Any Day Page 6

  But not to his son.

  “That’s him. Minister of Drayton Baptist. I thought your folks were agnostic or something.”

  “Humanists. As scientists they preferred the human race to rely on critical thinking, together with rational and empirical evidence, rather than to follow organised religion, which they say is based on fairy stories and superstition. Even so, I still managed to get them to put up a Christmas tree each year. A small one, of course. My mother used to roll her eyes, but she could see how much the decorations meant to me.”

  “And the presents?”

  “Especially the presents.” Lenny had a nice laugh.

  “How did you know about my dad, then?”

  “At school in the lower sixth—you’d already left—our form head used to get people from different walks of life to come in and explain what they did. They invited your dad to give us a talk on the difference between Baptists and other branches of the Christian church. He was actually really good. Informative, but also funny.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

  “Did he make you and your mother go to his church, too?”

  “My mother was a good Irish Catholic girl. Still is. But no, he didn’t force us to go. I went a couple of times when I was little, but it wasn’t for me.”

  “So you’re not a believer?”

  “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t say that.”

  Lenny seemed intrigued but Adrian wasn’t sure he wanted to go into his reasoning.

  “Let’s just say I’ve had a few special moments in my life when a prayer was answered. How about you? Are you an atheist, too? Like your parents?”

  “Humanist.”

  “Humanists. Atheist. Same thing, isn’t it?”

  Somewhat dramatically, Lenny Day hissed in a breath before answering. Adrian took his eyes from the road for a second to witness the mix of shock and amusement on Lenny’s face.

  “You ought to have discussed that particular topic with my father while he was still alive. Over a pint or two at the Red Lion, preferably. You’d have been there for hours. He was more passionate about that particular question than he was about the indoctrination and controlling nature of organised religions. I unwittingly touched on the subject once and was rewarded with a diatribe about atheism being merely the absence of belief, while he viewed humanism as a positive attitude, a positive force and movement in the world, centred on human experience, thought and hopes. Personally, I’m still not sure where I stand, but in a sick world where people are finally waking up and trying to create sustainable ways to keep the planet alive and habitable, humanism seems to make more sense than passively offering the world a prayer. Do you notice how we’re starting to hear people voice their irritation when government officials or politicians fall back on their standard ‘our thoughts and prayers are with the families’ monologue whenever natural disasters occur. I heard one woman on television saying, ‘You can keep your thoughts and prayers. How about doing something?’”

  “Amen to that,” said Adrian.

  “Or not, as the case may be.”

  When the two of them laughed together, Adrian found himself enjoying Lenny’s company. Ahead of him in the road, he spotted the left fork which would take them to Ted’s garage. As he steered into the road, he also slowed the speed of the wipers, the rain now reduced to a light drizzle.

  “So what about you?” Adrian asked. “Back for good?”

  “No. Only until I’ve got everything sorted out with my dad’s estate and Mum’s settled. Then I’ll return to work.”

  “Which is?”

  “I run a suite of online businesses. One of them being classic cars, of all things. So you’d think I would know my way around a motor car engine. But the types of cars we specialise in are vintage and often with unique designs, so I hire experienced mechanics to inspect the engine and other working parts.”

  “You’re the boss?”

  “I am, yes. I’m also involved in selling antiques, and restoring and selling old, and often listed, buildings.”

  “Which is why you asked me about the kind of building work I’m involved in.”

  “Busted. Always on the lookout for good workmen.”

  Adrian mulled the words over for a few moments.

  “So you’re successful?”

  “Well, my accountant seems to think so. As do the talented team of people I have working for me.”

  “Yeah, I thought maybe you were.”

  “Thought maybe I was what?”

  “Successful. You have that look about you.”

  Adrian sensed Lenny turn his way, eyeing him humorously.

  “I do? And what kind of look is that?”

  “You know. Smart. Intelligent. Confident. You always came across as being capable at school, independent, didn’t need to be a part of a group to get noticed. I’m sure I’m not the only person who saw that in you.”

  When Adrian peered around, he saw Lenny now looking out the window, but in the reflection could see him smiling to himself. Had Adrian’s comments amused him?

  “What did I say?” he asked.

  “No, it’s nothing. Except I was anything but capable or independent back then. Lonely, maybe.”

  Adrian had no answer for Lenny’s comment. He had always been a little in awe of young Lenny Day. To hear he had been lonely made Adrian feel sad, because had he known, he would have tried harder to connect with him.

  Up ahead he spotted the familiar distinctive sign for Turnbull Motor Services, Ted’s garage.

  “Here we are. Let me come in with you. I know Ted well and can explain what the problem is.”

  Adrian pulled up on the forecourt, where a line of five cars had for sale stickers on them. Parking up, he jumped out of the truck as Lenny followed suit. A small glass office with a front door sat beside the double-fronted bays of the garage, almost every inch of each pane covered with adverts for different motor companies, components or brands of motor oil. In one of the bays, two young lads in navy-blue overalls leant over the bonnet of an old silver Mercedes which had definitely seen better days. Outside the second bay, one lad smoked a cigarette beneath a canopy.

