Blazing Bright.

The burning embers of Granda Jack’s hickory pipe glowed inside the chamber in his fingers, hanging low over the fireplace. As he slept in his armchair, I gently placed a sheet of newspaper on top. The flame entranced me, blazing bright orange. I was six years of age.

Watching it curl at the edges, bubble and ignite made my nostrils flare, my eyes widen. I picked up the edge and threw it in the fire, smudging my fingers. I inhaled deeply, my heart racing. The smell swallowed me, catching my breath.

My parents worked hard in the financial world in New York, devoid of sentiment and lush in cash. I never really knew them as they died when I was young.

My grandparents became my de facto parents after planes crashed into buildings and caused big fires. I remember lots of drawn, sad faces for a long time.

I arrived late in my parents' lives when they thought children in their forties wasn't possible. When they died on the 89th floor of the tower, returning to our Chelsea home in the city wasn’t practical. My only living relatives were Granda Jack and Nana Joyce. They lived in the country and thought that the quiet of the country might improve my day-to-day life. I felt safe there – towering buildings took the shape of tall trees.

Our nearest neighbour lived a mile away and we had the comfort of a mirrored lake, mere metres from the back door. Trees surrounded us, mainly of ash and beech, thick with plumage in summer and shelter from the cold elements in winter. Evergreen firs scented down from the hillsides, blowing wafts of sweet and subtle pine toward us at waterside.

At nine, Granda Jack started becoming suspicious of my fascination. The eternal lack of vinegar in the cupboard and baking soda underneath the kitchen sink that I was making homemade fire extinguishers out of, finally confirmed his gut feeling.

He was so angry at first. Then he explained how disappointed he was but understood why I was drawn to fire. Explaining that I loved the warmth and knew how everything worked dissipated his initial wrath. We didn't tell my Nana Joyce. He asked if I knew how my parents died and how important fire was in our family. I replied no to both, not fully understanding his questions. His quiet temperance and stare will forever stain my brain.

"How about, we take this one step at a time?" he asked.

Granda thought that I should learn his skills, alongside my own. He knew tricks to combat the fire, using the tools and terrain at your disposal. The house had been lucky enough since it was built in the 1970's, escaping brush and rampaging woodland fire. The soft vegetation underfoot on the hills made for perfect tinder, but we were in the valley, astride the cooling lake.

It was about this time that Granda brought me camping for the first time. Twinkling stars were my nightlights; him humming my sleeping soundtrack. We lit a fire the following morning and fought it ourselves. We used sand, red dye fire retardant, and my homemade fire extinguishers to repel the flames. We arrived home, sooty and stinking. We then told Nana Joyce what we’d done.

She looked upon Granda with accusing eyes. I could see from her hesitation and his bowed head that this was not unfamiliar territory. Of course, now that I reminisce, it makes sense. I have Granda to thank for so much. He's the reason I became a junior firefighter aged twelve.

I am now aged twenty-three. I have been a firefighter for the FDNY for five years. I am the father of one rampaging rascal, named Timothy.

Two nights ago, my life changed.

A burning beam collapsed and fell forty feet through two ceilings above me, bounced and caught me underneath. I now lay in a hospital with a heavily pierced torso, no eyebrows or scalp hair, and shards of wood being removed every few hours.

The pain is dulled by morphine, which I click a drip to activate. It's euphonious but then I lull back to reality, realizing that I need a new kidney. One of the shards, four inches long, perforated both of mine in one motion. Suppression of escaping blood and fluids by my fellow house brothers and sisters saved my life.

A throwaway comment by a doctor, who assumed I knew the contents of his remark, near pushed me into cardiac arrest. A good place to have heart issues I know, but one that lifted me off the supporting pillows. Granda was downstairs getting something to eat.

I apparently had a brother called Thomas, eight years older. Who tried to kill my parents and me in a house fire, when I was an infant. He failed and was incarcerated upstate in an institution for young men.

