Cruel Legacy (22 page)

It was a pitifully short list, but she still studied it with fierce concentration as she ate her breakfast. She had made herself a vow that she was no longer going to sit back and let life and other people make her decisions for her as she had done with Andrew; that she was going to grit her teeth and assert herself a little more, something she ought perhaps to have done years ago, she acknowledged self-critically now as she studied the list in front of her.

Her first priorities had to be: a) to find herself a job-any kind of job, just so long as it brought her in some income—and b) to do something about ensuring that both she and more importantly the boys had somewhere to live once the house was sold.

With half-term just over, the boys weren't due any more holidays until Easter. How quickly would the bank want her out of the house and how soon would they be able to sell it?

She wished now that she had questioned Neville Wilson more closely on these points, but at the time she had been too shocked to do so...

If the worst came to the worst she would just have to go cap in hand to her parents and ask if they could stay with them. It was the last thing she wanted to do, especially in view of their attitude, but for the boys' sakes she might finally have to do so. Where previously she had resented Andrew's insistence on sending them away to school, now

she was almost grateful for it. At least while they were at school their lives were protected and secure... for the time being.

Next year... but she couldn't think as far ahead as next year at the moment—she dared not even think as far ahead as next week.

She looked at her list again... A job... She smiled wryly to herself. She wasn't so naive as to imagine she would find work easily.

There were training schemes, though, she told herself. She had spent the last few days studying the local papers and visiting the Job Centre, obtaining as much information as she could on what kind of training schemes might be available to her, and this was one of the things she hoped to discuss with the Citizens Advice Bureau counsellor.

She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was time for her to leave; she had made her appointment as early in the morning as she could, not wanting to spend all day worrying apprehensively about it.

She stood up, smoothing down the skirt of her suit. She had seen an advertisement in the local paper for a secondhand clothes shop; they must buy clothes as well as sell them, and what good was a wardrobe full of expensive clothes to her when she hadn't really got enough money to eat?

Which was her own fault and no one else's, she told herself firmly as she left the house, muttering under her breath, 'I'm
damned
if I'm going to start wallowing in self-pity-'

She had two clear choices ahead of her now, two clearly-diverging paths she could take: she could either succumb to the fear, misery and despair she could feel waiting to overwhelm her, to pounce on her like shadows lingering threateningly in the dark, or she could fight the situation just as hard as she could and look upon what had happened as an opportunity to prove to the world, and more importantly to herself, just how strong she could be. A chance to have a fresh start and make her life what she wanted it to be, to be answerable only to herself and her sons.

She had her health, mentally and physically; she had a good brain even if she had lazily allowed it to semi-atrophy, and, perhaps most important of all, she admitted to herself, she also now had the impetus to make use of them; they were after all the only assets she now had, and if when she was younger she had not been able to motivate herself to use them for her own benefit, when it came to protecting and nurturing her sons...

The offices of the Citizens Advice Bureau were housed in a building next to the town hall. As Philippa approached them a young woman came down the steps towards her; she had a baby in a buggy and a toddler by the hand and Philippa automatically hurried up the steps to help her with the buggy.

As she turned to thank her, Philippa saw how very young she was, barely out of her teens. Her face looked pinched and thin, her collarbone sticking out sharply beneath the baggy black clothes she was wearing.

The toddler had a runny nose and the baby was crying; despite the cold wind neither child was wearing mittens and nor was the mother, and as she watched them Philippa felt a surge of angry despair against a world which on the one hand sanctimoniously and sentimentally semi-worshipped the ideal of motherhood—a motherhood that was depicted by an idealistic image of a glowing, perfect young woman clutching an even more perfect, glowing child, the status of both of them enhanced by a wealth of material assets— and yet on the other hand seemed deliberately to ignore the fact that motherhood for so many meant nothing like that. This was the reality of modern motherhood, this young, tired-looking girl.

And she thought she had problems, Philippa acknowledged as she hurried back up the steps.

The girl behind the reception desk gave her a friendly smile and asked her her name. The waiting-room had a shabby and yet somehow comforting air about it, slightly reminiscent of a doctor's surgery, with its faded notices and a pile of ancient out-of-date magazines.

Lost in studying her surroundings, Philippa started slightly when she heard someone saying her name, and focused on the elegant woman speaking to her.

'I'm Elizabeth Humphries,' the counsellor introduced herself as she showed Philippa into her office. 'We spoke briefly on the telephone when you rang to make your appointment.'

How much did she already know about her? Philippa wondered uncomfortably as she took the chair she was offered. The news of Andrew's suicide and the problems with the business had made headlines in the local paper and she suspected it would be naive of her to think that this woman hadn't guessed who she was.

How did she feel, having to offer the same help and advice to the woman whose husband was responsible for so many other people losing their jobs?

But just in case she hadn't heard, Philippa gritted her teeth and briefly outlined her situation.

Elizabeth heard her out in silence, causing Philippa to grimace slightly and ask, 'You must feel that there are other people who need your help much more than I do. People...'

'Is that what you think?' Elizabeth asked her quietly. 'Or are you really trying to say that you believe that only a certain social class needs to come somewhere like this for advice? You'd be surprised how many professional and apparently financially stable people do come to us for debt counselling.'

'Yes, I understand that,' Philippa acknowledged.

'But you still don't feel that you should be sitting here... ?' Elizabeth smiled at her. 'We
're
here to help and advise you,' she told her gently. 'Not to sit in judgement. Now, have you brought a list of your debts with you?'

Philippa handed the list over to her. 'I have written to them all explaining the position, but...'

