Uncle Stanley
I was once asked to make up a story from one of the following ditties by Hilaire Belloc:
Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light
Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!
And the second one:
It is the business of the wealthy man
To give employment to the artisan.
Of course, me being me, I decided to use both in a story about an old man, ‘Uncle Stanley,’ who is something of a miser with a ‘colourful’ past, and leaves his relatives with one or two surprises …
‘A million quid!’ Jenny rose with a shriek. Her chair – a solid enough piece of reproduction furniture for a solicitor’s office – rocked backwards before deciding not to spoil the decorum of Willoughby, Pressley and Clarkson and returning to rest on four stout, wooden legs. However, Jenny Collins (née Childers) wasn’t there to resume her seat. Her agitation was so strong she had to stride over to the sash window and glare out of it to the High Street below. A gaggle of ladies-who-lunch stood outside the upmarket Lebanese Restaurant awaiting a late arrival who was even now hurrying up to them, no doubt complaining about the nanny, the gardener, or possibly the tradesman, who had been the cause of her delay.
Uncle Stanley’s solicitor, a grey-haired third-generation Willoughby, coughed to gain her attention and resumed his perusal of the Will: ‘I understand the funds have accumulated to stand at one million and eight hundred thousand pounds – approximately.’
Mike coughed in turn: ‘Is that with, or without, the property?’ His mild, amused voice penetrated Jenny’s irritation. Of course, her husband would find this funny! Unlike her, he hadn’t found Uncle Stanley on the landing by the light of his mobile phone’s torch. Stanley had been blown off his metal steps, and was very dead. The house was in complete darkness. It was the lack of light which had alerted her to the possibility of another ‘issue.’ It was all worked out afterwards: Stanley had been trying to sort out the dodgy light fitting on the landing using a metal screwdriver, and hadn’t even checked the switch was off. There had been no chance. At least with his ‘dicky ticker,’ it had been quick.
The money, which all came to her ‘bar a minor gift to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,’ was the amount without the property. The will had been a free charity one, hence the RSPCA clause. So, all in all, ‘bar’ a few pounds sterling: two million quid. Jenny stopped listening, even though the solicitor’s voice droned on. There they were, stuck in a terraced cottage a few doors down from ‘poor’ Uncle Stanley, and he was sitting on all this dough! He had lived in the one on the end, with the rising damp, the overgrown ivy and the ill-fitting windows.
When they’d moved in, their cottage had been the same, but they’d hacked back the ivy themselves, Mike replaced the windows one by one, and the damp? That was due to a rubble filled cellar. Floor to ceiling. It had taken three months just to clear it out. Every evening, every weekend. They’d had to live upstairs. It had nearly seen their marriage out. Like all builders, Mike was much more interested in doing other people’s jobs than his own. The third Saturday in a row when he'd tried to steal away in the van before she woke up, she’d been out in the street in her nightie, in front of the van, screaming at him to ‘deal with his own bloody building first, or she’d tell everybody what a fucking bastard he was!’
Not a single twitching curtain, net or otherwise. It had been very quiet. Mike had stopped the van, climbed out, taken her inside, and explained, in very simple, very clear, words, about their parlous financial situation. Then he’d left her to go to the job where’d he could earn some serious whack. His work on ‘his own bloody building’ until half past midnight that evening had done more than get the neighbours’ curtains twitching – next door had a baby they were trying to settle …
Anyway, a whole year later, they had a basement they could use as a dining room, a kitchen fitted out to a high standard, and a through lounge. They also had a big double bedroom upstairs and a smaller one that was still being used as a study. There, Mike could sort out his spreadsheets for his start-up building company, and Jenny could do her marking and lesson preparation.
All through this, Uncle Stanley had been in the background, getting more and more frail, but insisting on his independence. If he didn’t have a car, the shops could deliver, thank you very much! He would go to the doctor’s when he was ill, and not before; he didn’t care how many times they got in touch with him. No, he was not going to pay for the privilege of seeing a Disney, or Paramount, or Twentieth-Century Fox film when he already had to pay quite enough at the Post Office for his annual television licence! Especially during, and after, Covid, Jenny got used to organising, and paying for, his online grocery delivery. She got used to giving up her own time getting him to his vaccinations (‘It’s all a conspiracy, you know’); and she had to repeatedly show him how to use the remote on his antiquated TV so he could watch yet another Midsomer Murder on repeat. He only had his State Pension to keep him going; they had all the money Mike was making now he had his own business, as well as her teacher’s salary.
