left her everything. Well, pretty much. Mr Gladstone rattles through the formalities at a surprising lick for one so sluggish of demeanour, and then reads from what looks like an impressively long list. Long, but as it turns out, not terrifically impressive; the watercolour by… (some artist I haven’t ever heard of) I leave to George Bathhurst, the gold cufflinks and matching tie pin I leave to Edward Noble. My bowls (eh? Ah – bowling ones) I leave to Mrs Moira Bugle, and so on and so forth till we get to the last bit; the residue of my estate I leave to Diana Mary Imogen Patterson-Garland, my beloved wife.
    So this was written before the tea-dance club debacle, we must assume. Or perhaps the tea-dance club debacle was in fact not a debacle at all, just one of my mother’s many flights of fancy. I watch her dab at her eyes out of the corner of mine. And as we’re seated in a kind of horseshoe I can make out Corinne’s expression too. I wonder how she feels about all this. I doubt the long-lost son was expecting anything, of course, but little though it seems Corinne saw him, she was his daughter, but for her all I’ve totted up is a few bits of jewellery, a Welsh quilted bedspread and a clock. She looks utterly impassive and I wonder what she’s thinking. But she’s clearly thinking thoughts that fail to register on her face.
    The solicitor straightens finally. Concludes the short meeting. Thanks us for coming, gets Mum to sign something, then he turns to Corinne.
    ‘There are,’ he says to her, ‘a few formalities for us to deal with in relation to the property, of course, Mrs Smith. I’ll be writing to you to that effect sometime later this week.’
    Corinne nods her head and leans down to pick up her handbag. It is Louis Vuitton and looks new.
    A silence falls, while we digest what he’s said. Or try to. Why is he talking just to her ? ‘I beg your pardon?’ squeaks my mother.
    The solicitor turns his rheumy eyes upon her. ‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
    ‘What formalities?’ she adds. ‘What property are you talking about anyway?’
    H e blinks and looks confused. As if having been unexpectedly addressed by a pot plant or a hole punch. ‘Er…’ he says.
    ‘ Er ?’ says my mother, brows aloft.
    T he solicitor looks doubly confused, and now uncomfortable too. He looks at Corinne. Then back at my mother. Then he frowns.
    ‘Mrs Patterson –’
    ‘It’s Ms Garland, actually.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Ms Garland. But the question of the property…er…’
    ‘ What question precisely?’
    H e looks over at Corinne again and clears his throat. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Smith, but has the matter of the house not been discussed yet between you?’
    Uh-oh, I think to myself. Now I get it. She’s planning to contest the will. Of course she is. It all fits. No wonder she’s been so reluctant to talk to us. And I can’t say I’m surprised. Though what little I know of the family suggests theirs is/was not the closest of father/daughter relationships, he is/was still her father. And no matter how much anyone protests otherwise, it must be pretty damn galling to have your father take up with some stranger in his twilight years and promptly re-direct your inheritance. Blood has been shed for far less.
    But why was he talking just to her, in that case? And my mother, quite clearly, is on the same track as me.
    ‘Excuse me,’ she says sharply. She is not used to being ignored. ‘What d’you mean, discuss? There is nothing to discuss. The