He would be a perfect match according to the blood-work on file.

I am shown a photograph of Thomas Fennell.

From what I remember of Father, Thomas could be mistaken for him. Except Thomas looks sad and lost. I lie alone with anger my companion, for an hour.

Granda reenters the room.

"Why did you never tell me about my brother Thomas, Granda?"

"There's a myriad of reasons we never told you, Frankie. Firstly, you don't have a brother anymore. He died in an electrical fire in the institution he resided in, four years ago. He was bad news."

"So he's dead? So no kidney there then either?"

"Unfortunately not. In the past hour though, the doctor told me that they have a match. From your own house."

"You?"

"No. Your own firehouse. Gretchen Adams."

"I couldn't ask her."


"You can and you will. Firefighters have lined up around the block wanting to donate for hours. They all want to help someone who was born to fight a fire. Sure aren't your initials FF? As in Firefighter?"

An Enchanting Spirit.

The overhanging sycamore canopy at the entrance to Claremont encapsulates you. Like boneless, endless arms wanting to pull you up into the clouds above. A thin furrow of grass illuminates like lime neon in the centre of the narrow avenue. The headlights of my rental throw shafts of pale straw light through the tiny gaps.

Exiting the oppressive entrance, I see an eighteenth century white paneled, manor estate house. Louvered sash purple windows contrast the crispness of the pebble-dashed walls. Manicured lawns, lush green and maroon shrubbery adorn the exterior.

Loose gravel crunches under my feet. A faint autumn breeze tickles my cheek as the sun fast is losing its heat. I pull my baggage from the trunk as a young lady with long dark hair greets me at the front door.

“Mr. Stevens, I assume?”

“Yes, but please call me Gerry.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you Gerry. I’m Irene, the owner. Can I give you a hand with those?”

“There’s no need. They’re not even heavy. Nice night out, isn’t it?”

“The calm before the storm. The wind is supposed to pick up tonight. Heavy rain expected too.

We walked through mahogany front doors where a wide sweeping staircase filtered to the first floor on both sides. A royal blue carpet lined the imposing entrance all the way up the stairs. The small reception desk lay on the left, with the kitchen behind it, under the stairs. Irene informed me that was where breakfast would be served.

Irene checked me into a room on the first floor. It had a beautiful view of the bay beyond the house, she assured me. I caught her glancing my way as I signed in. She was trying to figure out how she knew me. Irene also said that only one other room was occupied, at the opposite end of the hall.

I asked if there was a room in which I could write my speech and to enjoy a stiff drink. She pointed me toward the Great Room, which was located to the right of the main entrance. She said that the fire was starting to dwindle but that she’d keep it going for me.

The view from my room was spectacular. The red and orange tones of the sinking sun contrasted the blue underwater lights illuminating the waters’ edge. A rowing boat lilted to and fro along a slim jetty. Birch and oak trees lined the wide expanse leading down to the lake. The wind was starting to pick up.

Washing away the tedium of meetings, I felt reinvigorated. Putting on tracksuit bottoms and a loose fitting t-shirt, I went downstairs. The Great Room was ostentatious in its grandeur. I took a few moments to inhale its splendor. I could smell dust rising amongst leather bound volumes and dropping from the crystal chandelier.

Along the inside wall was a floor to ceiling library, replete with all manners of old and new books. A sliding ash ladder lay attached on old-fashioned rollers. I ran my fingers among them, wishing I had more than one night here. There were enough chairs, couches and tables to seat at least forty. I could imagine those being moved back for dancing.

Opposite the books the large open hearth was starting to dwindle. A large wicker basket held loose chopped logs. At the end of the room a solitary art deco droplight shone in the corner. Rain was beginning to tickle the big bay windows.

On the bureau beside the entrance, a note sat under a small lamp. A glass decanter of brandy trapped it.