'That's good,' Elizabeth told her approvingly. 'You'll find that most of them will be prepared to accept a minimal payment and...'

Philippa shook her head.

'I can't even afford that until I find some kind of work. I don't know what, though. I don't have any qualifications or training. My biggest worry at the moment apart from the debts is going to be finding somewhere to live. My husband bought the house in his own name with a legacy. He signed it over to the bank when he needed money for the company and, of course, the bank now want to call in their security.*

'Do you have family who could perhaps help?' Elizabeth asked her.

Philippa shook her head. 'Not really...my parents... although I had thought if I could get a job. I could perhaps rent somewhere...'

'If you get accepted on a government training course, you will be paid a small amount while you're on it,' Elizabeth told her. 'And then, of course, there are other benefits you can claim, but I'm afraid when it comes to rehousing you... The effects of the recession have meant that there's been a tremendous backlog of people needing to be rehoused, many of whom have had to go into bed and breakfast accommodation in the meantime. Have you discussed with the bank when they will expect you to vacate the house?'

Philippa shook her head. Her whole body had gone icy cold when Elizabeth had started talking about her housing problems.

'It might very well be worth your while getting in touch with them, in pre-empting them, in fact, and pointing out to them the advantages of allowing you to remain in the house in a semi-official capacity as their nominated caretaker,' Elizabeth told her.

When Philippa frowned, Elizabeth explained, "The housing market is still very depressed, especially at the higher end; the bank may very well decide not to sell immediately but to wait until things improve slightly and they can get a better price. If that were to happen it would make sense for them to protect their investment from any risk of being broken into and vandalised. They may very well be prepared to allow you to stay on in a caretaking capacity rather than go to die expense of employing someone else to do so. They might not agree,' she warned Philippa, 'but in my view it would certainly be worthwhile discussing it with than. Don't expect them to agree immediately, though,' she added. 'You may find you have to be persistent and work on them. Some people, especially women and especially in such circumstances, find it difficult to be assertive.'

Elizabeth looked speculatively at Philippa as she spoke. She was a very, very pretty woman; even the stress and strain she was under couldn't hide that fact. Was she also the type of woman who had been used to using her prettiness as a bargaining counter, using it to sway the judgement of others in her favour, or did that slightly grim look of her mouth and eyes actually mean that she could be firmer, more decisive than her pretty-pretty looks seemed to imply?

Elizabeth suspected that it might. She was trained to observe people and their reactions, the unspoken ones as much as the spoken, and she had noted that beneath her discomfort and embarrassment with her situation Philippa was obviously quite used to and quite happy relating to her own sex, and did not, as another woman with the same degree of physical attractiveness might have done, give any hint that she would be more comfortable dealing with a man, with whom she could flirt and use her attractiveness.

'I'll make you an appointment to see the social services people,' she told Philippa now.

She stopped speaking as Philippa winced.

'I've got two sons at private school; how can I claim Social Security benefits?' Philippa asked her uncomfortably.

'You can because you must,' Elizabeth replied briskly. Philippa flushed guiltily as she caught the note of censure in her voice, but she couldn't bring herself to explain that it wasn't so much pride she had felt as guilt. Those people whom Andrew had caused to lose their jobs—they were the ones who were entitled to state help, not her.

As she listened to Elizabeth explaining to her the various options open to her under some of the government training schemes she tried to imagine what her mother's reaction would be when she heard what she was doing. That was something else her father wouldn't want to have mentioned at his golf club.. .his daughter claiming Social Security.

She left Elizabeth's office with her head buzzing with information and determined to take Elizabeth's advice and approach the bank with a view to their letting her stay on in the house until it was sold. Even if it was only for a few months, it would give her a few months of relative security in which to concentrate on other things.

And the most important of those things had to be getting herself equipped to find a job and earn some money so that she could support herself and the boys.

As she walked across the square, she saw a woman collecting for charity. Automatically she stopped and put her hand in her pocket, freezing with anger and embarrassment as she remembered that the days were gone when she could put her hand in her pocket and give away loose change. What loose change? she derided herself as she hurried past the woman, head down, face flushed.

Elizabeth had been right when she had told her that she couldn't afford not to claim Social Security, whatever benefits she was entitled to, no matter how guilty it made her feel to have to do so.

Philippa rubbed her eyes tiredly. It had been a long day and her telephone call with Neville Wilson had left her feeling physically and mentally drained.

He would put her request to his head office, he had told her, but he had not been able to give her any real idea as to whether or not they would allow her to stay on.

She had sensed from his voice that he was sympathetic to her plight but, as he had pointed out, it would not be his decision. All she could do now, as far as the house was concerned at least, was wait...wait and hope. And she would, she admitted, have preferred the activity of doing something constructive, which in itself was an unexpected change of attitude for someone who had previously sat back and passively let life and others dictate their own terms to her.

At nine o'clock, just as she was about to go upstairs to run a bath before going to bed, she heard a car pulling up outside... She had starting going to bed early as much to keep warm as to sleep. During the day she could find some physical activity to keep herself warm; at night it wasn't quite so easy.

She paused in the hall, watching as the security lights flashed on, and then as she heard male footsteps crunching over the gravel she wondered if Robert had perhaps had a change of heart and come to visit her.

He hadn't. When she opened the door she discovered that her visitor was one of her husband's philandering friends, a man called Frank Jarvis.

She stared at him for a few seconds in confusion. He was carrying a huge bunch of flowers, white lilies, she recognised, blooms she had never really liked.