JABA’S LAST WILL AND TESTIMONY

By Bob French

I glanced around the quiet room then stifled a yawn, It was warm and stuffy and covered in dust, just like Mr. Fotheringham, the solicitor, who had summonsed me to the reading of the last will and testament of James Alfred Bernard Yearsley, Jaba to his friends and my best mate for the past twenty years, but now, sadly no longer with us. 

Sitting to my left was Melony, his deceitful, twisted, and cruel wife, who did her best to make Jaba’s life hell. To my right sat two other women in their early twenties, who I took to be Jaba’s kids, well not kids any more.  They looked just like their mother. I swore that if ever there was a performance of Cinderella, these two brats would get the part of the ugly two sisters without a doubt, and Melony would have no problem playing the cruel step mother.

Fotheringham gave a polite cough, as though to demand obedience, just like our old maths teacher did when he suspected foul play at the back of the class where Jaba and I normally sat. 

One of the two brats looked up from her i-phone, starred at Fotheringham, then gave a huff and went back to her i-phone.

 We had been sitting here in this stuffy room for over an hour whilst his clerk, who had been summons to bring in the Yearsley file, frantically tried to find it. 

Suddenly there was a clatter of heavy footsteps outside the door.  Then the door burst open admitting a tall, pimply faced youth, flourishing the said document in front of him.  He paused and with a degree of ceremony, slowly placed the file down in front of his master. He paused, expecting some sort of thanks, then beat a hasty retreat, praying to himself that this was not to be his last day at Fotheringham, Wentworth and Belchley.

Fotheringham gave a cruel smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I shan’t keep you long.”  He took a deep breath, opened the file and looked down at the document, which had just been delivered.

Then, without warning, he quietly swore, stood up, excused himself, left the room, stormed off down the corridor and into the practice office.  We could hear old Fotheringham yelling at the top of his voice at the young man who had delivered the incorrect file. He gave the incompetent clerk five minutes to fine the correct document, or he would be out on his ear.”

 Whilst Fotheringham was tearing strips off the young office clerk, Melony decided that the office needed some fresh air and moved to the back of the room and opened one of the large windows. Within seconds, the office was full of rain and flying papers. As the rain and cold air blasted into the office, the two daughters started to scream abuse at their mother. One of the daughter’s had jumped up, sending her chair crashing backwards into a tall African Palm which Fotheringham’s youngest son had given to him when he had become a Partner and he had nurtured it every day for the past fifteen years.

Luckily, I was seated away from the direct blast of the wind and rain that was slowly trashing the office, so was able to view the Armageddon in relatively comfort.

The force of the impact caused the Palm to rock in its large pot, then slowly fall to its left.  Directly in line of where the Palm was expected to make land-fall, was a small very expensive looking mahogany side-table with two Royal Scot Christel decanters and a beautiful model of HMS Arc Royal, which the officers of the old aircraft carrier had presented to Fotheringham on his retirement from the Royal Navy.     

I watched as the tall African Palm, slowly and majestically fell, destroying the model of the Arc Royal, and shattering the beautiful decanters, and lastly, with the sound of an explosion, it turned the expensive side-table into match-wood.

By now the wind was slanting into the office causing more files and papers to take to the air, and condemn those files that fell to the floor to slowly become waterlogged. 

It was then that I heard Melony scream and I turned to see where she was.  I was met with a blast of foul language and as far as I could understand, she was a little concern about her hair, which to be honest looked a complete mess and thought that when this is over, I should tell her to use old Ma’ Mavis’s over on Connaught Street, rather than that posh hairdressers on the high street, where the snobs of our society went, just so they could be seen and envied by the lower classes of the town.

I’m not sure if it was that Fotheringham had found his file, or the screams and howling wind and rain coming from his office had caused him to return.  Either way when he forced open the door and stood there, the look on his face told me he was not very pleased.

“What in God’s name is going on.  Who is responsible for all this mess?”

Before Melony and her two brats could come to their senses, I slowly pointed an accusing finger towards Melony who was sitting in a puddle on the floor soaking wet trying to tidy up her £50 hair do.

Then he caught site of his retirement present, well, what was left of it, and the very expensive decanters and mahogany side-table. 

“My God, what have you done?  Who caused all this damage.

Again, I slowly raised my hand and pointed to one of the brats.

“My God!” he bellowed at the top of his voice.”

I could see that we were not going to achieve anything this morning whilst he continued to ask God what had happened, so I raised my hand like a school kid.

“Excuse me Mr. Fotheringham.  Could I suggest that if you don’t have Mr. Yearsley, file to hand, we hold the reading at another date and time and possibly another location?”

This seemed to quieten him down. I could see his mind turning over trying to process the damage to his office.

“I agree, but who is going to pay for all this damage?”

I said nothing, but slowly turned and looked at Melony.  Whose face was already starting to go red as she started to build herself up into one of her famous tantrums.

She staggered to her feet. “You don’t expect me to pay for all this do you?”

Fotheringham seemed to pause for a minute. “Who opened the window?”

I pointed to Melony again.

“And who knocked over my African Palm?”

I didn’t wait for the little brat who smashed her chair into the tree and caused the, I pointed my finger at her?”

“Well Mrs. Yearsley, as far as I can see, you seem to be the one liable for the damage to my office. Once the Will has been read, I shall demand that you pay for all the damage from the proceeds of your late husbands Will.

“I will do no such thing!”

Fotheringham ignored her rant. “That’s fine then.  You will receive a summons for the damage to my property, and subsequent recovery of the hundreds of case files damaged by the rain and wind, which was caused by you and your daughters.”

On the way-out Melony crept up behind me. “If you think you are going to get a penny from Jaba’s Will, you are very much mistaken.  He never had a bank account cause he left me to do all the house bills.”

“A week later, the five of us sat in Fotheringham’s new offices.  After the Will of Jabs had been read out, there was a pause.

“Are there any questions?” Fotheringham said in a tired voice.

I lent forward.  “Could you tell me the registration and make of Jeba’s car and where I can find it please?”

Fotheringham glanced down at the Will.  “You will find it parked in the multistory car park, bay 29 in Hounslow.  It’s a Bently Flying Spur, Its registration is JABA 007.  See me after and I shall give you the keys.

Melony then in a quiet voice asked how much capital she’d been left to by her beloved husband.

“Mrs. Yearsley, I bring your attention to my last letter of the 20^th of this month.  The amount your husband has left you, besides the house and his collection of beer mats, comes to the same amount of the invoice I sent you. If you wish to settle now, today, the matter of your late husbands Will is closed.  However, if you wish to pay in installments, the settlement date of your late husband’s Will, and my bill, will be 23^rd May in five year’s time.  Which is it to be?”

That afternoon I caught the bus down to the multi-story car park and made my way up to the second floor where I knew I would find bay 29.  I stood and stared at the Silver Grey Bently Flying Spur for ten minutes before opening it and sliding onto the soft leather seat.  The smell of polished wood and leather kept me mesmerized for another ten minutes until my eye caught sight of a note in the glove compartment.  It directed me to the boot of the car.

As I lifted the boot, I smiled.  The reason Jaba never trusted banks was because he stored all his ill-gotten gains in his battered old brief case in the boot of his old banger, as he used to call it.  After quickly counting the neat piles of £20 notes, I whistled to myself; £75,000, then promised my-self that I would raise a glass to him that evening down at the Duck and Pheasant.

Copyright Bob French