“Hi Gerry! Please help yourself to a glass of brandy. Feel free to throw logs on the fire too if you’re getting chilly. This room quickly loses its heat. See you in the morning – Irene.”

I poured a large glass. Throwing two logs on the fire, I sat down in a velvet red armchair with a high back facing the fire. I swirled the brandy around in my hand, warming it. The shrill whistle of the wind down the chimney cleared my head. I closed my eyes, inhaling the odour of the room, spirit, wood and fire.

I had the outline of the speech formed in my head. I was asked to speak about my good friend Dean, who had just been given Professorship tenure at his University. It was well known that Dean and I had shared a dorm room in college, and as I was a recognizable face from television, they asked me to speak on his behalf.

Formulating it in my head wasn’t working, so I started scribbling. That only revealed that my speech was even shorter than I previously imagined. I tried to pad it out with humour, which was a complete disaster. Then I tried it aloud. A gust of wind down the chimney blew sparks onto the tiles. Even the wintry elements thought it poor. After six sermons and two large brandies, I felt it was getting better. Pouring a third, I paced, walking toward the windows.

I froze when I saw a woman’s bare toes sticking out from a chaise longue.

“Hello?”

“Your speech is truly terrible,” came the reply.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t want to disturb or frighten you.”

“Well you sure startled me! Good job I’m drinking something stiff! Would you, like one?”

“No thank you.”

“Please call me Gerry. And your name is?”

“Valentina.”

“Well if you think it’s terrible, would you like to help me out, Valentina?”

She rose ever so gracefully, folding her book closed with a hint of impatience. Her long black and red rose dress draped behind her as she strode elegantly toward the fire. She took a seat across from my armchair. Her thick black hair flowed over her shoulders with a tinge of grey framing her temples.

Her accent held a hint of Spanish aristocracy. A pale blue pendant on a silver chain hung around her neck. Her sallow skin revealed a demure and calm exterior. Her dark eyes spoke with a confident inner smile.

“Who is your friend that you talk about?” asked Valentina.

“He’s an old school friend. He just got tenure at his university.”

“And do you like him or not?”

“Yeah, of course I like him. We shared a dorm for four years.”

“Then why do you talk about him like he is an object? Like you barely know him?”

“Have I? I thought what I was preparing was decent, if I’m honest.”

“Your speech is okay, but it isn’t personal in any way.”

“Really? Do you think a stuffy old lecture hall is the place to reveal embarrassing things about a former college friend?”

“Maybe you don’t tell them everything, but reveal something that makes him well, human. You tell of how he helped you out of a sticky situation.”

“Okay. I’m liking that idea.”

“Take what I’m reading here – Romeo and Juliet. It’s a tale of miscommunication and the perils of not saying what you mean.”

“Okay, I see what you’re saying Valentina.”

“Do you? Pretend I am your audience tomorrow.”

Valentina motioned me up from my armchair with her right hand. I took her invitation.

I told how Dean impressed two young ladies at a frat party with a yo-yo. He was trying to impress the importance of physics in everyday life. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing. But he did – he knew exactly whom he was trying to amaze. He knew his audience and how to stand out. One of those two ladies was now his wife.

“Excellent Gerry! That’s a lovely personal touch as his wife will no doubt be in the audience tomorrow. You intertwined physics with something that everyone can relate to,” clapped Valentina.

“Thank you. Your suggestions have improved it immensely. I might even see if I can pick up a yo-yo for symbolism as a prop tomorrow. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“No thank you Gerry. It goes right through me.”

We chatted into the early hours. Valentina laid her chin in her right hand, with her elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Her eyes were deep set, flickering with life from the fire, hazel brown. The wind blowing down the chimney lifted the lower part of her dress with a brief gust.

As I rose to place another log on the fire I caught sight of the time. It was 2.05 in the morning. My head felt woozy, without a morsel in my stomach since lunchtime. Despite the entertaining and engaging conversation, I had to excuse myself. I had to be up and out of the guesthouse at 8am.

