Page 21 of The Fete of Summer (Tales of Crumbington #1)

Soft strains of a new generation of female jazz singer oozed from the phone. When Nathan observed Jaymes from across the table, cup in one hand, newspaper in the other, he felt a wave of affection.

“Are you still searching for somewhere to live?”

Jaymes let out a sigh and stared out through the window.

“You’d have thought it would be easy. Classifieds, online and in the papers.

Local agents. I’ve looked as far away as Collingwood, but nothing even remotely suitable, at least not within my budget.

I thought someone somewhere would have a room.

Even though she hasn’t said anything, I know I’m starting to get on Polly’s nerves. ”

“Perfect solution, then.”

“What is?”

“I have a spare room.”

Jaymes’ eyes grew wide as his gaze flicked to the bedroom corridor, then came back to Nathan’s. A touch of hesitation tempered his enthusiasm.

“Seriously?”

“The room’s there, Jaymes. Nobody ever uses it.”

“My own room with my own bed?”

“Yes, but I’d hoped you wouldn’t be using it much either. I’d really like you in mine.”

“How much?”

“Every night. Unless you feel that’s too much,” answered Nathan, in all honesty.

Jaymes snorted and grinned into his coffee cup.

“I meant, how much are you charging for the room, dingbat?”

“Oh, I see. How about home-cooked meals every now and again, and…”

“And?”

“Plenty of sex on demand.”

“I need to pay you something , Nate.”

“The place is bought and paid for. And as you said, you’re only here until May.”

Jaymes went quiet and thoughtful for a moment before a smile blossomed on his face.

“This is turning out to be one hell of a weekend. All these sweet deals.”

“My thoughts entirely.”

“Okay,” said Jaymes, starting to collect up plates.

“Even though I’d love to head back to bed, it’s ten already.

I’m going to clear up here while you shower.

I’d have suggested we shower together—to save time and water—but your shower cubicle is smaller than a Hobbit’s phone booth, and knowing I would not be able to restrain myself, I fear two men our size in that thing doing what I have in mind are likely to end up in Casualty.

So go and shower and change, out of temptation’s way, while I tidy up. ”

“Spoilsport.”

“Do you want to postpone the solicitor?”

“No.”

“Then move your cute arse. We have the rest of the afternoon and evening now that I’m living here.”

Nathan’s heart filled with pleasure on hearing those words.

“You’ll move in, then? You never said yes.”

“ Hell , yes,” said Jaymes. “Apart from sleeping on a mattress instead of a tiny sofa, I’ll have you next to me. Like I’ve died and gone to Hawaii. Can we swing by Polly’s later to pick up my suitcase and boxes? Maybe even try to wheedle out of her what she got up to last night.”

For the next thirty minutes, the apartment became a hive of activity, Jaymes and Nathan never missing an opportunity to touch or kiss as they passed each other.

By ten-thirty they were on the road to Eastbourne in the baker’s van.

They found parking on the same road as the solicitors.

One of a terrace of Edwardian houses, each with three storeys and a basement, the one announcing Miller, Price and Cawthorn had been elegantly decorated in simple shades of cream and white, the sky blue plaque announcing the name of the partnership providing an eye-catching addition.

Inside the offices, the Edwardian theme continued in the decor, with antique furnishings and brown leather Chesterfield settees.

Nathan found the air oppressively hot and humid.

Ms Cawthorn met them at the otherwise empty reception, clearly working with minimal staffing.

Dressed immaculately in a plain but stylish black pantsuit, white silk blouse and black heels, she exuded expensive competence.

“Please come this way,” she said after shaking Nathan’s hand.

As she led them away, Jaymes turned to Nathan and pulled a face, which had Nathan smirking.

After his father’s death, he’d had a number of visits to solicitors’ offices and they no longer daunted him.

In a small but plush conference room along the corridor, papers were laid out carefully along the oak table, with brightly coloured tabs indicating places for signatures. Nathan knew the drill well.

“This should not take long,” she said, waiting for them to be seated before joining them.

Nathan handed over his documents—birth certificate, utility bills, passport and his father’s will. After a cursory once-over, Ms Cawthorn left the room and returned around ten minutes later. Placing copies into a file, she handed the originals back and got straight down to business.

