You Got What You Asked For, Didn't You?

Barnaby Longfellow sat at his large, polished oak desk and drew out his late father’s gold fountain pen from a drawer set just down to his right. In front of him, a notebook of the finest Basildon Bond writing paper lay flush on the desk, the brilliant white pages staring up at him, in anticipation of Barnaby’s finest cursive handwriting flowing across it. Barnaby placed his fountain pen in the freshly opened bottle of ink, pressed in the pipette and drew up the smooth, ebony liquid from within.

Taking a moment, he glanced out of the window to remember the stunning grounds which lay before him. In three hours and twenty five minutes, he would be dead. Long, winding staircases would no longer be walked upon. Portraits hanging on terracotta coloured walls would stare down to nobody. The rooms, once filled with ancient antiquities, would soon stand empty and the house sold onto new owners. He hoped also that someone might find him sooner rather than later, hanging from the rafters of the attic at the very top of the house. He didn’t want to be up there all on his own for too long. Only he knew this and it would most definitely come as a surprise to many, but, right now, his life as he knew it seemed meaningless and he’d had enough. It was as simple as that. His children didn’t care about him, they hadn’t been to see him for longer than ten minutes in months. He’d heard them whispering not that long ago, taking guesses as to how much Whitmore House was worth and which of the pieces of furniture they’d like the most. Why, they were even talking about the tools in the shed and what treasures might be buried within it. He hadn’t been sure, but he was certain he’d heard them taking bets as to when he might just pop his clogs.

But he’d show them. Zachary, with his flash cars, stupid women, brat of a daughter Penelope not Penny, of course, who insisted her pony which had cost Zachary best part of two grand, was sent back because he was the wrong shade of brown. Of course her father had obliged, darling Penelope receiving a horse the correct colour at an extra five hundred pounds.

Then there was Becca. Darling Becca. He would never admit to it, but she was, until two weeks ago, his favourite. Such a wonderful girl who never wanted for anything, or so he thought. He realised it was she who instigated the “Guess the Price of Whitmore House” challenge and the debate which ensued and he had been bitterly disappointed. And last but not least, Jackson. Jackson. Who on earth had thought of that name? He hadn’t, that was for sure. Their mother, Janice, had chosen that one, unmoved on the choice and threatening to leave Barnaby if Jackson was named anything else. As it turned out, she’d left him anyway for Harry Bamford, the Whitmore House estate keeper, and Jackson was still Jackson.

Pen poised above the paper, Barnaby began to write. After only a few moments, he exhaled deeply, tossing his pen across the desk causing it to fall over the back onto the dark blue Persian rug below, small spots of ink spreading invisibly through the tightened weave.

“Oh, damn and blast! I just can’t think straight…”

Six months later, Becca, Zachary and Jackson stepped into the offices of Parker, Keene and Wilson Solicitors to hear their late father’s will being read. Once they had received the relative paperwork, they had conversed regularly, in speculation of the contents of Barnaby’s will. 

“The cars are mine!”

Zachary had insisted, flicking his long fringe from his face.

“Wonder who gets Bonzo?”

Jackson had asked, puzzled. Who would want that mangy old thing, anyway?

"Not me, I hope"

Becca replied, feeling nauseous at the thought.

Becca had tried to remain neutral and dismissive, though secretly hoped Daddy had left her everything. After all she was the favourite. Wasn’t she?

They followed Graham Keene into a brightly lit hallway, on the walls of which were past employees in their finest attire, some with letters after their name. Only Daddy would choose the best solicitors. Things are looking up. Thought Becca.

Leading them up a set of narrow stairs, Keene beckoned them into a room, whilst he held the door open for them.

“Please take a seat”

The siblings looked at each other and smiled nervously, though each secretly hoping their luck was in.

Graham Keene opened a cupboard opposite and took out a small laptop. Zachary, Becca and Jackson looked at each other puzzled.