I thanked Valentina for her time and advice. Her face looked disappointed. To be honest, I didn’t want to leave. I kissed her hand as we parted for the night.

I fell asleep very quickly, as exhaustion took hold. The following morning, my first thought turned to Valentina, with her slight Spanish accent and the way she smiled with her eyes.

Descending the stairs, Irene was cooking on the four ring hot stove. The alluring smell of breakfast beckoned me in. Her supple stance and long dark hair was familiar. My tongue was dry and my head fuzzy.

We exchanged morning pleasantries as my mouth watered at the prospect of home cooked food. I gorged on boiled eggs, salted baby potatoes and bacon. Irene talked about the impact the passing night weather had on the young saplings down by the waterfront. I could tell she knew who I was now.

“Did you hear the wind last night?” asked Irene.

“Not really. I probably polished off more of that brandy than I should have. It knocked me out cold. Which you’re adding to my bill, may I add.”

“That would explain why you didn’t hear the trees breaking. The local news said it reached gale force at about 1am. I will have to replant more.”

“I was up at that time.”

“Then how did you not hear the weather? The windows in the Great Room aren’t exactly modern or double glazed.”

“Sure I was distracted. I was talking to one of your guests for hours. Really nice lady.”

“What lady?”

“The Spanish lady. Valentina?”

Irene stared at me. Her expression went rigid. Turned to ice in a split second.  

“What did you just say?”

“I was talking to a lady called, Valentina last night.”

“Follow me please,” instructed Irene.

I dropped my fork on the plate with a clatter. I had clearly insulted Irene. Leaping from the wooden breakfast barstool, I trotted after her like a bold school child.

She led me out of the kitchen, turning toward the main entrance. I walked up to a lady with arms folded. Her facial expression was one of anger and fear.

She stood, pursing her lips. It was that moment, that I realized the connection.

The fire and passion in her deep brown eyes.

Irene stood set, pointing up at a large painting. A gold framed picture that hung behind the front door, on the right hand side. Had I spotted it?

“Did the lady who ‘distracted’ you during a gale force storm, look like this?”

Valentina stared back at me in her black and red rose dress. She sat in a fireside armchair with a book in her hand. I sputtered something, but it was gibberish.

“Valentina de Rosa Sanchez was my great grandmother. She was the original owner of this house.”

The book she held was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She obviously loved Shakespeare.

My Father’s Handkerchief.

A heavy mist blankets my morning. I tread cautiously on the mossy pavement. I dare not step on the cracks. My denim jacket is tight on my arms. It was once my fathers’ jacket. He died nine years ago.

I hear bright song from the blackbirds. They chirp crisp melody that contradicts the dull daybreak. I check each side of the road eight times before crossing. I like the number eight. You can divide it all kinds of ways.

My name is Francis Rivers Junior and I am 37 years old. Today is the first day of my adult life.

I was falsely accused of killing three people before I entered my teenage years.

My exoneration is a quiet affair, as no body wishes me well or waves goodbye. The swish of the automatic doors makes a sterile sound as I exit out onto the street.

I have lived in only three places. My first home was the family house on Bellevue Road. My best memories lie there.

Then I got arrested and I was placed in Westland Centre for six years. I didn’t like it there. The place smelled of cat pee and swimming pool. I was sedated and treated like an imbecile.

My home for the past nineteen years was the Swanson House facility. I don’t want to leave, but I must. People here treat me like an adult, but are suspicious of me.

They advised me yesterday that I didn’t need any legal representation. They gave me $500 cash and I signed a piece of paper with a scrawl. I was to contact a lady in Social Services called Carol for accommodation.

The funeral of an eighty-one year old man changed my life when I was twelve.

His name never registered with me. It was just another service for a bereaved family. I was an altar boy serving penance for robbing a local supermarket.

My statement was rubbished from the moment it left my lips. The police sergeant looked at me with utter disgust. His own brother had died at the scene and I was suspect number one. It was probably something to do with that.

