“I can’t do that, Florence,” Mr Gimnell said, gravely. “It is against all my principals.”
“How much are your principals
worth?” retorted Miss Florence Gavell, a small lady with a lot of zeal.
“Mrs Gavell!” said an
exasperated Mr Gimnell. “What are you implying?”
Florence took a cheque out of her handbag and laid it in front
of the undertaker. They were sitting facing each other over a large oak desk
and Florence
watched the man’s face pale as his eyes took in the long line of noughts on the
bit of paper.
“I don’t know what to say…”
muttered a visibly shaken, Mr Gimnell.
“Then say nothing, just make
sure that I have a funeral like no other when it is time.” Florence said as she rose from her chair.
Florence Gavell had been left
a fortune when her parents had died. Being a late and only child she had been
left to her own devices as she grew up. The family home had been large and
provided the young Florence
with a myriad of adventure playgrounds. As she left one room which she had
imbued with mystery and magic, she entered another with its own bag of tricks.
Her bedroom was the Queen’s castle and the house contained her many domains.
As she grew into her teenage
years, she befriended several of her classmates at the nearby secondary school.
They held parties at her house and her social circle grew. Gradually she shook
off her solitary existence and became part of the young scene in Granley, a
market town in Wiltshire.
As time went by and her aged
parents needed more and more attention, the young Florence gave up going out with her friends
and turned her attentions more and more to nursing her mother and father.
Gradually she received less and less phone calls and invitations as time passed
and eventually Florence
only interaction was with the postman and the man who brought the provisions to
the house.
One day, Florence woke to hear her mother’s cries. Her
father had died in the night and her mother was beside herself with grief. So
much so was her mother’s loss that the elderly lady followed her husband before
the year was out and Florence
was suddenly alone and the owner of a very large mansion house. After her
parent’s will was read, Florence
realised that she was a very wealthy lady. Her father had been a banker
and had dealt avidly in the Stock Market…successfully.
Sadly, like moths to a candle
flame, distant, previously unknown relatives appeared out of the woodwork. Her
father’s funeral was well attended, but when her mother’s funeral service was
enacted there was only standing room left in the church. The relatives had told
their relatives and the church was full of not only direct relatives but second
cousins, twice removeds, thrice removeds, etc. Florence threw her house open to them and for
several months she couldn’t move for them. They ensconced themselves in the
bedrooms and then took over the large drawing room until Florence began to feel like a stranger in her
own house! No offer of sharing the growing shopping bill was made and the
electricity and fuel bills were left for Florence
to pay.
Gradually over the following
months the house began to empty of the ‘relatives’, but not before one of them
bought Florence
a computer to allow them to ‘stay in touch’ with her through email, facebook
etc. Promises were extracted from Florence
that should she feel unwell at any time all that she had to do was pick up a
phone and one of the faithfuls would be there to attend to her needs.
Suddenly Florence was never alone, relatives would
‘pop in’ routinely, just on the off chance. They would swig gallons of tea and guzzle
large tracts of cake before excusing themselves. Florence and her fortune were under scrutiny
and the relatives were already counting their chickens!
One day when Florence found herself
inexplicably alone, she rang Mr Gimnell. “It’s time,” she said and replaced the
receiver. Taking a suitcase down from on top of her wardrobe, she carefully
packed it with a few dresses, blouses, underwear and toiletries. Florence walked down to
the front door, turned round and looked about her fondly and after opening the
front door, walked out and closed and locked it after her, then walking out
onto the pavement joined the passing pedestrians and vanished into the crowd.
The notification of Florence’s funeral arrived
two days later. For some unknown reason the overseeing of Florence’s health had
been overlooked for the previous week due to the current ‘watchers’ taking an
unforeseen holiday. Telephones were ringing and email flying to and fro as the
relatives checked and rechecked the details of Florence’s demise.
