A Sissy Saga Ch. 13

Yes, she seemed to remember strange things, it was as if she'd lived there in the past. In such moments of deja-vu she felt rich carpet beneath her feet rather than fibre matting, she smelt buffed beeswax polish and had tantalising visions of guilt-framed oil paintings on the walls. All these things were short lived illusions brought on by tiredness maybe, but she was descended from the Fairyfields, and perhaps traits were not the only things passed on by genetics, she thought. Perhaps memories could be passed on too.

After a year her garden was beginning to take shape. She'd got rid of the dour shrubbery of laurels and skimmias and she'd had curves cut into the edge of the lawns to provide a softer, less regimented view. In her minds eye she was applauding the result. She could now take pleasure in her garden.

While sipping tea and nibbling toast and lime marmalade she thought it looked particularly good at that moment with the green lawns and paddocks rising gently up to merge with the grey, purple, yellow, all colours of the fells behind the house. Next year she would have some of the self-sown trees grubbed out and she'd have a pagoda built to create gateways at either end of the garden, with roses and clematis trailing over. And more would be made of the rhododendrons and azaleas. Perhaps a floral avenue.

Lately the persistent hot weather had caused her to review the daywear of her girls and serge gymslips had been stored away to await more inclement times or a trip to the village. They now wore their white blouses with the Peter Pan collar as an adjunct to a short, pleated netball skirt, and as a result of matron's suggestion the small halter-tops that usually covered their chests beneath the blouses had been replaced by training bras. Although the bras were less than 'A' size few of them had much to put into such a garment, but matron was adamant that the psychological affect of wearing them would pay dividends. Having each breast enclosed and snuggled by such an item was sure to make them feel more sissified, she insisted, and it could even encourage the more rapid development of girlish bosoms.

The phone tinkled and she tutted with annoyance at being disturbed on such a serene morning, but on answering it she was to find it carried a message to devastate her confidence and challenge her very right to be in residence at Fairyfield Grange.

The voice of Mr Sugar of Tate, Lyle and Sugar her solicitors, croaked on the other end of the line. It was a sign of foreboding when he rang out of office hours and a signal of doom if he called at breakfast time.

"Sorry to intrude so early in the day Miss Hancock, but I was just going through some mail I'd no time for yesterday, and I'm in receipt of some rather alarming news. We're both acquainted with the fact that Albert Fairyfield's last will and testament named the National Trust as his sole beneficiary and that your own legal claim came by way of a later codicil..."

"There's nothing wrong with that. It was all legally done and above board, wasn't it? It was written in his own hand and witnessed properly."

"Yes yes, but The Trust has decided to contest things. Their contention is that the text of the codicil made no mention of amending the original will, and technically such an omission can make your own claim null and void."

"You're telling me that Albert Fairyfield's dying wishes are worthless. Is that what you're saying?"

"Er, technically they may be."

"That's flimflam. It's legalistic nitpicking."

"Quite so, I agree, but nevertheless there is precedence for this kind of thing, and I fear the Trust intend pushing the matter further. It's not easy to challenge a legitimate will Miss Hancock unless..."

"Legitimate!" Miriam interrupted and gave one of her special laughs, "My dear Mr Sugar, nothing about Uncle Albert was legitimate, I doubt even his birth was that."

"I was about to say," the solicitor continued with just a touch of irritation, "Unless one can prove there were 'unacceptable motivations,' for which I'm afraid there is no evidence in this case, the codicil may not stand up to scrutiny. Unless it can be shown Albert Fairyfield was not of sound mind when he made his original bequest to the Trust we're likely to have a hard fight on our hands."

Miriam let out another hoot of ridicule. "Of sound mind! My uncle? You must be joking. He was as nutty as a fruit cake, the old bastard."

She heard the solicitor cough. "There would have to be independent witness's prepared to testify about his mental state Miss Hancock. Doctor's perhaps. The family lawyer. The vicar."

The thought of asking Arkwright or shaky Parson Roper to stand firm by her side in such a struggle brought a snort of derision from Miriam. "The god's are not on my side are they? The only sound thing about my uncle was the performance of his dick, but no witness's will testify to that. Look, can you forecast an outcome?"

"It's far from cut and dried of course, but I feel the money and influence an institution such as the National Trust can employ will be a deciding factor."

"They'll win?" She pressed the telephone closer to her ear as if better to hear his voice, concentrating, straining and attentive.

Sugar cleared his throat. "We could save something. They'll need someone to take care of Fairyfield Grange, and who better than a descendant of the family who built it. We could press for you to retain tenancy at a reasonable rental, although the school would certainly have to go if they decided to open the house to the public."

Words and phrases jangled in Miriam Hancock's head like a knell of bells. TENANCY! TOURISTS! NO SCHOOL! "What you're advocating is that I should settle for being a janitor Mr Sugar, and I won't accept that. Get out your law books, sharpen your pencils and get your brain into gear. I don't want to hear any more mention of surrender in this matter. Expense is not and issue. If money is required to fight this claim, I'll find it."

She was pale as she replaced the phone. Something had jumped upon her that was beyond her control and for the first time in ages she felt utterly helpless and vulnerable. Her whole future now appeared to lay in the hands of lawyers, and she knew how unscrupulous they could be.

Sugar's news had shaken her. There had been an underlying tone of defeat in his manner and a willingness to settle for the inevitable. She needed a good set of lawyer's, she needed the best in the land, but the coffers in her little treasury were empty and all her reluctant benefactors had been wrung dry. Even if Open Day gained her more sponsorship she wouldn't have the benefit of it until the next school term, and by then it would be too late. She could see her greatest dream crumbling, her great love-story with gentility falling apart.

It seemed so unfair. For the last six months of Albert Fairyfield's life she'd given him unremitting attention in order to gain his favour. For months prior to him tempting fate to do him in with a concrete flamingo she had travelled sixty miles every Sunday to visit him in that dreadful retired peoples residential home that had taken him. All those sad old men sitting around the television smoking and shuffling down corridors. She'd employed every wile she possessed to get the cantankerous old man to bequeath Fairyfield Grange to herself, his only remaining relative. Each time she visited she would put on a pretence of geniality and toss the randy old sod off in his grotty little room.

Other women she knew had their lives mapped out by the age of twenty, but she had allowed her fortunes to ebb and flow with the tide. She possessed little of value herself. She was thirty-five with nothing to show but a failed marriage, and there was a sense of shame in such lack of achievement. Fairyfield Grange had given her a point of focus. The ownership of a grand house had provided the impetus to be grand herself, and it had produced a strange feeling too. She felt empathy with the bricks and mortar that linked her with the people who had lived there in the past. It gave her a place among them.

Fuck, fuck, fuckerty fuck. She was still learning that just when you thought everything was perfect, life could turn round and bite you. But they couldn't take the Grange away from her. She was the éclat of its dingy rooms and winding corridors. They belonged together. It was her home and no one could take away her home. It was grey and austere and its style was too assertive to be handsome, but it was her Mansfield Park, her Tara. IT WAS HER HOUSE.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Must take it easy. Everything will be fine, she decided. Yes, she would remain calm, mature, serene, tranquil, sophisticated, but most of all calm.

A few minutes later she took a trip to the toilet where her insides imploded.