My Mum and sister Kathy, had died two years prior in a car accident. My Dad became a crumpled heap from the inside out. Alcohol ruined him.

I was only ten years old when we lost them. My lack of structure threw me out of sorts. I started to repeat phrases as comfort. Teachers and classmates alienated me. Our headmaster mocked me in public.

I wanted my old life, going home to the noise of my little sister singing nursery rhymes out of tune and to the beautiful aromas from my Mum’s kitchen.

My father wasn’t used to restocking fridges after the loss of half our family. I robbed slices of ham to use in bread long past date. I got caught.

Police Sergeant John “JB” Williams attended. The supermarket did not want to press charges, but he wanted me to do right. He knew about our family. He sentenced me to six months service as an altar boy in his brothers’ church. I accepted his penance, reluctantly.

It was my eighth funeral as an altar boy.

I arrived late to church on my bike. I had flu the week previously. Father Williams barked me inside. He told me to quickly mix the incense prior to mass. I had only seen it mixed once before.

I opened the incense box to find three capsules pre-prepared. They were large and a bit off colour. Sometimes the mix could take ten minutes. Whoever had mixed the capsules was saving my bacon.

I flicked the censer open and grabbed the metal shovel beside the fire. The charcoals were glowing red. I loaded four lumps of burning ember into the crucible at the bottom.

I placed the capsule of incense on top and sealed it shut, pulling the chains down. The thurible was ready, yet I wasn’t.

Father Williams, being ever impatient, proceeded out into church with the other altar boy, Fred Hawkins. Fred was new to the church. He took a long pull on his asthma inhaler.

I threw on my robe and carried the thurible out. Steam was starting to eke through the small holes at the base. I placed it on the stand to the left of Fr. Williams. My robe felt roomier than normal.

Coughing the remnants of flu into my father’s handkerchief, I incurred the evil eye of Fr. Williams six feet from me. He delivered his liturgy in between glances of disdain. On my handkerchief, I had droplets of a cure to inhale through my nose.

The remedy saved my life, but doomed my youth.

I fainted split seconds after everyone. Through blurred vision and lapses of consciousness, I witnessed glimpses of the murder.

The culprit stepped out from the front pew. He had some sort of a mask on. I blinked and he walked toward me. It was as if every time I closed my eyes, it took an eternity for them to reopen.

My robe was pulled over my head. I had no energy. I saw my Father’s handkerchief fall slowly out of my hand and float down to the ground as my body dropped at a ferocious rate. I felt the wind rush out of the side of my chest.

As I regained focus and tried hard to breathe, I saw him raising his right hand more than once. I blinked and the next image I saw was red fluid flying through the air toward me. My eyes followed their fall to the tiled floor in front of the wooden front pew. 

I blinked once again and suddenly he was back in front of my face. He licked his lips, smiling at my apparent face of bewilderment. He replaced the altar robe back over my head. My body was limp and lifeless, yet my eyes flickered. He sat beside me on the red-carpeted altar step.

I closed my eyes once more to see him open a little bottle of red liquid. He dribbled some over my fingers and hands. I could swear I heard him laugh. I felt like I was swimming underwater. He then flicked some liquid over my face.

I was powerless. He picked up my father’s handkerchief and wiped sweat from his brow. It was then placed back into my left hand. I fought hard not to blink.

My head drooped and my eyes closed. I rolled off the step onto the tiles in front of the altar. I heard the clap of someone closing the seat of the organ chair.

I drifted off into unconsciousness.

I woke up with the bloodied knife in my left hand. I was slurring my words and drool oozed from my mouth. Fingers of blame looked in only one direction.

I was placed in tight metal handcuffs that chafed my wrists. Sergeant JB stared at me. My red and white silk robe stuck to me. I was sweating heavily and feeling faint.

I rocked back and forth. He accused me of killing three people. Blood was spattered everywhere. I tried to speak, but I was shushed with impunity. I was already convicted.