It would appear that she had
been taken ill and died all in a day, the previous week. The undertaker had
called and had removed the body and as Mrs Gavell had requested a ‘closed
coffin’, the preparation had been done and completed the following day. Apologies
were made to those of the relatives who had requested to see Florence lying ‘in state’, but that their
client had given strict instructions.
The funeral was a bit of a
pantomime as each relative tried to outdo the other with signs of mourning. It
resembled an ancient send-off complete with renting clothes and gnashing teeth.
All that was missing was symbolic pyre. The atmosphere was funereal as Florence’s casket was
lowered into the grave, crocodile tears flowed and gestures of meaningless woe
were made.
The funeral party ‘et al’ were invited back to the
local restaurant where caterers served tea and coffee along with sausage rolls
and cream cakes. Everyone attended and made short work of the savoury and
confectionery offerings as well as drinking copious cups of beverage.
Conversations went on in huddled groups regarding the possible outcome of the
will reading scheduled for the day after next.
Suddenly the door opened and into the restaurant came
a distraught looking woman. She rushed up to the restaurant manager and began a
very animated conversation, waving her hands about and shaking her head. The
manager managed to calm her down and after politely taking his leave of the
woman made his way discreetly to Florence’s
uncle and whispered into his ear.
“Bloody hell! Wrong grave, you say?” blared Uncle
Fergus, at the top of his voice. “What do you mean?”
The worried looking woman walked over to Uncle Fergus’
table and said, “It’s quite simple your niece has been put into my family’s
grave!”
Instantly everyone was on their feet and shouting,
arguing and generally creating an uproar.
“Well, we’ll bloody go back to the cemetery and get
them to bury her in the right one!” boomed Uncle Fergus. “Mabel!” he shouted
pointing at Florence’s
aunt. “Get your coat on!”
All that was missing from the mob, made up of Florence’s relations were
the torches and pitchforks as they made their way to the cemetery. Luckily, it
was a fine evening and the light was still good.
“You’ll just have to dig
her back up!” growled Uncle Fergus at a small, quaking man. “You’ve made a big
mistake. Where’s your boss?”
“He’s not here today…”
mumbled the gravedigger. “I were left in charge.”
“Well, you’ve blown it!
“said the bullying Uncle Fergus. “Now if you and your mate will open the grave,
dig a grave in the right place and put her back in it, we’ll say no more about
it. If not well we’ll sue!”
Under the jaded eye of
Uncle Fergus and his clan the two young men toiled. First they opened the
existing grave and carefully raised the coffin, laying it gingerly on the
excavated soil. Next they began to dig into the neighbouring grave, where Florence’s earthly remains
should have been laid. After three hours the grave had been opened and they
prepared to lower the casket into it.
Aunt Mabel had been standing waiting patiently for the
operation to be completed. She suffered with low blood pressure and should have
been sitting down, but had insisted on staying on. As the men prepared to move Florence’s casket she
stepped back and fainted, falling back she hit Florence’s coffin and it slipped sideways,
smacking the lid against the neighbouring gravestone, which caused it to be
wrenched open and the contents emptied out.
For a whole minute everything froze. Uncle Fergus
looked as if he was about to lay an egg and the rest of the crowd were …
gobsmacked! For out of Florence’s coffin several large boulders had rolled.
There was nothing else in it!
Back at the restaurant, Florence’s relatives had a
council of war. Everyone was talking, shouting and generally making a noise.
The two graves had been filled in and the empty coffin moved to a gardener’s
shed to await the investigation that would have to happen on the following
days.
“Be quiet, everyone!” ordered Uncle Fergus, banging
his hand on the table. “Let’s have some order! We have to decide what’s to be
done.”
“But, where is Florence?” asked Auntie Mabel
plaintively. She had just recently recovered from her faint, helped by a large
brandy.
It was decided after much deliberation to go and
tackle the undertaker. He must know if anyone would. If no satisfaction was
obtained the police would be contacted.
