13. AT DUSTCROTCH, DUSTCROTCH AND FEATHERINGTON.

Ursula finds herself in the presence of a solicitor who is handling the affairs of the later Old Aunty Emmett

Ursula looked curiously at Elijah Dustcrotch who sat very much like an extra large chunk of dust in his very dusty office.

Elijah Dustcrotch together with a whole host of letters after his name was a solicitor of the old school. Married to Fanny Dustcrotch (nee Featherington), he ran the most respected office in all of Brumpton, which was no difficult thing seeing as there was only one other law firm in the town, and that was run, according to Elijah, by a spiv.

“It’s very good of you to come, and be on time, Miss Spandex,” he said in a voice that must have been lubricated by the dust that seemed to lie in layers over his office, layers that had been growing over many dusty years.

“If the bus had been on time I’d have been early,” quipped Ursula, determined not to be out of her depth in such austere and august surroundings.

He looked at her, the tiniest portion of one lip twitched, and “Quite so,” he said.

She had been told to come to the office of Dustcrotch, Dustcrotch and Featherington by letter. It had arrived two days ago, in the first post, and reeked of importance. So she had come, reluctantly closing the village shop for the morning because, after Old Aunty Emmett’s demise, there was only her to run it. In truth she didn’t know what to do about the shop and had decided to carry on as if the old woman was alive until someone told her not to. That seemed the most sensible thing to do and involved absolutely no change to her routine.

She looked up at Elijah Dustcrotch and wondered why on Earth she should be there. What did solicitors, especially excessively dusty ones, have to do with the Spandexes of this world? They never had, and she was sure, never would. Such diverse worlds never collide, do they?

“You asked to see me, sir,” she murmured, interrupting what she saw as an unnecessary silence.

“Of course,” he said, and gazed at her through leaden eyes that were watery at the edges. And the silence continued.

“Was there anything?” she asked, and added, “I mean anything important?”

“Important? Important? I’d say there was, young lady. Everything’s important, every legal matter, that is. If everything is nice and tidy and according to proper legal proceedings, then the world runs well, like, I may say, a well-oiled machine.”

Ursula was at a loss. She knew nothing about legal matters and the only well-oiled machine of her acquaintance was the tractor her father occasionally had to drive on the farm where he worked. The law, to her simple view of things, consisted of P.C Peter Plodnose on his bicycle, and he had very little to do with her unless he was telling her that someone who might be of importance to her had died.

“I have the last will and testament of the later Mrs Emmett,” Elijah Dustcrotch said with almost unbelievable solemnity, as if the lady’s grave was actually in his office and he was conducting a farewell and very solemn observance complete with prayers and psalms.

At first Ursula wondered who he meant by Mrs Emmett and then she substituted Old Aunty for the Mrs part, and knew.

“Old Aunty,” she said involuntarily.

“I believe that was the name she chose to be called by,” nodded Elijah Dustcrotch, and for a second time there was an almost imperceptible twitch in a tiny corner of one of his lips.

“She was nice,” Ursula told him, filling another yawning silence with the observation.

“Indeed, indeed, indeed. I have held the legal reigns of her affairs since I was a young solicitor,” he said, and his words created a hollow passage of time in Ursula’s head, one that stretched interminably back to the very roots of legal being, and maybe even beyond that.

“Yes sir,” sighed Ursula, wondering where this rambling and very one-sided conversation was going.

“I was devastated when news of her final demise reached my ears,” he said, mournfully.

Not as devastated as I was with her dying there and then in front of me, thought Ursula, but she said nothing.

“The good lady trusted me with her affairs, and you will be pleased to know that she gave considerable thought to the future of her enterprise,” he said.

Enterprise? What enterprise?

“Namely, the Swanspottle village store,” he rumbled in explanation. “I was there less than a year ago when she summoned me with regard to this very document,” and he tapped his desk lightly with the corner of the paper he was holding.

Ursula frowned, then smiled, “Yes, I think I remember seeing you,” she said, because, out of the blue, she did remember.

“She wanted to amend the terms of her will, a necessary action seeing as her sole relative had recently passed away, a cousin on her mother’s side. Poor soul, she voyaged across the oceans to the Americas and caught a cold out there, a cold which I’m told rapidly became pneumonia, and subsequently took her away. Very sad, I’m sure, though neither I nor Mrs Emmett ever met her...”

Ursula shook her head. “I never heard of her,” she said.

“Never mind. It is of no consequence. But the end result is that Mrs Emmett willed everything, her assets, the shop, the building it is in, and a sizeable sum of money she has accumulated over the years to one Ursula Spandex who, I believe, I am talking to at this moment.”

And the hitherto mentioned portion of his lip gave more than a little twitch. It almost became the precursor to a smile.

Ursula knew what he had said. She heard it and she was good at understanding most things. The shop? Hers? Like that, out of the blue?

“There is one stipulation, though,” continued Mr Dustcrotch, frowning slightly, “and that is you shall not dispose of the property or the business until you have owned it and run it for at least five years.”

“Five years?” spluttered Ursula, “I’d never sell it!”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Dear Mrs Emmett had been approached, in writing, by Squire Snootnose. He offered her a paltry sum for the business, and she turned him down flat. But she believed he will try again, maybe increase his offer modestly, and that is probably why she inserted that clause into her will. If you break it, if you do dispose of the village store before the five years is up, all moneys received in payment for it must be paid, in full, to one Angela Tightbottom who, I believe, is in the motor trade...”

“She’s his chauffeur,” spluttered Ursula, “but, Mr Dustcrotch, I will never sell the shop! Instead, it will be like an acorn in my life and I will nurture it and grow it until it’s as big as … as big as… as big as Harrods!”

Elijah Dustcrotch smiled at her, rather like a benevolent and very rich uncle bestowing huge wealth on a favoured nephew, and said, in a dusty voice, “I was sure that dear Mrs Emmett knew what she was doing, my dear, I knew full well. But beware: that Squire of Snooty Manor can be a devious devil. Keep your eyes on him, or you might find trouble lurking round every corner. The man is, I think the term might be, a spiv! An upper-class land-owning spiv!”

© Peter Rogerson 22.07.18