I had means, motive and opportunity. The man being buried was the same man who killed my mother and sister through drink driving. He had gotten away with it, having enough money to influence powerful people.

I had also stabbed his aging wife in the front row, the temporarily wealthy, Mrs. Eve Jacobs as retribution.

Father Williams had a heart attack, but they automatically assumed I was complicit in his death. The chloroform mix in the incense capsule sent his heart into an arrhythmia that could not be halted. His proximity to the thurible predestined his fate.

Fred choked without his inhaler. He went purple. The chloroform simply closed his esophagus. He died aged nine years old.

I had poisoned the entire congregation through the incense decanter and holy water. They had unknowingly blessed themselves as they entered, using their thumb to mark the impression of a cross on their foreheads.

My fingerprints were also upon candles of soaked chloroform, throughout the church. The build up of inhalation and skin absorption sent the throng into a deep sleep.

The final act of lighting the thurible sealed the fate of the congregation. It lasted long enough for me to commit the act.

They saw a troubled kid that ticked all the boxes. The Police Sergeant echoed the sentiments of the son-in-law of the now deceased, Mrs. Jacobs. 

Kevin James Moore was his name. He was a big shot.

The psychologists all said that I was guilty. Even my own doctor had his story picked clean by the state’s District Attorney. Circumstantial evidence in my favour was soon ridiculed and discounted.

In the past week prior to my release, former Sergeant JB Williams passed away from cancer. He had been dying for some time and dignitaries and former colleagues called to his home, to get their chance to say goodbye.

He had one visitor that arrived with much fanfare, Kevin James Moore. 

He mentioned how it had always surprised him how they had never looked at the handkerchief. A DNA swab had never been performed on it.

After he left, JB told his daughter to get police friends of his to look into it. He described the evidence bag that contained my Father’s handkerchief and how it was now relevant.

JB recounted that it was a white handkerchief with the initials ‘FR’. He had always assumed it belonged to his brother, the priest. He never thought it was my initials. The handkerchief was bagged by a crime scene tech, but never brought to the attention of the media or court conviction.

Kevin James Moore sat next to the elderly widow in the church. No one had ever suspected him – he was too well respected and connected.

JB revealed in his morphine haze, that in his latter years in the Police force, he never liked Kevin Moore. He saw Kevin become somewhat deviant and hungry for power as he climbed the ranks.

I now battle my way through the fog. The birds do not chirp any longer. The road is quiet. My footsteps make a loud clacking against the pavement. I have a meeting.

This journalist, Alex Melbourne, wants me to meet her in a café. I am looking for Albion Street, but am currently on Brixton. One of the nurses in Swanson told me that the streets are listed alphabetically.

I must be close. I see three blacked out cars all parked next to each other.

Alex said that we should discuss Kevin James Moore. He is running in an election that could put him in an office that is oval.

Is that a red dot on my denim jacket?

  

ENDS.

Feudal.

One of the things that annoys me most, is the way Lenore eats. She masticates her food with an open mouth, revealing chunks of food. On this occasion, it is fries slathered in tomato ketchup. The red sauce is everywhere, including two big blobs on her beige blouse. She was taught how to eat her food properly, not like a savage. Sitting here at the table, I wonder what I have in common with my sister, apart from sharing the same mother and father.

Her general demeanour is rude, abusive and slovenly. Yet she was an intelligent and witty individual back when we were kids. More often than not, she is lazy, takes little care in her appearance and wears oversized pyjamas whilst watching daytime TV. Her former husbands’ military pension keeps her going. But her online shopping habits are becoming an issue.

I know Lenore is expecting a big chunk of change from the reading of the will today. Especially with her being the eldest. I think she expects it to yield her a windfall.

