Ottercombe Bay – Part One: Where There’s a Will.... Bella Osborne

bombarded her.

      He twitched his head. ‘Don’t remember me? For one thing, I stopped you riding your bike through the carnival procession on Saturday. Prevented a potential massacre, I reckon,’ he said, his local accent soft and barely noticeable.

      ‘Ah, yes,’ said Daisy feeling more than a little embarrassed at her behaviour that night. ‘Sorry about that.’ He didn’t look half as aggressive now, with his hair groomed and wearing a smart shirt and tie although he kept running his finger around his collar giving the impression he wasn’t very comfortable in the outfit. ‘You’re Max. You were the boy who always had his shirt untucked at school.’ She was keen to avoid reminding him about their teenage antics.

      The corners of his eyes crinkled. ‘Yep, that’d be me, all right.’

      ‘And you were friends with my great uncle?’ It still seemed an odd pairing to Daisy.

      ‘Yeah, me and Reg used to catch up from time to time. I’ll remember him fondly.’

      The look in Max’s eye intrigued her. ‘What will you remember most about him?’

      ‘He taught me I’m as good as anyone else …’ Max blew out a long slow breath and looked for a second like he was going to get emotional, ‘… and how to judge the tides.’

      ‘That’s nice,’ said Daisy feeling awkward; her memories weren’t quite as profound. ‘I’ll remember being curled up next to him watching films with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.’ In a flash a memory of the film Bugsy Malone popped up and she had a ‘doh’ moment when she realised where the dog’s name had come from. They’d watched that film many times when she was little.

      ‘Ah, here you are,’ said Aunt Coral joining them. ‘Daisy, you can come back to the house in car one with the oldies; I’m in car two with the Exeter crowd.’ She turned her attention to Max. ‘Lovely of you to come today, Max. Are you coming back for the wake?’

      ‘No, sorry, Coral, I’m working. I swapped my shifts so I could see old Reg off. Raise a glass for me at the party.’

      ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’ Aunt Coral gave him a fleeting pat on the shoulder and went to organise some others.

      ‘I ’spect I’ll see you around, if you’re staying here for a bit,’ said Max.

      ‘Unfortunately, I won’t be staying,’ said Daisy. ‘But it was nice to see you again. Bye.’

      Max paused. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said, his eyes warm and intense making her almost rethink her decision.

      The next morning Daisy found herself in a warm and stuffy solicitor’s office sipping a strong filter coffee.

      ‘Do you think he would have liked the party?’ asked Aunt Coral.

      It was an odd question, but she knew Aunt Coral had been worrying about giving Reg a deserving send off. ‘He would have loved it. He definitely would have approved of all the port.’ Aunt Coral visibly relaxed and Daisy felt a swell of affection for her. The wake had been well attended and diverse, with some serious talk about coastal erosion and an impromptu singalong. It had been exactly what Reg would have wanted.

      Daisy didn’t really want to hear his will read. She didn’t need anything to remember Great Uncle Reg; she had her memories. Although she had to admit she was curious about what he had left her that could be described as ‘substantial’. Cash, perhaps, but she wasn’t sure Reg had a lot of money. She needed some cash; she hated living hand to mouth. Possibly a share in the cottage, which would be very tricky because it was Aunt Coral’s home and she definitely wouldn’t want to sell it. Daisy decided she wouldn’t think about that option as it made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was a family heirloom, although the only items she could think of were pieces of furniture. That’s probably it, she thought. The large clock in the hallway and the dresser in the kitchen could both be described as substantial. Her mind wandered off and imagined her on the Antiques Roadshow trying hard to master her ‘I’m not at all disappointed it’s only worth tuppence’ face.

      ‘I am terribly sorry to keep you waiting,’ said the solicitor, hurrying into the office with a folder in his hand. ‘Now, I shouldn’t keep you long.’ Daisy was warming to the old gent already; she was keen to get packed up and head off up the M5. She hoped to get as far as Gloucester tonight but she wasn’t sure where she was heading afterwards.

      ‘This is the last will and testament of Reginald Montgomery Fabien Wickens …’ There then followed a paragraph of formal jargon before Daisy tuned in again. ‘… To my niece, Coral Anne Wickens, I leave the property of Sea Mist Cottage, Trow Lane, Ottercombe Bay, in its entirety …’ Aunt Coral let out a small sob and Daisy took her hand to comfort her. Daisy’s heart was starting to increase its speed. ‘To my great niece Daisy May Wickens, I leave the property and grounds of the former Ottercombe Bay Railway Station and adjoining car park, subject to her being resident in Ottercombe Bay for a full twelve months from the date of the reading of this will. My residuary estate is to be divided equally between Coral Wickens, Daisy Wickens and the Royal National Lifeboat Institution Ottercombe Bay Station. Should any beneficiary fail to meet the conditions of bequest their share will be divided equally between the other beneficiaries. Signed Reginald Wickens.’ The solicitor laid his hands flat on the document and patted it gently. Nobody spoke.

      Daisy’s mouth had gone dry, she was baffled and a quick glance at Aunt Coral showed she mirrored how she felt. Daisy put her hand to her necklace and closed her fingers around her locket for comfort. ‘I’m sorry, but he’s left me what exactly?’ she asked.

      ‘Ottercombe Bay Railway Station and car park.’

      ‘But there’s not been trains here for years,’ said Aunt Coral.

      The solicitor shuffled through a pile of papers and leaned across the desk to hand something over. It was a dog-eared auction notice. ‘The railway station at Ottercombe was decommissioned in 1975 and bought by …’ he checked his notes, ‘… a Mr Arthur Wickens who bequeathed it to your great uncle on his death. There are also some historic planning applications for demolition and site development that were refused in 1989, 1992, 2001 and 2010.’ He removed his glasses and smiled at them warmly from across the desk.

      Daisy stared at the piece of paper in her hand. She was looking at a faded photograph of a Victorian railway station building. ‘He’s left me an old railway station?’

      Aunt Coral was peering over her arm. ‘Do all those refused planning applications mean there’s not a lot she can do with it?’

      ‘Not at all. It simply means the council weren’t in favour of it being demolished, although there is a letter here saying they would be open to an application for change of use but it’s dated 2010.’

      ‘Can I sell it?’ asked Daisy, her voice coming out a little croaky.

      ‘Once it has passed to you formally following the adherence to the conditional clause.’

      Daisy stared at him. Why didn’t these people just use normal words? ‘And when does it pass to me formally exactly?’

      The solicitor twitched. ‘One year from today, assuming you have been resident in Ottercombe Bay for the full twelve months. This is also for you,’ he said, handing Daisy a thick cream envelope with her name beautifully written on the front in fountain pen; she recognised it instantly as Great Uncle Reg’s handwriting. ‘I believe this letter will explain things a little further.’

      For once Daisy opened her mouth but could not think what to say so she shut it again. What was going on?

      ‘This may be a stupid question,’ started Aunt Coral, ‘but I’m guessing this is all legal and watertight and there’s no way to get around the conditions he’s set?’

      ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the solicitor, who started to discuss paying for the funeral and the process of probate. Daisy thumbed the envelope in her hands and studied the writing. There was a slight wobble in the letters but