The Gift Room Read online

  The

  Gift Room

  Nicholas Faulkner

  For my big sister Joy

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful for the support I’ve received from my family; Gloria, Gabriel and Giorgia which has been as unquestionable with this book as it was with my first. Whether they will put up with a third is another question…

  I suspect the same comment could be made about my long-suffering friend, editor and publisher Steve Clark, without whom this process would not have been anywhere near as enjoyable.

  CHAPTER 1

  Alexander walked through the automatic sliding glass doors of the imposing modern office block. The large brushed aluminium sign on the wall of the building to the right of the doors announced the firm “LARGE, SMITH and TURNER, Solicitors, Est. 1925”. It appeared to Alexander that now, well into the 21st century, the days of quaint old solicitors’ practices located in old Georgian town houses had long since passed even in the West country of England.

  It was a clear, dry day outside and he had been pleased by how easily he had found the building, located as it was in a business park just off the M5, as it curved its way around the beautiful cathedral city of Exeter, Devon. He had, as always, allowed himself plenty of time, because he disliked being late for anything. However, he rarely got lost nowadays thanks to the wonders of built-in satnav in his new Mercedes but nevertheless always assumed he would need time to find his destination. Furthermore there was always the risk of traffic jams on the congested motorway network of Southern England. He had parked in one of the visitor spaces close to the front door and now walked through the foyer with its impressive vaulted ceiling and glass walls running up three storeys of offices on either side. The curved glass reception desk was located at the end of the entrance hall directly opposite the doors.

  He was wearing his favourite blue pinstripe suit and a rather unusual vintage Liberty print silk tie from the 1980s. Alexander stood around 6’2” and was of slight build. He had never been the greatest sportsman in his younger years, initially enjoying rugby and then tennis, as age started to preclude the likely damage that was incurred with a contact sport. He had managed to stay in shape without putting on the sort of weight that many men of his age succumbed to. In fact Alexander was approaching his 47th birthday in a few months. He was trying to celebrate them less and less as each year passed, partly due to his particular family history and partly due to his apprehension at turning 50. His mind was still somewhere between 20 and 26. Yet his legs and arms often told him he was not, particularly when he tried to join his youngest teenage son, Harry, who had just turned 14, on a run. This usually ended with him struggling up the drive and his wife suggesting that either an ambulance or oxygen tent may be needed. Whenever he was unsure about his age, a quick check in the mirror at the greying brown hair and ever-increasing wrinkles around his eyes confirmed his worst fears - that his mind was attached to his body and both unfortunately belonged to a middle-aged man!

  Alexander arrived at the reception desk.

  “Good morning, I have an appointment with Mr Clarkson but I’m afraid I am rather early. My name is Alexander Talbot.”

  Alexander spoke in measured tones to the mature lady behind the desk. She smiled up at him and Alexander noticed she wore a corporate blouse with the firm’s logo on the breast pocket and matching scarf tied around her neck, in the same blue and gold as the firm’s name on the sign outside.

  “Please take a seat, Mr Talbot. I shall call Mr Clarkson’s secretary and see if he is available. Would you like a tea or coffee while you wait?” The lady proffered a hand towards some comfy-looking black leather reception chairs around a low glass coffee table containing the usual selection of daily broadsheet newspapers.

  “I would love a coffee if that’s possible?” Alexander replied.

  “Latte? Cappuccino?” she asked.

  “Oh a cappuccino would be lovely, thanks… for a second I was wondering if you were going to offer me a choice of milk as well… just a cappuccino as it comes would be great,” he replied and smiled as he turned to walk towards the chairs. Even a solicitor’s office is turning into a ubiquitous coffee shop he thought to himself.

  He sat down and reached forward for the neatly folded copy of that morning’s Financial Times. Clearly he was the first visitor to read the crisp paper in the reception that day. As he opened it up, he looked up and watched the receptionist walk towards him with his coffee in hand.

  “Thanks very much,” he said, as it was placed on the table in front of him.

  “Mr Clarkson is aware that you are waiting and will be with you shortly,” she said, and smiled.

  She turned and started to walk back towards her desk and then paused and turned to face Alexander again. “I am sorry for your sudden loss, Mr Talbot. I remember your parents when they came in to us over the years” she paused “they were always very pleasant… I shall miss them popping in.”

  Alexander looked at the lady and smiled. He could not somehow find the words to answer her. He nodded an acknowledgement, placed the newspaper down and then reached for his coffee.

  The receptionist walked back towards her desk, leaving Alexander to his refreshment. He drank the coffee quickly. He had been on the road now since 5am that morning and had not stopped at any of the motorway services that he had sped past. The stop on the M25 had been too soon after his start from home in Surrey; the M4 had felt too early, as well, and by the time he had rounded past Bristol and onto the M5, he had wanted to just arrive as soon as he could. Perhaps it had been a feeling of anxiety that made him wish today’s meeting could be over with as soon as possible. He had not particularly speeded along the motorways but somehow to delay arriving by stopping for a break had felt like delaying the inevitable in having the meeting. Best to get on with it, and meet Mr Clarkson without delay.