With her and Mike’s marriage lasting beyond their row over the cellar, the questions got more personal. That time she’d heaved another shopping delivery through his front door during a winter downpour, and he hadn’t even looked up from watching Richard Osman’s House of Games:
‘You could help!’ She’d snapped, as she returned through the lounge to retrieve the last bag which was getting soaked on the doorstep.
‘You’re sounding a bit off. Aren’t you getting enough oats?’ His eyes barely flickered from the screen.
‘Getting enough what?’
‘Your oats – bet your fella sowed a few in his time! Or is he getting too tired with all those late-night shifts?’ Stanley turned back to the telly: it was the ‘answer smash’ round.
Jenny, having worked out what her uncle was on about, stood over him: how dare he? As if she’d tell him what happened in their double bed, or how often. All right, she’d been off the pill for the last eighteen months, but that was none of Stanley’s business. All the doctor would say was they needed to relax and let nature take its course. They needed to keep trying ‘on their own’ for some while yet before they could be considered for IVF: at least on the NHS. If they wanted to, he was happy to tell them what their options were privately. Jenny had left the surgery.
In her opinion, Stanley had always been spoiled. Ever since she knew him, it was ‘Stanley must have the best; Stanley knows what he’s doing; hasn’t Stanley done well?’ from her grandparents. Stanley was the late arrival – the much longed for son after two daughters. Two daughters who tried to impress their parents: Auntie Laura remained single and became an academic, but ‘only’ ended up at an Ivy League University in America (‘it’s not Oxbridge, darling, is it?’). Jenny’s mum, on the other hand, went all traditional: wife and stay-at-home mum. However, mum only had one child, and that child was a girl. Once Jenny’s gran got too old to look after Stanley – especially after his ‘little difficulty’ – it became Mum’s job. Then Dad had his stroke, and Jenny could not resist the family expectation, but she was so glad Mike refused point-blank to have Stanley come and live with them.
It was Mike who did the research. Jenny knew her grandparents had been so proud of ‘their little boy’ when he went to be ‘something in the city.’ Why he came back, why he disappeared again, why he never seemed to have any money, was not talked about – ever. Insider trading was the answer. All right, Mike realised it stank that none of the public-schoolboy colleagues went to prison, nor even fined – unlike Stanley. Stanley had been out of his depth, and the fine explained why Jenny’s grandparents had nothing to leave: they’d even re-mortgaged their house. It did not, however, explain why the small amount they did leave all had to go to Stanley. His sisters got nothing. Auntie Laura didn’t even bother to make the trip back from the States; Mum just wept into her hankie and went back to coping with Dad. Stanley went on holiday, returning in time to make sure Jenny stepped fully into the breach so he’d be able to enjoy his retirement in the end terrace he could only just about afford.
Jenny could do all the woman’s work, but Mike’s DIY help was not welcomed. If Stanley wanted a mirror put up in the lounge, a wall painted, extra shelving in his kitchen cupboards, or even holes drilled in the outside wall to secure a downpipe from a broken gutter, he’d do that himself. He would borrow the tools from Mike, but never ask for help – even if he had to stand on a wobbly kitchen chair to drill into the brickwork. That was when Mike gave Stanley his own steps.
‘What do you want to do that for? You’ll only encourage him!’ Jenny had hissed.
Mike shrugged: ‘If he’s going to do it anyway, I’d prefer it if he had the right equipment to hand.’
Against her husband’s unassailable logic, Jenny said no more. Just as she also learned not to criticise Stanley’s work: the mirror, the shelves, were level, no matter what her eyes told her.
And he would not be getting in an electrician, even though Jenny told him yet again his landing light was on the blink.
After the funeral and the grant of probate, it still took Mike weeks to persuade her it made sense to do her uncle’s cottage up before selling it. Yes, they could get rid of the furniture, they could strip out the old kitchen, sort the electrics, the plumbing and the damp. If they were going to sell it (and, after all, wasn’t it in her ‘Outstanding’ school’s catchment area?), then the better it looked, the more money they’d get. Besides, Mike had the skills and the team to do the work. Jenny did note the work took less time than when he worked on their house...
In late Spring, Mike announced they were going on an ‘anniversary mystery tour.’ To be fair to Mike he had never forgotten their anniversary, though in the past, like her birthday and Christmas, she’d drop heavy hints about the present she wanted. This time, Mike pre-empted her. All mysterious, he’d only say: ‘it’s not something I’d have done if Uncle Stanley was still with us.’