  “Hey, Pete,” called Adrian, as Lenny stepped up and matched his stride, and they marched towards the office. He knew the lad well, often met him and Ted having a pint together in the Lion. “Is he around?”

  “In the office.” Pete nodded to the office door. “Doing sod all, as usual.”

  In his trademark orange overalls, Ted sat behind a cluttered desk in the small toasty-warm office and waiting area, running through invoices. After a bit of small talk, Ted acknowledging Lenny’s father and his car, having provided an MOT each year, Adrian quickly cut to the chase. Ted listened intently until Adrian had finished.

  “Ah, well, you caught us at a right good time.” Ted’s Norwich accent bordered on caricature. “Not exactly rushed off our feet right now, as you can see from those lazy bastards as are standing around out there. I’ll get Pete to drive down after lunch, tow her back here. We’ll do a service, too, if you want? If there’s nothing too serious.”

  “No rush,” said Lenny. “I’m only going to sell the thing, anyway.”

  “Are you now? And how much you asking?”

  “To be honest, I’m not really sure.”

  Adrian knew Ted well enough to see the opportunity to make a fast buck, so he took the opportunity to intervene.

  “Vauxhall Astra five-door Elite. Petrol, not diesel. One point six, probably low mileage, and in pretty good nick. As far as I could tell, the only things needing attention are the battery and the alternator. With a good service and a clean-up you could get well over three grand retail. Lenny will let you have her for two. Bargain.”

  Adrian was only vaguely aware of Lenny staring at him, because his full attention focused on Ted’s unsmiling face and blank stare. Eventually Ted tilted his head back and laughed at the ceiling.

  “You robbing bastard, Lamperton. Okay, let me look her over and
if what you say is true, you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ve actually got a customer who wants a petrol Astra. Not interested in any of those diesel beauties on my forecourt.”

  After Lenny had handed over the car keys and shaken hands with Ted, they went back to Adrian’s truck.

  “So, Mr Day. Where to now?”

  When he turned around, Lenny was staring at him and smiling.

  “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “What?”

  “I’d have been happy with a couple of hundred quid, just to get the bloody thing from cluttering up the kerb.”

  “And you call yourself a successful businessman? Shame on you.”

  This time Lenny roared with laughter and Adrian joined him, chuckling too.

  “Don’t suppose you fancy a pint and a spot of lunch at the Red Lion?” asked Lenny, surprising Adrian. “My treat not only for helping me out of a tight spot today, but also for getting my mother such a good bargain on the car.”

  Adrian smiled, but then turned to Lenny.

  “You don’t need to, Lenny. Call it my good deed of the day. I’m sure you’d do the same if you found someone in a similar situation.”

  “Lenny?” Leonard spat the word out and tried to look annoyed but his mouth grinning at the corner betrayed his humour.

  “Oh, sorry. What do you prefer to be called?”

  “No, Lenny sounds fine. The way you say it. And the truth is, I do want to have lunch with you, but I am also enjoying our conversation. So unless you have somewhere better to be, fancy joining me?”

  Adrian started up the truck and grinned.

  “I would be honoured.”

  Chapter Five

  Will

  Leonard’s father had used the same solicitor for as long as Leonard could remember. Not that he had needed him that often in any official capacity. Once for conveyancing when they purchased their current home, another time for a dispute with a neighbour over a shared driveway, and, of course, for the writing of his last will and testament. Mr Dawson—neither Leonard nor his mother had any idea of his given name—used to be a sole practitioner, his office a single room above a newsagent on Norwich High Street, but had joined a larger legal firm some years back. Haven and Trollope, the new firm, stood in a modern characterless three-storey complex on the outskirts of town. One advantage to the location was the many parking spaces designated to the law firm clients. Leonard’s mother insisted he drive around the car park three times until she pointed out a parking space that met her approval.

  Best of all, the drive barely took half an hour, during which time his mother sat quietly, listening to the car radio which she insisted be tuned to BBC Radio 4, to a topical political debate. Leonard’s mind had been elsewhere but he’d occasionally heard her tutting whenever she felt someone had made an inconclusive statement or had circumvented answering a simple question.

  All day Sunday, while he had begun to tackle the back garden then cleared his business email, Leonard had mulled over his chance meeting with Adrian. By Sunday evening, he had almost called and invited him out for a drink. But he had no idea what Adrian did at the weekend, didn’t know if he would be intruding, felt sure such a good-looking guy would have other plans which probably included a boyfriend.

  Strange, really, but even though they had only just met—because they had never been friends—he felt really at ease in his company, as though they had known each other for years. After heading to the Red Lion, they’d enjoyed a couple of drinks, both opting for the same pub lunch of home-made shepherd’s pie and fresh garden vegetables, and chatted about their old school.

  Adrian had seemed purposely vague about his life after leaving the education system, deflecting with trite sayings such as ‘oh, you know, here and there’ and ‘a little bit of this and that’ which Leonard had taken to mean he didn’t want to talk in detail about his young adult life. Sensing the guardedness, and knowing from Eric about Adrian being gay, Leonard had pointedly avoided probing into Adrian’s romantic life and had noticed Adrian did the same with him.

