October 2011
Jim Crudgington entered the solicitor's office at the same time, more or less, as the rest of his relations. They did not have long to wait for the soberly dressed solicitor to enter with his documents.
There were just his late father's two brothers and their children, his cousins and, of course, himself. His mother has died when he was quite small.
Eventually the solicitor, Henry Bridewell, coughed significantly and there was total silence. 'This is the last will and testament of Nathaniel Crudgington.' he began. 'Basically, the estate was not a very large one, with a couple of bequests granted to Nathaniel's brothers.'
However, the big surprise came with the solicitor's revelation of the residue of the estate. 'I hereby leave the rest of my estate equally to my son Jim and my wife Moira and upon her death the whole of the estate is to revert to my son, Jim.'
A concerted gasp was heard in the large dim room. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bridewell, I'm afraid I don't quite understand.' Jim managed to utter, 'My mother died when I was three. I assume my father's will was drafted some years ago, before she died.'
'Oh, no, it was drafted last year when your father's illness began.' said the solicitor.
'So my father evidently believed she was still alive, assuming he was of sound mind?' queried Jim.
'Yes, in fact she is alive and we have managed to track her down, though she didn't want to be present today. I don't know why your father told you she was dead, but would you like me to give you her address?'
So it was that Jim found himself the next day ma\king the long journey down to a little village in Cornwell. He hadn't contacted his mother beforehand in case she refused to see him. This seemed a likely possibility as she hadn't contacted him for twenty years.
Eventually he found the little cottage in the sleepy Cornish village and managed to summon the necessary courage to knock on the door.
Too late to run now, he thought.
A woman of about forty five, still quite attractive, but a little haggard, answered the door.
'Hallo, can I help you? she asked.
'Er . . . mm – excuse me, is your name Moira?' Jim asked, lamely.
'Yes it is.' she replied, 'Should I know you from somewhere?' she asked, somewhat anxiously.
'Well, my name's Jim.' he blurted out, but found it difficult to proceed any further.
'You'd better come in.' she said, standing aside for him to enter.
'Sit down.' she said, inviting him into the living room. I take it that's Jim Crudgington?' Jim just nodded, 'I wondered if someday I'd hear from you.'
This seemed a funny way of expressing it, to Jim, 'I suppose you know my father, Nathaniel, died recently.'
Moira nodded. Jim could hold it in no longer, 'Why haven't you ever contacted me? Dad told me you were dead!'
'I wrote to you. I sent you Christmas and birthday cards, but I got no reply from you.' she replied, with the emotion at last breaking through in her face and voice. 'Then the letters started coming back, 'Not known at this address' – in those days people didn't have phones, did they?'
'I never got any cards or letters from you; I suppose dad must have intercepted them. But didn't you ever try and find out where we'd moved to? I was your son, even if you didn't want to see dad again.'
'Your dad was a very violent man, I expect you know that.' Jim nodded. 'That's why I left him. Anyway, whenever I wrote to him suggesting meeting you, he threatened me with all sorts of things, not on paper – he was too smart for that – in person, if you get my meaning. There didn't seem anything I could do, especially as I was the one who left the marital; home and left my child behind.'
She paused; it was obviously very painful for her to recall it all.
'Then I had a breakdown and it took me a long time to recover – a very long time. But I did and eventually I met a much kinder man, but he died a few years ago. We never had any children, he didn't want an. Strange, with him being so kind and all. Perhaps that's why I never told him I had a son. Perhaps also I thought you were better off without me.
'I did hope that one day when you were grown up you'd maybe come looking for me. Of course, I didn't know your dad told you I'd died. I didn't go to the reading of the will when the solicitors contacted me. I never took anything off him when he was alive, I don't want anything now.
'I wish I could undo the past, Jim, but I can't. I've regretted many things in my life, but the thing I regret most is not taking you with me. So, now you have found me, can you find it in your heart to forgive me and . . . and maybe we can try and make up for lost time?'
Jim found it difficult to speak, so he just took his mother's hand in his instead.