October 2011
The faces of his two sons hovering above him were swirling indistinctly as Nathaniel Crudgington struggled to focus through the mist that was steadily and terminally invading his eyes. Their expressions simply oozed sympathy, love and support . . . as did the two faces on the other side of the great bed: those of Joseph Conran, the family doctor, and Ernest Middleton, the family lawyer, both of whom had served Lord Crudgington for more years than any of them cared to remember. The only difference between them was that the expressions on these two faces were genuine in their grief, because neither of them had anything to gain from the death of this fine man. With an almost superhuman effort, Nathaniel feebly raised his hand and, with a peremptory wave, dismissed his sons and closed his eyes.
As the heavy oak door closed behind them, Clive and Edward exchanged a glance of mutual relief, but Clive could not restrain his euphoria; with barely a glance at the empty room before him, he thrust up his arm in triumph, stifling the accompanying cry to a whispered, 'Yes!' Edward grinned back at his brother as they strolled off happily back to the world of the living again.
They totally ignored Sarah, the housekeeper, who was stretching up on her antique wooden steps to sweep a feather duster lovingly across the heavy gilded frames that lined the Long Gallery – because, to both of them, the room in truth was empty, because servants were invisible; a sub-species which had no material existence until one actually required something from them oneself. It naturally followed that they also totally ignored Sarah's four year old son Natty, who was playing quietly with his bricks on the floor at his mother's feet.
Clive's head was spinning; once out of earshot of the death bed he turned to his brother and said, 'Thank God – the old bugger's finally on the way out. Now we can get this sorted once and for all.'
But, 'getting this sorted' would not be easy, as both boys knew full well; they each had a completely different take on the situation: as the older brother, Clive, embracing primogeniture passionately, was convinced that everything should fall to him, being the eldest son and thereby the true heir, though he would, naturally, be magnanimous to his kid brother . . . provided that he played ball of course; Edward, however, having being born as Clive's twin a trifle less than four minutes later, did not see himself as the younger brother and could see no way that they should be treated any differently, although they both did recognise that the title of Lord Crudgington could, of course, only be held by one of them. It would all come out in the will as to how their father had decided to resolve this thorny issue.
Clive was looking happily forward to the time when he could get his hands on not only the money, but also the house, in which he could use that fortune to indulge his elaborate fantasies. He chose at the moment to live in the quite modest Gatehouse, because there he could furnish to his own peculiar whim and entertain as noisily and as frequently as he wished. Whenever his thoughts strayed to his inaugural reception in the Great Hall he could hardly contain his excitement; it would be exquisite in the planning and positively unbelievable in the flesh.
Edward, on the other hand, was determined to purchase the pack of hounds that his father had been so violently opposed to. He would extend the stables to accommodate the necessary horses and there would at last be a fine hunt in the village again; he couldn't wait to select, and reject, from the list of desperately optimistic contenders.
In fact, the 'old bugger' lasted for a further three days, during which time his two beloved sons made frequent visits to the side of the great bed, sycophantically endearing themselves to their dear father, because, although neither knew the precise contents of the will, they both shared the paranoid fear that he might just, on a sudden whim, change his mind at the last moment in favour of the other.
The funeral was attended by the entire household and it was the first time that the old house had stood shuttered and empty since the Great War. Warm tears of sorrow were shed abundantly around the whole congregation, as the old Lord had been a generous and compassionate employer; even his two fine sons had managed to squeeze out sufficient moisture to shine their cheeks appropriately . . . it was now only two days to go before the reading of their will!
As the clock in the great hall chimed the last note of ten, Clive and Edward threw open the doors of the library and were somewhat taken aback, as the large room was more crowded than either of them had ever seen before; the whole staff were gathered respectfully around the outside, while beside the heavy and ornately carved oak desk stood Roberts the butler and Sarah the housekeeper. Seated behind, in the Master's high backed leather chair was the faithful retainer, Ernest Middleton. His hands were carefully clasped and resting on a plain manila folder starkly contrasting the fine pink embossed leather. He looked up as the two brothers entered the room and gestured them into two beautiful – but smaller – Regency chairs in front of him.
Clive was not happy to share the room and this uniquely special occasion with this rabble, but he stifled a grin as he thought that twenty four hours from now every last one of them would be queuing outside the Job Centre!
A polite cough drew him back to the present as Middleton pulled on the pale green ribbon and opened the folder. The hushed room grew impossibly quieter as a collective breath was held in anticipation.
The lawyer dragged out the moment even longer by extracting from his pocket a small black case from which he removed a pair of gold rimmed spectacles which he balanced precisely on his nose before he began: 'I Nathaniel Wilberforce Roderick Rhodes Crudgington, being of sound mind and in full possession of my senses, make this, my last will and testament, supplanting all those heretofore and previous, on this, the twenty third day of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and eleven.'
The first few pages, much to the annoyance of Clive and Edward, were devoted entirely to, in their opinion, the overly generous provisions their father had made for each of his loyal staff, who, one by one gasped in surprise or burst into tears of pure joy as their humble future was financially secured.
Finally, when almost half an hour had passed, and after Roberts the butler had displayed a brief moment of emotion never before seen by any of those present, the extensive list was complete and the lawyer moved on: 'It is my wish that each and every one of these faithful and beloved employees who have served me conscientiously and devotedly for many years should have the right to continue their service at this house for as long as they shall choose.'
The look of anger that flashed across Clive's face was brief but clearly evident. The lawyer grimaced but continued: 'Furthermore, it is my decree that any party, social gathering or other event held within this house shall at all times reflect the nobility and standing of this ancient seat.'
Clive's face was now openly hostile, glowering as if he would burst with the intensity of his hatred for the interfering old fool. Edward's quiet sniggering at his brother's discomfort stopped abruptly as Middleton continued, 'And it is my irrefutable command that no hunt shall ever be kept at, held upon or cross over any land forming a part of these estates.' The pause which followed was undeniably for dramatic effect – it was coming to the climax and the whole room was hanging on his next words: 'In deference to my dear departed wife Charlotte who loved her two sons sufficiently to be able to look beyond their avarice and ambitions and to mediate their constant bickering over the matter of the line of succession, I make the following bequests: To my son Clive I bestow full ownership of the Gatehouse he cares for so much. To my son Edward I bestow the Stables and associated buildings which are his life's passion. To each of these two sons I bequeath an annual allowance of one hundred thousand pounds.'
Both brothers looked up in disbelief at the inference hanging like lead in those dreadful words, but nothing could possibly have prepared them for the grand finale . . . 'The title Lord Crudgington and the house and all remaining parts of the estate I bequeath to the only one of my sons who loves me completely and unconditionally . . . my third son Nathaniel, who I am sure you will all know as Natty, to be held in trust until he reaches the age of eighteen years. This trust will be jointly administered by my faithful lawyer Ernest Middleton and by his mother Sarah, my housekeeper.'