Leon came next. He isn’t here today, but his bitch of a wife, Sophia, is. My brother is in the middle of a six year prison sentence for online banking fraud. My brother is a good guy and is the sibling I get on with best. He is easily led astray though. Most notably by his wife who has an hourglass figure and a serpentine mouth.

They have two beautiful twin sons, Arturo and Mateo, who are the absolute spit of their father. Our Scandinavian genes have proven to be far dominant than her Latin ones, giving the boys our fair skin and blond hair.

My brother asked for special dispensation release for our mother’s funeral, but he was denied. In our mother’s eye, Leon was the white haired boy. He was the softest, most intelligent and kind hearted of us all. Which is why he was serving the jail sentence.

He couldn’t say no to a good looking woman. instead of giving up Sophia’s brother, who had talked him into risking everything for a quick score. My brother, being ever loyal, took the blame for everything, including the idea.

Sophia now smells blood. She could see herself picking up a sizeable amount of money for a four year marriage. My gut tells me that whatever proceeds go Leon’s way, Sophia is going to disappear with the lot. I honestly hope that she puts some away for the boys and their future education. Something tells me that it will go on a swimming pool and botox.

Third in line came the go-getter of our family, Leanne. She was always the overly talkative, nosy busybody who typifies the modern soccer Mom. She and Tom have a brood of six children, all of whom are fine kids. Leanne was the sibling who knew best, especially for everyone. She has a part time job as a real estate broker, earning money for something she was particularly good at – talking people into submission. Her smiling cheesy grin is emblazoned in bus shelters and sidewalk seats everywhere.

She has an opinion on everything, even if she knows nothing about the subject. Our late father, Len, mentioned once that Leanne “Would talk her way into heaven. St. Peter would meet her at the gate and after ten minutes of listening to her, he’d admit her just to get her out of his hair.”

She has that effect on everyone. Not that their kids seem anyway affected. They are all bright, sensitive and upstanding young men and women. Their father, Steven, spends much time overseas with the Navy. He seems to instil respect and manners into all of them whenever he is home.

Now as Lenore chomps down fries in the lawyers office, Leanne is already trying to talk her sister into investing her share into property she has an interest in. Some things never change.

And last out of our mothers’ womb came me – Lennon. I have decided to attend this reading on my own. My wife Trudy, does not see eye to eye with many of my actual family. Especially the ladies.

Case in point was this office – if my wife were here, Sophia would have made some smartass remark about Trudy’s fashion sense or something similar. Leanne would have interjected asking for calm, yet would not have disagreed with Sophia. Lenore would have snorted something under her breath, adding to the confusion and you would have four women shouting like flapping hens in a chicken coop.

I was seen as the Golden Boy. I came along five years after Leanne. They were like steps of stairs before I interrupted the pattern. I was the quiet, methodical one. I never asked for anything from our wealthy parents. I worked hard for everything I earned. My actions spoke loudly.

I have my own small electrical business. I run a small and effective team of four engineers and two apprentices. Money hasn’t been as tight as years gone by, but I have earned enough to ensure that our only son, Andrew, and my wife live comfortably. I am here out of respect to our mother’s wishes, for her will be read aloud.

At 3pm, we are all summoned into an old oak panelled room. A long mahogany conference table fills the centre, flanked by four comfortable back leather chairs on either side. We take a seat each, all on the same side. Sophia is clearly uncomfortable sitting beside any of us. She takes the safe option of sitting beside me.

Two minutes later, our mother’s attorney, Jeff, comes swishing into the conference room. He is all action and little fuss.

“I appreciate your attendance at today’s reading. This shouldn’t take too much of your time Ladies and Gentlemen. I now read to you the last will and testament of Lily Ahlberg. It is her wish that her entire proceeds, monies and estate to go to the Jackson County Animal Shelter in Wilmington. And in her words, the rest of you all can go to hell.”

Cue stunned silence, coughing, throwing of an ashtray and banging of the table. Quickly followed by utter consternation, screaming and argument amongst the women.

I laugh heartily. Well done Mum.