  Alexander had only heard the previous Tuesday, with a call from the police, that both his elderly parents had died in a car accident that afternoon.

  He had taken that call in his office in the City of London and had looked out of the window at the London skyline as the news had sunk in. He had not spoken to either his mother or father for well over two decades. He had spoken to the police whilst sitting behind his glass desk. He had said little during the brief conversation and then replaced the receiver in the telephone cradle. He had stood up and walked around to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that kept the grey, forbidding sky from entering the clean, crisp lines of his sleek office. He then turned and looked at the expanse of the dealing floor through the glass wall on the other side of his office. He had come a long way since his early twenties working in that environment. Now he had 50 staff dealing under him as he analysed the markets and made the strategic decisions for the funds he acted on behalf of. His parents would not have approved of his modern office, he thought or, for that matter, his career choice, but then when had they ever approved of anything that he had done or accomplished in his life?

  His parents seemed to not only belong to a different generation, but also seemed to want to try and cling to a time even before they were young, perhaps a natural connection to their parent’s generation from before World War Two.

  Alexander and his parents had exchanged Christmas cards on occasions but with that exception they had, in ef
fect, not been any part of either of each other’s lives since he had turned 21. In fact even the Christmas cards had become less frequent as Alexander had got older. Not only had he not always sent them, but somehow the feeling of mutual drifting apart had meant that, some years, his parents had also apparently forgotten.

  He had thrown some papers in his briefcase, shut down the computer on his desk and left the office early, catching the train home to his family in Surrey.

  The drive from the station only took five minutes and in the summer months Alexander often enjoyed the walk, preferring to leave the car at home. That morning, however, it had looked like it was going to rain and he had taken the car. As he got out of it on the drive, he looked up at the imposing red brick façade of his house. Yes, it looked like a classic, neo-Georgian property from the outside, but at least it benefited from all the modern comforts of the 21st century, such as underfloor heating and double glazing, with the sleek white kitchen his wife had always wanted. Another view that his late parents would probably not approve of, he thought to himself as he surveyed the front of his home. It was just that, his home, he had worked so hard to provide it, and his wife had created such a comfortable nest for him and his family inside, with her choices of fabric and furnishings. Why did he care if the parents who had not spoken to him for over 20 years and were now dead may not have approved of his taste on where he and his family lived?

  At that moment all he knew was that he had needed to feel close to his family, his wife and all three children. After the news he had received in the office, the short train trip and car ride had gone by in a blur. The sort of repetitive travel that he was so used to that he arrived at his destination without really registering the distance he had covered or the time that had elapsed. He had needed that closeness to his family more than ever that evening. After all, since hearing the news he had realised that he was now alone in the world except for them, his rocks, his foundation, the very reasons he got up every morning; his dear, dear family.

  He walked to the front door, leaving his car on the drive parked neatly by his wife’s new mini, and turned the key in the lock. He could hear his wife in the kitchen and the usual noises of the home at this time of day; the debates over homework with Harry, the television on in the family room, his eldest son, Will, on a telephone call and the vague sound of music coming, probably, from his daughter’s bedroom.

  “Perhaps Natalie is still going through her Bastille phase,” he thought to himself as he placed his briefcase down on the limestone flooring and walked across to the large round table, very exactly centred in the middle of the hall, and looked at the post on the highly polished walnut top adjacent to the vase of lilies that always seemed to adorn the centre. He casually looked at the envelopes, flicking them over with his fingers, but had no intention of opening any of them at that point.

  “Darling, I’m home! Early for once! The hunter gatherer has returned, you may come and pay homage!” Alexander liked the irreverent relationship he had with his wife. He wanted to sound light-hearted but realised it probably felt rather forced.

  “Bloody hell, Dad, do you have to?” His eldest son, Will had strolled from the family room with a phone apparently glued to his ear. “You are so embarrassing and inappropriate! Like mum would want to pay ‘homage!’ At that moment his wife, Julia, appeared from the kitchen and flung her arms around him.

  “You have no idea how much I needed that greeting,” Alexander said, and immediately burst into tears. Will had wandered across the hall and was now walking up the stairs, still on the phone, apparently oblivious to his father’s emotional connection to his mother. Since he had finished at university he seemed to be constantly in contact with his group of friends from Oxford. They seemed to be planning some trip to the Far East before starting their careers. As far as Alexander could understand kids seemed to have a gap year before and after university nowadays.

  “Darling, darling, what is it? Oh my God, darling, talk to me.” Julia rarely saw her husband this upset and in fact couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her husband cry.

  “I took a call from the Devon and Cornwall Police a couple of hours ago… my parents have been killed in a car accident. Both of them.” Alexander could not seem to break the news any less gently than by expressing the facts. She immediately resumed her embrace, holding him close.

  “It’s bloody stupid after all these years,” he said.

  “Darling,” She said after releasing him from her arms.

  “Can you give me two minutes?”