The following day dawned and Uncle Fergus and a
handful of cousins, first, second and third, made their way to Mr Gimnell’s
funeral parlour. Their general demeanour was anger and they were not to be put
off by anything but the truth.
A closed sign greeted the delegation and after
knocking hard on the door an old man answered it.
“Where is Gimnell?” demanded Uncle Fergus.
“Mr Gimnell is not here.” replied the man. “He retired
this morning and has gone abroad.”
“What…!” screeched Uncle Fergus. “Where abroad?”
“I think it’s somewhere in South America,” the old man
said scratching his head.
Next stop, the police station.
“I want to speak to someone in authority!” said Uncle
Fergus belligerently, to a young policeman who was standing at the reception
desk.
“You are talking to someone in authority. I am P.C.
Robertson. What seems to be the problem?”
Briefly, Uncle Fergus spelt out their problem ending
up with the empty coffin.
The young constable looked confused. “You say you all
received notification of Ms. Florence Gavell?
And when you attended the interment, you opened the coffin…”
“No, no!” Uncle Fergus
said angrily. “The coffin was buried in the wrong grave and we made the
gravedigger dig up the coffin…”
“You dug up a grave?”
Constable Robertson said quizzically. “Now that is a crime…”
“You are not listening,
you fool! “began Uncle Fergus. “There has been a crime committed, but not by
us!”
“I think that you had
better calm down, sir,” cautioned the policeman. “Do you wish to report a
missing person?”
“For goodness sake,
constable. Ms Florence Gavell is purportedly dead. We were invited to the
funeral and then found the coffin was empty! How simple do I have to explain it
to you?” queried an exasperated Uncle Fergus.
“But where is Florence?”
bleated Auntie Mabel ineffectively.
Outside the police
station, Uncle Fergus rallied the troops.
“I think we should go
back to Florence’s house, which technically should be ours once the will is
read. We only have to wait for a couple days and we’ll get the property and the
dosh.”
The three taxis disgorged
Uncle Fergus, Auntie Mabel and Florence’s tribe at Florence’s mansion. They all
piled out and stood about like a lost lambs awaiting the shepherd.
“Uncle,” said one of the
young cousins chirped. “Why is there a ‘For Sale’ sign outside Cousin
Florence’s house?”
“There must be some sort
of mistake,” grunted Uncle Fergus. “Let’s get inside.”
But, when they arrived at
the front door they found it locked and Uncle Fergus’ key failed to open it.
“The rooms are all empty
Uncle,” said second cousin Alison, looking through the windows. “Are you sure
Cousin Florence lived here?”
“Of course I am…” Uncle
Fergus began to say, as the front door suddenly opened and emitted a very smart
suited gentleman.
“Can I help you?” he
said. “Are you here to look over the property?”
“We are the relatives of
Ms. Florence Gavell,” said Uncle Fergus pompously. “We are likely to inherit
this house.”
“Unlikely,” said the man
with a laugh. “Ms Gavell sold the equity of the house to my company, Benson and
Falcon Developments.”
“This is intolerable,”
growled Uncle Fergus. “Where is all the movable estate?”
“The movable estate?”
questioned the man, looking puzzled. “Oh, you mean her furniture? She sold it
all before she signed the equity agreement with us. I think there is some
clothes upstairs. You’re welcome to take them if you want?”
The Hotel Rialto had seen
better days, but it suited Florence’s relatives and especially Uncle Fergus as
he had to pay for their rooms. There were still two days before Florence’s will
was to be read and all the relations received their part of the family fortune.
“Just sit tight,” said
Uncle Fergus, to them all, with a grimace. “And stay away from the online
movies and the minibar!”
The offices of Drench,
Drench and Crouch, Solicitors was situated in a back street of Granley. The
sign outside the office swung with a creaking noise in the stiff breeze. There
were several people about as the three taxis swung to a stop by the pavement.
“Now, we can’t all go
into the offices. Let’s decide who comes with me,” said Uncle Fergus
officiously.
“Why should it be you
that goes in?” asked Cousin Tom.
