She sat back in her chair, looking over the drawings she had made, her plan showing exactly what needed doing.
There were certain problems with the design of No. 10. Not an infinite number. In fact just one problem repeated several times, at least according to Hortensia, and she regarded her own grasp of design with unwavering certainty. No. 10 had many windows onto things that Hortensia didn’t think needed seeing, and none onto the things she thought were important to notice.
She would direct the builders to start with the bricking-up of certain windows, two specifically. One, in the lounge, looked out onto Katterijn Avenue, but what was the use of that? And the second in the upstairs guest bedroom looked appropriately towards the vineyards but, by just a few centimetres, avoided the view of the old Katterijn well.
After the bricking-up, there were three windows Hortensia wanted added to her home. The first was a view, from her kitchen, into the garden. The second a window one could look through as you climbed the staircase, to notice the old church and its cemetery. And lastly she wanted a view of the Koppie from her study desk.
And while she was at it, why not put in a pool? Hortensia, despite being born on an island, did not much care for water. No, the addition of a pool was to tip the insult to Marion and her design from red to flaming.
Amidst the preparations, Marx called. Two of his gently prodding emails had landed in Hortensia’s inbox before she trained her Gmail to relegate them to Spam. Now he’d tracked her down. Perhaps Mrs James had not quite understood her duties as per the will, he’d begun in a tone that made Hortensia want to swat him. She’d understood perfectly. Had she contacted Esme? No.
He’d sighed. He sounded older on the phone.
‘Mrs James, I appreciate this is … all rather strange. I’ll tell you, it’s certainly one of the strangest wills I’ve ever handled.’
Strange was the right word. A man who had spent the last year of his life immobile and mute suddenly had a voice, clear instructions, power – all from the grave.
‘Are you there, Mrs James?’
‘Not for long, I hope.’
‘I appreciate—’
‘I know, you said that already.’
He sighed again. Hortensia was accustomed to being sighed at.
‘I must go, Mr Marx.’
‘Will you be contacting Esme? The thing is, there are implications.’
‘You made that perfectly clear.’
After her first meeting with Marx and on studying the paperwork, Hortensia had concluded that Peter had drawn up this last will and testament to play some sort of game. She couldn’t quite work it out, but hated him for it all the same. Not only was his will his means of breaking it to his wife that he was a father, but he’d clearly stipulated that Esme was not to be contacted by anyone but Hortensia. Peter had apparently never revealed himself to his daughter in life, and it was Hortensia who was to now communicate to this person who her father was, and so on. His estate would then be apportioned out in varying fractions to herself, Esme, a distant cousin in Sussex, the damned hunting club and a constellation of charities. But he hadn’t stopped there. If Hortensia did not contact Esme, her inaction would render his will invalid. He would be regarded as dying intestate (at this point Marx had elucidated her on the meaning) and the South African Law of Succession would proceed. After paying whatever debts he had, the law would divide his remaining estate amongst his beneficiaries, of which Esme, having never been legally recognised, was not one.
‘The implications are that the girl will get none of his money.’
‘Mrs James, I don’t assume to counsel you on what is good and proper, but—’
‘Thank you for that, Mr Marx. For not assuming. If that’s all.’
‘I will be in contact, Mrs James. We shouldn’t delay. The whole process can be quite lengthy. I’d prefer to really get going with this. You need to start, though, I cannot make any moves until Ms Esme is notified. I hope you understand this?’
Hortensia explained to Bassey: if Marx calls, take a message.