“This will is, let’s say, a little different. It seems your father had a touch of writer’s block whilst trying to write it, so he asked us to help him make a video instead. We are unaware what is contained within it, we were simply there to set everything up. Your father was responsible for stopping and starting the video. Please stay seated while it plays. Thank you”

And with that, Graham Keene opened up the laptop, pressed play and took a step back into the corner of the room, pensively.

  Barnaby Longfellow appeared almost at once, seated in his study, dressed in his favourite green tweed suit, a portrait of his grandfather hanging on the wall behind him. Barnaby cleared his throat and began to speak.

“If you are watching this, then you must know I am dead. I can’t say that I’m sorry, because I’m not. Since your mother left me, I have been a sad and miserable old man, have felt worthless and seen no further reason for living. I appreciate my death will have come as a bit of a shock, but it was my decision and mine alone. One thing I am certain of, is that I will not be missed, well, not by you, anyway. I am sure you are all sitting there with baited breath waiting to hear your entitlements. I’m afraid you may all be somewhat disappointed, even you, my darling Becca. You have always been my favourite and I believe you knew that, but you have let me down of late and you too must also pay the price for your devious ways.  

Whitmore House, minus its contents, is to be sold immediately. All proceeds are to be divided between Whitmore Garden Centre due to their ongoing dedication in providing Whitmore House with such beautiful roses; the Whitmore Toad Crossing Project and finally to Mrs Glenda Jacob’s at Seymour House who has been invaluable in providing me with a little “sexy time” over the past fifty years in my greatest hour of need and desire.

Zachary. Firstly, I leave you my favourite comb, so you can sort that god-forsaken mop on top of that big, fat, self-indulgent head of yours once and for all. I also leave you the Aston Martin and Rolls Royce. It is with regret, though, that the engines are missing so you will have to use your wit and charm to buy them back from dearest Glenda. I believe she has them in her garden shed for safekeeping. Please be kind to her, she is a good person. Finally, I leave you Number 82, Miserden Road on the Blakeford Estate, Charlton. Whilst I appreciate this would not be the property of your choosing, it is for your daughter, Penelope. It is time she had a lesson in humility. I am also very aware that the area has it’s fair share of crime, so be sure to get an alarm fitted.  

“Becca, to you I leave the following. Bonzo, my trusty and faithful Labrador. He is to stay with you until the end of his days. I have never quite believed you were allergic to dogs, only that you had long neglected your duties in helping me to look after him, despite your continued promises to do just that. He will bring you the joy and happiness no man has ever been able to thus far. I also leave you my George 1st bureau cabinet, Marlborough armchair (circa 1840) and Gillows dining table, though I am sure you won’t have room to keep them in that poky little shed of a flat of yours, so you’ll probably have to sell them. Hard luck, old girl.

“And finally Jackson. What can I say? I’ve never approved of your name. I blame your mother. I always liked Henry, but she wasn’t having any of it. To you I leave the contents of the shed. I have no idea what’s in it, but whatever it is, it’s yours. I mean, there might be something of worth in there, but not having stepped in there for years, I really don’t have a clue. There might even be some of your mother’s old jewellery in there, after it came off when she was shagging that lecherous gamekeeper. Don’t think I didn’t know what they were up to in there. You also get my pen, this pen here. Look after it as it’s probably worth more than the contents of the shed. It’s 12 carat gold and has rarely been used. Surely that's got to add value.

"And that, dear children, is your lot. Actually, there is just one more thing. Aside from the artefacts already mentioned, any remaining will become the property of Angelina, my beautiful, faithful daughter, your half-sister, gifted to me by my darling Glenda. You may have seen her around, actually. She looks a bit like you, Becca, but prettier.

“Should you choose to contest this will, I will take great pleasure in watching from wherever I end up. I am not sorry for making the choices I have, nor feel any guilt. You have brought this upon yourselves. Now I believe my dear friend Graham will press stop, once I have finished speaking. Goodbye”

Graham Keene walked slowly over to the open lap-top, carefully closing down the lid.

“Well, that was a bit different, wasn’t it?”