  “Of course,” Alexander said, without hesitation. He had turned up early and he knew that if Julia had needed to deal with something in such circumstances then it was important and he should not be so demanding of her time. She was there for him and he had always known that. He had never needed to question her unconditional support and love.

  “I shall go and change,” he continued. “And then I guess we had better tell the kids over dinner, not that they were ever likely to miss their grandparents! I guess I may break the rule on a midweek night and open a bottle of red?” Alexander turned to walk up the stairs and, at that moment, his wife proved beyond any shadow of a doubt why he had married her and why he loved her so much.

  “Will, Natalie, Harry, I want you all in the kitchen NOW. Turn that infernal music off, hang up that bloody phone and for once you are going to support that amazing man who is your father… I said NOW!” Julia rarely raised her voice to the children but when she did, they knew she meant business. By the time Alexander had changed out of his suit and come back downstairs in a pair of cord trousers and a casual open neck shirt, they were all seated in the kitchen. As he walked into their kitchen, all the children were seated around the breakfast island unit in the centre of the room and a quick glance told Alexander that Julia had taken on the role of telling the children, relieving him of the burden.

  “Oh Dad, I am so sorry, Mum has just told us.” Natalie stood up from the barstool, walked across and gave her father a hug. This time Alexander managed to keep his emotions in check as he put his arms around her. Over the shoulder of his teenage daughter he looked at his wife and mouthed the words, “thank you.” She alone had known what it would mean to have his family close by that evening.

  “Dad, sorry about earlier. I guess you have had a pretty shitty day. Kind of a shock, I guess.” Will looked at his father, who was still being hugged by Natalie.

  “Well, to be honest I don’t really know what to say. I mean, I never met them, so I can’t feel upset,” said Harry, sounding rather matter-of-fact.

  “None of us ever met them, stupid,” said Will.

  “Look, guys,” Alexander said as he sat down on a barstool. Julia placed a glass of red wine in front of him and stood leaning against the kitchen worktop, reaching down for her own glass. “I am not expecting you to wail and weep for two people you did not know. That would be hypocritical. I guess it is more the shock than anything else.” He took a long sip from his wine glass and gazed at his family. “Go on, surprise me. What’s for dinner?”

  * * * * *

  The call from Mr Clarkson, the solicitor, had occurred two days later. He had been his parents’ solicitor for what had seemed like forever. Alexander had arranged to drive down to meet him the following week. After he had taken the call he decided to speak to his own solicitor, a check to understand what to expect at the meting he would have with Mr Clarkson. Alexander called Mike Stapleford, his lawyer to chat it through. Mike’s firm had dealt with buying his and Julia’s home and a couple of minor property queries that had arisen over the years.

  “Mr Talbot, I am sorry but Mr Stapleford is on a sabbatical, he is in fact due to be away most of this year,” the receptionist explained when Alexander called. “Would you like to speak to one of the partners?”

  “No thanks, not to worry,” Alexander replied and replaced the receiver. He had forgotten Mike had mentioned to him at the start of the year he was travelling to America for su
rgery on his legs as he had spent nearly all his adult life in a wheelchair.

  And thus, some five days later, he found himself sitting over 150 miles from home, at 8.30 in the morning, waiting to see his parents’ solicitor in his Exeter offices, slightly unprepared.

  “Mr Talbot?” A very elderly gentleman walked across the reception and offered his outstretched hand. Alexander stood up and shook it formally. Mr Clarkson looked just as Alexander had imagined him to be when they had spoken on the phone the previous week. He was slightly stooped with age - Alexander guessed he was in his early sixties - and wore a smart, if not quite crisp, suit with a white shirt and a green tie with fishing rods in a pattern. He wore horn rimmed spectacles, which were perched on the end of his nose, and had polished brogue shoes which sounded louder than they probably were meant to as they echoed across the open tiled foyer floor of the office building.

  Somehow Mr Clarkson looked like an old-school solicitor from another generation, whose offices should indeed have been in that Georgian town house and the meeting conducted across his leather inlaid mahogany desk as opposed to this smart modern glass office building. Alexander instantly understood why his parents had used Mr Clarkson. They must have been comfortable with his old-fashioned style, belonging as he seemed, to an earlier age.

  “If you would just like to follow me, I have booked a meeting room along here.” Mr Clarkson led the way through a glass door and Alexander was shown to a seat around a circular meeting table that had a very fat and rather battered green file placed upon it.

  “Could I offer you another coffee, perhaps, as I guess you have had rather a long journey? Or in fact did you come down last night and stay locally?” Mr Clarkson enquired.

  “Another coffee would be great, thanks,” Alexander replied. “I drove down first thing actually. Traffic was not too bad.” Alexander did not find himself in much of a mood for small talk. He was normally rather shy and quiet and just wanted to try to get through the meeting as quickly as possible so he could drive home and return to his life. In a way, he felt that his parents’ death had somehow interrupted his normal life and routine. Mr Clarkson picked up the phone that was on the desk and dialled the receptionist to request another coffee.