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By Root 1837 0

was wearing – white trousers, pink shirt – and I was happy. I'd been deadheading my pots that morning, on the terrace – geraniums, stocks – and for the first time for ages, I felt my life was getting back on track. I had this dear little house, my job; I no longer had Victor, it was true, but I felt… I could do this. Go on without him. And I felt he was watching over me too, urging me on. Then all of a sudden, my life came to another juddering halt, just as it had a year before. I stood at the bureau and stared at the paper. I felt sick. I had to sit down. I went hot, and then cold. I was frightened.’ She looked, for the first time, directly at Caro. ‘I was nearly sixty years old. I was alone. I had no children, no family. And soon, no house.’

‘You could have gone back into college,’ Caro muttered, but less forcefully. ‘Got a flat.’

‘Could I? Those flats are fought over tooth and nail, as Evie knows, and in my college they were all allocated. Maybe I could have pulled rank, but how much rank did I have? I was no longer head of the department. I was a part-timer, working three days a week. I'd had my day. And I'd given up a flat once before, don't forget. Might the powers that be not gently suggest that actually, maybe I should think about retiring, instead?’

‘Well, then you could have bought a one-bedroom flat off the Cowley Road!’ said Caro savagely. ‘Near the industrial estate. Lived according to your means!’

Felicity lowered her head. Didn't answer.

‘What did you do with the letter?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, for a while. I sat and stared at it for ages, then I put it back, my hand shaking, I remember, in the top drawer of my desk. Under lots of papers. Buried it, like a dog would a bone. But almost hourly, I'd go back in the room, dig it out again, and stare at it. Have to sit down. Then quickly put it back again. It was dated six months before his death, but I couldn't decide what state of mind he'd written it in. I didn't know if it really was his last wish, or just a whim, late one night, after half a bottle of whisky. I didn't know if it was legal either, but that was irrelevant, really. What mattered was – had he wanted it to happen? If I'm honest, he'd said to me once that leaving Tim the farm with no money was a millstone round—’

‘Of course it was!’ shrieked Caro, rising up from her pillows again. ‘It was like cutting his legs off! Like giving us the wagon without the wheels, the cart without the horse, whatever fucking farmyard analogy you care to mention! It left us impotent, and working so hard,’ so hard, she quivered with rage, ‘you've no idea. We had to keep the farm going by any means we could. We struggled day and night, while you sat watching, knowing, in your pretty Queen Anne house with its terrace and its wrought-iron railings, not only with your salary from the University but with Tim's inheritance as well!’

Felicity swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘yes, that's true. But my salary was my due, Caro. I worked for it.’ Her voice quavered. ‘And my husband's money, I'd thought was my due. We were married, after all. I was the wife, albeit the second one, who usually retains the estate when her husband dies. And as I said, I could, legally, have taken the house, the land—’

‘Which would have been entirely against his wishes.’

‘Exactly, so I didn't. But I could have. But we all agreed, didn't we?’ She glanced around beseechingly. ‘Tim and Caro should have the farm, Evie – well, not much…’

‘I didn't need much,’ I said hastily.

‘And I'd receive whatever money—’

‘But that was before you found the letter!’ Caro exploded. ‘And you say you didn't know how to read it – well, I don't believe you. I know why you went hot and cold, Felicity. You saw in that piece of paper that Victor Milligan wanted his son to carry on the farm for the next generation, for Tim, and then Jack, and then maybe Jack's son, to do the same. For not just four, but five, maybe six generations of Milligans to farm this land, as Victor's great-grandfather had done. You suddenly saw in a flash, in a tiny scrap of paper, that you weren't important