planned it all too, practical as ever, and booked into that lovely private hospital – and what happened? You gave birth in the back of a taxi. I wonder if the driver ever recovered.”’
I glanced at Rose. This was the perfect moment for us to acknowledge each other and our past with some affection, but she kept her eyes on Mr Richardson, her back and posture stiff.
‘“Whatever got us down here when we were born,”’ Mr Richardson continued reading, ‘“will get us out; but, like with birth, it might not be the smooth transition or perfect time we have planned or hoped for. I believe some force or power will be there to guide me out just as it guided me in. So don’t worry if you’re not with me, or stress over the circumstances if it appeared to be a bumpy exit. When it’s my time, it will be my time.
‘“Remember I love you and am proud of you all, my dear independent, individual flowers. Be proud of who you are and what you’ve achieved and don’t compare yourself to each other. Each flower has its own beauty. Know that and be who you are. Be yourself.
‘“And so, I know you will have come expecting to hear my will. As I always said, whatever I had will be divided equally. No arguments. I know Fleur that you’re comfortably off but circumstances in life can change. The rich become poor, the poor become rich. And Daisy, you never know, an agent might discover your wonderful paintings, sign you up and make you a fortune. And Rose, you and Hugh have your jobs and your family and might not feel you need the inheritance that I will leave, but it is yours by right. Long before your father died, we had agreed. Everything we have will be divided equally between you, a third each. But not until a year after my death.”’
‘A year?’ I gasped.
Mr Richardson looked up. ‘Do you need a moment?’
‘Did you say a year?’ I asked. ‘From now?’
Mr Richardson nodded. ‘Yes.’
I groaned inwardly. Unlike Rose and Fleur, I was struggling to make ends meet, work teaching art was sparse where I lived and the sales of my paintings had decreased, mainly due to the fact that I’d felt uninspired of late.
‘Shall I continue?’ asked Mr Richardson.
Rose gave a curt nod.
‘Please,’ we chorused.
Mr Richardson went back to the letter.
‘“In that year, I have something I want you all to do. A condition of my will. I’ve thought about this long and hard and am acting in your best interests, although you might not believe me at first.”’ Mr Richardson looked up at us. I stole another glance at my sisters. Rose’s expression was tight, Fleur’s curious. Mr Richardson rustled the papers on his desk, then began to read again.
‘“Dear ones, my friends, Martha and Jean, and I all know we are in our last chapters. We talk about it a lot. What we’ve done with our lives, what we believe about death. Some of the elderly people here at the village talk about bucket lists – what they would have liked to have done if they’d had the time, or what they managed to do before they had to come and live here. I’ve had a happy and full life. I got to do everything I wanted. I had no need of a bucket list. I’ve had many experiences, known joy, love, as well as sadness, which is part of life; but I do have one regret and that is that you, my girls, are no longer in contact with each other and that I, your mother, didn’t do more to remedy that. Don’t think I don’t know that your visits to me were separate by design so that you didn’t have to see each other, and not, as you all claimed it was, because of geography or just life taking over. I might be in my late eighties but I’m not daft. At first, I didn’t know how to get you back together again. I know how stubborn you all are, but then, talking things over with Jean and Martha, a plan began to hatch in my brain. A kicking the bucket list! A bucket list is something you do while you still have time. A kicking the bucket list is for when you don’t. I may not have much time left, but you three do. So I have devised a list that I want you to follow. I’ve made this request a condition of my will so that I’ll hopefully achieve with my death what I didn’t manage in life, and that is to get you all back together. And how is this going to be achieved? Well, first of all, I’m going to ask that, for the next year, you spend one weekend every other month with each other.”’
Beside me, Rose had clenched her fists. Fleur looked over at me and raised an eyebrow.
‘“I’m going to ask that some of the weekends are spent at each other’s houses – so dust off your spare rooms, I know each of you has the space now; but not just to visit each other, no, that would be far too boring. Sitting opposite each other drinking tea? No. I have organized a quest of sorts. I’ll tell you more about it later, but I want you to have shared experiences. Don’t worry, it’s all organized, and Mr Richardson will explain what I want you to do. With this plan, I can rest in peace, knowing that I have done all I can. There won’t be tasks like climbing Machu Picchu, learning how to line dance, etc. Oh no, mine will be much more fun, but maybe not in the way that you’d imagine. Just pencil in the second weekend of every other month and follow the instructions that you’ll be given. If any one of you fails to take part, no one gets their inheritance, so every second month, Mr Richardson will ask for your signatures saying you’ve all done as I asked.
‘“Oh, I wish I could see your faces now. How are you going to refuse the last wish of your dead mother? I thought the ‘I shall rest in peace knowing I have done all I can to bring you back together’ bit is particularly good. Yes, I suppose it is blackmail of sorts. Not something I would normally adhere to, but I’ll be gone by the time you hear this letter, and won’t be around to hear you complain.”’
Fleur burst out laughing and Rose shook her head, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. I could. I could easily believe it, and imagined Mum’s eyes twinkling with mischief as she wrote the letter.
‘“In the meantime, I’d like you to try talking to God or whatever power you believe in,”’ Mr Richardson went on. ‘“I’ve read that meditation is listening to God and prayer is talking, so have a word. Talk to the wall if you prefer, like Shirley Valentine did. You don’t have to believe or do it every day, just now and then, when you feel like it or if something’s troubling you. I think it puts you in touch with what’s going on inside of you and that’s never a bad thing. In the hustle and bustle of life, we can often ignore what our hearts are telling us and I’ve found it makes me feel better so see where it takes you. If you don’t, I’ll come back and haunt you. Only joking Daisy. Don’t worry.
‘“Rose, Daisy, Fleur – all I care about is your well-being, and that you’re happy in your lives. What mother doesn’t want that for her children? I hope that this condition and my kicking the bucket list will go some way to helping you attain that. Goodbye my darling girls, God bless. With love as always, Mum. Deceased. Dead. Departed.”’
I let out a deep breath. ‘Holy shit.’
‘Exactly,’ Fleur agreed, then chuckled. ‘The sly old fox.’
Rose looked as if she’d sucked a lemon.
Tuesday 1 September
I stared out of the window and tried to absorb what we’d just heard while Mr Richardson went to make copies of Mum’s will and letter for us.
Rose and Fleur occupied themselves on their mobile phones. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, the air thick with unspoken resentment. No change there, I thought. Rose, Fleur and I had hardly spoken in three years, not since a row that had driven us all apart. The argument had been about what we all thought was best for Mum when it became obvious that she needed care after her stroke. Before that, I’d been on reasonable terms with both my sisters, though we weren’t exactly close. It had been over thirty years since we’d lived together as children, then teens. We had drifted in and out of each other’s lives in our twenties and thirties, then slowly grown further apart