Her husband had, however, to give a little more detail as the date for the trip grew closer, as he had to admit his skills didn’t stretch to doing her packing. She was told it was to do with the part of the Will she had paid no attention to: Uncle Stanley had paid ten grand to become Lord Finchley of Lower Breethwaite. Against the two million he left; it was nothing. Against his refusal to pay for an updated TV, it was barking madness. Either way, he’d left the title (‘all perfectly legal, Ms Childers, you are Lord – or Lady in your case – of the Manor’) to Jenny in his will. She could call herself Lady Finchley. Once again, Mike had done his research: if they couldn’t own the Manor House in Lower Breethwaite, they could afford to stay the weekend in the Manor Hotel.
After a very comfortable night in the Penthouse suite, they spent the Saturday exploring the village, including the ancient church, which was, unusually, open. Victorians, whatever else they did, ‘did’ death; and if that death was of the last (hereditary) Lord of the Manor, there was going to be a serious, white marble ‘in memoriam’ tablet. He died in 1892, he was called Stanley Algernon Gerald Earnest Childers-Fortescue, and he was, being the only son of an only son, the last of his line.
‘That thing’s missing a word, yer know.’ Jenny and Mike hadn’t heard the old codger enter the church, but they expressed polite enquiry as to what that word might be.
‘Go on! A lifelong bachelor?’ the old man screeched: ‘No wench was safe up in the ole Manor! Plenty of by-blows to his name. The ole sod couldn’t be bothered to get hitched – that were ’is problem!’
‘I think,’ said Mike, deciding to amuse the old man and looking back at the memorial, ‘we’re missing the word “legitimate,” in front of “heirs.”’
‘I ’ope you don’t think you’re part of ’is family! ’Cos there’s lots round ’ere ’ud fight yer for it! Me for one – me ole great-gran were one o’ that “gentleman’s” conquests. And we get a fair few in here. One bloke came in – oh, turn of the century, it were – seemed to think we should all kow-tow to ’im! Traced ’is line back on male side – as if that ’elps – wrong side o’ the blanket is wrong side, no matter if the babe’s a boy or a girl! An’ ’avin’ the same name as ’im up there means nowt, neither!’
Suddenly, the church door opened and a middle-aged woman came in: ‘Dad? Dad! What are you doing? Not boring more visitors with your tales?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jenny, ‘it’s been most – ah – instructive.’ She was going to move towards the woman, and hold out her hand, introduce herself; but the woman had muttered something about ‘that may be, but he shouldn’t be ’ere,’ and gathered up the old man. He seemed happy enough to be going, especially when steak and kidney pudding was mentioned. Mike and Jenny were left to make their way back to the Manor Hotel and a more refined dining experience. After, that is, Mike had a chat with the hotel manager.
Over a bottle of wine, and plenty of giggles at the old man’s expense; Mike confessed he’d known.
‘I was going to tell you! Honest!’
They knew Uncle Stanley had spent his trial denying he had any money. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs had presumably not found any money and, therefore, as far as they were concerned, with the fine paid and the prison sentence served, the case was closed. Maybe Stanley was the fall guy and the money was a pay-off, though goodness knows how much the public-school lot got out of the deal if Stanley got over a million! Either way, they assumed, Stanley had decided he couldn’t be seen spending it. However, he still had delusions of grandeur – he must have done if he wasted his parents’ inheritance on a ‘Lordship of the Manor.’ Twenty-five years ago, according to what the manager told Mike, Stanley had been staying at this hotel: ‘and treated it as if he owned the place, and the staff were his servants! Eventually, my father – he was the manager then – turned him out. But he didn’t pay his bill! And he’d given a false address and a non-existent phone number.’
Not that there was an outstanding bill from that many years ago for them to pay! The young manager assured Mike of that. Mike suspected the idea of repeat business trumped any thoughts of expecting an old, a very old, debt being recovered.
Mike and Jenny amused themselves at the thought of ‘Lord’ Stanley:
‘I can just see him trying to Lord it over the locals!’ Mike reached for his glass of wine.
‘Always thought he deserved to be served, waited on hand and foot.’ Jenny said, thinking of the times she had to do just that.
‘Well. That’s all over now.’ Wine duly sipped, Mike put his hand over Jenny’s, ‘We can enjoy the money, we can choose to live in the village here, or not; and you can choose to be Lady Finchley – or not!’ he added quickly when he noticed the look on her face. He changed the subject to plans for the next day as they finished their dessert. Then, after coffee in the lounge:
‘Anyway, woman, it’s time for bed!’
‘But I’m not tired.’
‘Nor am I, “my lady,” nor am I …’
Maybe that doctor was right, and all it took was relaxing and letting nature take its course. Jenny is seeing the year out, but is quitting teaching. Mike, now he can afford to employ people, is keeping busy project managing building projects, including the one he’s found for his own family. As he says, he can afford to give them work, so why not?