  What he had found out was that Adrian worked locally, although he had no jobs on right now. From stories of work he had carried out, Leonard could tell his popularity with the local community, including some regulars in the pub he had done work for at some time or another. As the afternoon wore on, Leonard had realised he liked Adrian and, before they’d parted ways, they’d swapped mobile phone numbers and agreed to meet up again after the weekend.

  Inside the reception area of Haven and Trollope, after asking to see their identification, one of the two receptionists led them up a flight of stairs to a large glass conference room. Inside, Aunt Millicent and Matthew already sat there looking stiff and sullen and bored. After offering Adrian and his mother drinks which they both declined, the young girl left them. His aunt and cousin had already stood and after his mother had shaken hands with them, Leonard did the same. Once they took their seats, each pair on opposite sides of the table, the room fell back into an awkward silence.

  To Leonard’s relief, Mr Dawson entered not long after. In his mid-to-late sixties, he reminded Leonard of one of his old college professors, with his olive-green tweed suit, black and white polka-dot bow tie, steel-rimmed glasses with thick lenses and full head of pure white wavy hair held firmly in place with either too much Vaseline or hair gel.

  He carried a thick manila folder that had a large label on the front. Leonard could easily make out the full name of his father in capital letters.

  Without shaking hands, he lowered himself into the seat at the head of the table, immediately opened the folder and took out a single sheet of paper from the top.

  “Good. Well. Thank you all for coming here today and being so punctual. Apologies for my tardiness, but I had a call from another client that went on longer than I had expected. I am Hubert Dawson of Haven and Trollope and the deceased, Colin Montgomery Day, appointed me as the sole executor of his will. This is a simple enough matter and should not take long. Rather than read all the legal speak in the formal last will and testament, I’ve had a one-sheet summary put together, but naturally, all those named as beneficiaries will receive a full copy of the legal document. Is everyone present comfortable with this?”

  Although nobody spoke aloud, everyone around the table nodded their assent.

  “Excellent. Well, in summary, the deceased left almost everything to his wife, Mrs Geraldine Olivia Day, which includes their unencumbered residential home, 14 Collier Drive, and all investments, shares and possessions in Mr Day’s sole name, his pension and, of course, the proceeds from his life assurance policy.”

  That his father had left him nothing came as no surprise to Leonard. His father, being a pragmatic man, had spoken at length about the eventuality of his death, during which time Leonard had emphasised his own financial independence and his desire for his father to make sure Leonard’s mother was taken care of by making her the principal beneficiary.

  “There are two caveats to this under the General Provisions clause. The first is that he wishes to donate the sum of ten thousand pounds to the college research facility, and the second is that the family’s country home, Bryn Bach in Wales, changes ownership to his son and only child, Leonard Frederick Day.”

  Leonard had never heard his father mention a holiday home before and began to turn to his mother for clarification. Before he could, Aunt Millicent let out a loud strangled gasp and sat forward in her chair, her hands grasping the arms of the chair. Only her son Matthew seemed unsurprised by her reaction.

  “No! There must be some mistake. As the last surviving sibling in our family, I should be the one to inherit Bryn Bach. It’s what our mother and father would have wanted, and something Colin promised should anything happen to him.”

  Mr Dawson sorted through the larger document, the full will, and flicked to a particular page marked by a yellow Post-it note.

  “Mr Day’s instructions are clear. Specific, straightforward and unambiguous, Mrs Da
rlington. And unless you have any legal documentation that supersedes the terms of this will, then there is no mistake. Leonard’s father leaves in its entirety the farmhouse, Bryn Bach, in Disserth, Llandrindod Wells in Wales to his son, Leonard Frederick Day. He reviewed his will routinely at the end of each year, the last time being the December just gone. There is no mistake in—”

  “He promised me. We spent our school holidays there as children, my brother, Colin, our parents and me. Until he went off to college on the other side of the country and thought himself too high and mighty to associate with us, especially when he met her.” At that she glared pointedly at Leonard’s mother. “And when my ex-husband started a new job in sales, when we had barely enough money to survive on, we still managed to provide summer holidays for our children because my father let us use Bryn Bach. We have many fond memories there. And in return we have decorated, maintained and cared for the place without asking for a penny in return. Since our father passed and left the cottage to my brother, he has not once been there. I know this for a fact. We still have friends in Newbridge. And my Matthew checks the cottage every year for broken pipes and defects, even though the place is deserted now. Falling to rack and ruin.”

  “This is all very well, Mrs Darlington. But legally the property now belongs—”

  “What does he want with it, anyway? He’s never even been there. None of them have.”

  Leonard peered sideways at his mother, noticed the disapproving assessment at her sister-in-law’s outburst. She glared at her as she would a recalcitrant student. Poor Mr Dawson lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. If he was going to be completely honest, Leonard didn’t care about a holiday home in Wales. He had enough old properties around the country on his books without adding one more to the portfolio. But his father had specifically left the place to him. Surely that meant something?