“Nathaniel Standhope Brooks died on the fifteenth of December in Melbourne. He is survived by an only son, Mr Grant Stanhope Brooks, but in a strange turn of events, it appears that you are also a distant relative. Mr Brooks was a property developer in Melbourne but sold the business eight years ago. He left most of his estate to his son but also wanted to bequeath a sum of money to you. The amount is detailed here.”

Ms Cawthorn twisted a sheet of paper around and tapped a pencil at a figure.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand Australian dollars? How much is that?” said Nathan, turning to Jaymes.

“Given the current exchange rate,” said Ms Cawthorn, “it’s around a hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. A tidy sum.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“From our end and our counterparts’ in Melbourne, everything is in order,” she said before drawing a letter from her file.

“One of the forms you signed is to let His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs Department know about your inheritance.

I’ve also been instructed to pass you this letter, Mr Fresher, which may help to clarify your connection to the benefactor.

Would you like some privacy? To read the details? ”

“No, I’m fine. I’m happy for everyone to stay.”

Nathan was surprised at how pristine the envelope appeared and respectfully untucked the sealed pouch. The letter inside was written in neat ballpoint handwriting.

Dearest Nathan,

We met in person eight years ago. My son, Grant, and I visited your shop in Crumbington.

Not that you would remember. But my son had a long chat with your father.

Funnily enough, he placed our accents precisely.

My father, Jeremy Brooks, had passed the same year, which is what prompted our visit.

During his final days, he told me the truth about my birth family.

According to my Australian birth certificate, my birthplace is Melbourne, where I’ve lived my whole life. However, on the official certificate my father gave me before he died, one he kept hidden all these years, I was born in England to John and Mary Fresher.

I am not sure how familiar you are with history, but at the outbreak of World War II, the British government evacuated children—Operation Pied Piper—from urban areas of London to countryside or seaside towns.

Some children, particularly those with relatives in the colonies, were shipped to Canada, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States.

According to my grandfather, I was brought to Australia by my birth mother’s sister, Emily.

She and her husband, Jeremy Brooks, were not able to have children of their own, and with uncertainty in Europe, they were happy to adopt me.

Nathan, I’ve lived a long and wonderful life, loved and nurtured by my mother and father, married a wonderful woman and had a son, Grant, late in life.

He’s been a source of endless joy. And I know I could go quietly to my grave now and keep this hidden.

Believe me when I say I have been conflicted about what to do.

But I feel people deserve to know the truth, especially you and my son.

As Thomas Jefferson once said, half a truth is often a great lie.

And I will not die being a party to a half-truth.

I didn’t get to know my real father and mother or my brother.

I half suspect my real father, your great-grandfather, had some influence on the choosing of your name, which is similar to my own.

My son is learning about this at the same time.

He is not that much older than you, and I hope the two of you have a chance to meet again one day.

Although I’m leaving my business and most of my wealth to him, I’ve left you something as a way of apologising for not saying hello to you when I had the chance because, at the time, I lacked courage.

Have a beautiful life, Nathan.

Yours warmly,

Great Uncle Nathaniel

When Nathan finished, he sat back, stunned. A warm hand landed on his shoulder and rubbed gently.

“Are you okay, buddy?” asked Jaymes.

Nathan peered across at Ms Cawthorn.

“Have you read this?” said Nathan, holding the letter up.

“I have,” said Ms Cawthorn. “Nathaniel Brooks provided copies of all letters for the solicitors, Flynn & Fox. They’re paying all our fees.”

“Then you know I have a cousin?”

“Grant Stanhope Brooks. He’s your first cousin once removed. Son of Nathaniel Stanhope Brooks, your great uncle. Grant would be around thirty-seven now.”

“I have family,” Nathan said to Jaymes, still stunned.

Whether because of her professional vocation or just her general bearing, Ms Cawthorn hadn’t once smiled despite Nathan being over a hundred thousand pounds better off. Eventually, after Nathan had signed the necessary papers and given bank details, Ms Cawthorn sat back and softened a little.

“Look, before you head off, Mr Fresher, I believe it’s my duty to warn you. This windfall, this familial development, comes with a potential complication. Which is why I asked you to bring along those particular documents.”

“How do you mean?”

“According to the copy of your father’s will and a clause insisted upon by both your forefathers, it states that upon their respective deaths, the bakery and everything associated with it, including the premises, should be bequeathed to the oldest surviving male heir of the Fresher family.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I have a duty to inform you, Mr Fresher, that technically that’s no longer you.”