“Because I am the senior
member of the group and I know the Law,” Uncle Fergus reasoned.
“Oh, let him go,” said
Tom’s wife Linda. “I’m heading down to the shops and spend my share of the
money.”
It was decided that Uncle
Fergus would be accompanied by second cousin James and second cousin William.
Both men were CEOs of companies and exuded an air of respectability.
“We’ll hear the contents
of the will and decide how we divide the money after that,” said Uncle Fergus
conspiratorially. “It’s a bugger about the house, but the cash will more than
make up for its loss.”
The three men entered the
establishment of Drench, Drench and Crouch, Solicitors in single file with
Uncle Fergus at the head.
“We’ve an appointment
with Mr Crouch,” he boomed at the receptionist, a young girl who looked as if
she had just left school. She opened a large register and after checking the
entries, she looked up at the trio and pointed towards some armchairs and said,
“Yes, your appointment is
in ten minutes. Please take a seat.”
Uncle Fergus stepped back
in astonishment.
“Young lady, we are busy
and important men. We need to see Mr Crouch …NOW!”
The receptionist stood up
and fixed Uncle Fergus with a glare that could have melted iron.
“Sir, with respect, your
appointment is in…” she consulted her watch. “ Eight minutes. PLEASE take a
seat.”
As Granley town clock had
just finished sounding the hour, the door of Mr Crouch’s door opened and a
smartly dressed man stepped through the door and marching straight up to Uncle
Fergus held out his hand.
“You must be Ms. Gavell’s
Uncle Fergus. Please come right through.” And without missing a beat turned and
re-entered his office.
Uncle Fergus stormed into
Martin Crouch’s office.
“There was no need to
keep us waiting,” he growled.
The solicitor looked up
from behind his desk.
“Your appointment was for
two o’clock. The time is now one minute past two. What is your problem?”
Uncle Fergus was stuck
for words so he covered his embarrassment by introducing the two second cousins
and then plumped himself down in a chair and silently fumed.
“I have here the last
will and testament of Ms. Florence Gavell. She came to see me two months ago
and arranged all its aspects and instructions,” began Martin Crouch and then
paused.
“Well? Well?” said Uncle
Fergus belligerently. “What have we been left?”
The solicitor turned the
top page of the document that he held in his hand.
“Being of sound mind, these are my
instructions for the disposal of my estate,” he paused again and cleared his throat. “I do not exist anymore and before I
was to enter this state I decided that if I was to disappear, then so too would
all my wealth and possessions.
First, I liquidated my possessions and
property. The house I sold its equity, as I am sure you know now.
Second, I have moved my money to
offshore accounts which will take care of all my various donations to charity.
Thirdly, I arranged that after my
death, my body would be cremated right away. My coffin is empty, but I had to
give you all something to focus on.
I am gone and so have all my wealth
and possessions.”
Martin Crouch laid the
will down on the desk top signifying that it had been read and his
responsibility was at an end.
A silence fell over the
office and the three members of Florence’s family looked stunned.
Suddenly Uncle Fergus
jumped to his feet and raced to the door of Martin Crouch’s office. Pulling
open the door he turned to James and William and said,
“Quick! Get into town and
stop anyone buying anything!”
In an instant Martin
Crouch’s office was empty and as he put Florence’s will into his filing
cabinet, he smiled and had a quiet snigger to himself,
“Nice one Florence,” he
whispered as he closed the drawer of the cabinet.
Next morning as a
disgruntled group of Florence’s relations travelled second class in a train
back home, a lady woke to the cry of tropical birds and the sound of waves
breaking on the shore Palm trees waved in the equatorial breeze and strange and
exotic perfumes filled the atmosphere. Her name was Sylvia Trevant, she had had
extensive surgery to alter and improve her facial features. Her hair was
bleached and hair extensions turned her into a very beautiful woman and in a
past life she had been Florence Gavell.
………………………………………………………………..+………………………………………………………
October 2014
