Day 191 – Writing exercise

…

The last time I had visited my Grandmother’s house, it was for my Grandfather’s death.  We had all solemnly attended the funeral, and dutifully turned up at the wake.

It had been a splendid affair.

My grandfather had been an influential and well-respected man in the community and in his field, in fact everywhere except his family.

It was a very sad day.

My grandmother then had to endure the loss of her husband and then years of squabbling, legal battles, and finally ostracisation.

That was where I learned the hard way that money was the root of all evil.

It was where I realised that I didn’t know my parents, once warm, loving people who taught us that the most important asset any person had was their family.  That was until eighty-five million dollars was suddenly up for grabs.

Then every one of those money-grubbing children of hers decided it was theirs for the taking.  The schemes each one of them devised, their treatment of what they thought was a weak and vulnerable old lady, was unbelievable and disgraceful.

I got to see it first hand, because out of every one of the forty six living descendants of Martha Evelyn Elizabeth Wallace, nee Williams, Evelyn, a cousin, and I were the only two who never saw the profit we could make, only the friendship and help that old lady needed.

I never wanted her money, or anything, other than helping her see out the last years of her life in the comfort and ease that she deserved.  No one mentioned the sacrifices she had made, or the help she had given willingly and without expectation.

When she died at the age of 92, she had lived through many different eras, seen changes we took for granted, and had become a walking encyclopaedia of the past.  The rest saw an opportunity to financially gain from her death.

They never expected the battle that ensued.

But, the question was, why did I take my grandmother’s side and not join the United family front?

I landed on her doorstep at the age of eight, the youngest of five children, the one the others wanted nothing to do with.  The others were teens and old enough to go travelling with our parents.

Apparently I would ruin their vacation experience, I was told.  So I was taken to Grandma’s whether she liked it or not.  I remember that one conversation between my father, who dropped me off and Grandma.  She said his selfishness and thoughtless behaviour would come back to bite him.

Then came the words I would never forget.  He said I was a useless son and fitting that he stay with an equally useless mother-in-law.  Words spoken in anger, she said, and therefore his true feelings on the matter.

They had never seen eye to eye on anything.

After witnessing that, she told me never to get too wrapped up in an argument because you always said words you could never take back.

From that year on, everything they travelled, they left me at Grandma’s.

She took that terrified, teary, eight-year-old up to the most magnificent room I had ever seen, a room that overlooked the gardens and the sea beyond it. It set free my imagination, that desire to be anything other than that useless son my father called me.

It drove the desire to write, and I had a reader and mentor by my side from the beginning.  She had seen my potential as a writer long before anyone else, and truth be known, she had sent my work to people she knew, people who mattered more than the opinion of my own family.

The house, she said later, had brought that alive. She always read my stories, and later my novels.  They were always, in part, based on her telling me about an aspect of her life.

Then there was Evelyn.

She was my cousin, the daughter of my father’s older brother, a man of little tact and great expectations, and her family’s black sheep.  The last of the litter, her father said, the day she came home with bad grades.

That’s when she was sent to a private school, one designed to take ‘bad eggs’ and straighten them out.  It was a school full of maladjusted and, she said, evil children, who preyed on the weak and disoriented to make themselves feel better.

She ran away, fell into the abyss, and for a while no one spoke about.  I couldn’t believe that any family would abandon a child like that.

And then I remembered what my family had done to me.

I found her after a search of places no one would willingly go to, and took her to Grandma’s.  She knew exactly what to do, and over the course of the next year, we helped her find a way out of the abyss.

It gave rise to the charitable trust and the desire to help abandoned children like I had been, and children who landed in that awful abyss Evelyn had fallen into, because she had nowhere else to go, an enterprise my father said was like throwing good money after bad.

As Evelyn recovered, she told us her story, and how grateful she was to get a second chance, something that would never happen at home. 

Once she was well enough, she made it her mission to be that one person my grandmother could always rely on, other than me.

She already knew how cruel people could be, and it hadn’t surprised her when her parents, like each of the other children, turned against our grandmother.

It had always been decided for her what she was supposed to do with her life, and that was to get a law degree.  She had hated the idea.

But one day, when sitting around the breakfast table, Grandma said it would be an advantage one day if at least one of us knew the law.  Perhaps then she could see the coming storm from her children

From that conversation, she decided to go to university.  After graduating, she never felt like she had the confidence to practise it, even after breezing through the bar exam. 

In fact, it was not until the first of Grandmother’s children launched a legal case against her that she suddenly discovered just how much payback was going to cost them.

It was like watching the transformation of a mouse into a war lord, the first day of what we called the war of the roses, mostly because it felt like it had taken thirty years to finally win.

And win so emphatically she did, to the extent that in a fit of rage, her own father had castigated her and praised her in the same sentence.

…

The driveway from the front gates to the front door was about a mile long, with a collenade of elm trees that in spring showed what Mother Nature was capable of.

I had stopped on the bridge, built in Roman style, that crossed the creek that fed the lake that then ran to the ocean.  You could just see it through the trees on the edge of the lawns.

It was where you got your first look at the magnificent Tudor-style house, a picture right out of an English history book.  It never failed to fill me with a feeling of pride just to be standing there

It had also made my blood boil when learning of my father, uncles and aunts’ plan to sell the place to a resort owner and have them chop it up into a golf course and lakeside condos.

Desecration, my Grandmother had said.

Desecration indeed.

The short drive to the gravel-covered space at the front of the house took only a few minutes, and I was not the first to arrive.

Evelyn’s beat-up BMW was sitting in that coveted closest to the front door spot, and Wenders had the Bentley out, which meant something was afoot.

It had taken both of us a while to wrap our heads around the house staffing arrangements and the fact we were not allowed to do anything for ourselves.

Or to treat the servants as servants but as fully trained employees who were there to do specific jobs, just like others did in offices and factories.

Here there were kitchen staff who cooked.  There were wait staff who were like normal wait staff in restaurants.  There were housekeeping staff like in hotels that did housekeeping duties.  There were gardening staff who maintained the grounds. There were mechanical staff who ran the machinery and the fleet of cars.  There were farm staff because there was a farm as part of the property.

We were fully functional and fully self-sufficient.  And it had been that way for over a hundred years.

And it was hard to accept that I was the master of the house, and Evelyn the mistress.  My girlfriend would not become yet mistress if she married me, and she was fine with it. 

Both of us moved into the house about five years before grandmother died, and had been training forever to take over.  I had thought it would be much harder, but then we had managers, the head butler, and the head house mistress, two people who had been born in the house itself and trained from the first day to do the roles they had inherited from their parents and their parents before them.

My father never understood how that worked or why it worked.  He and the rest of them had failed to understand the significance of the house and the people who called it home.  They just considered the house and the people in it expendable, items on a balance sheet, something that could be sold and forgotten.

He had never met everyone who worked there as I did, starting with that first visit at eight years old, as did Evelyn after she moved in.  That they were not just people; they were family.  They too had mostly spent their whole lives there, or if they moved away, they eventually came back.

All of this went through my mind: how it had been a battle to keep it all together, how the siblings kept throwing up endless legal challenges, before she died, and then after.

None had been able to contest the will.  It was cast in stone.  I knew that because Evelyn had crafted it, knowing how the law worked and knowing what evil people were capable of.

After she had rebuffed all of their suits, she had been offered a position with one of the legal firms hired by the siblings, a very prestigious and expensive legal practice, to which she declined.  She could not, she said, ever work for a firm that would submit such scurrilous legal actions.

Jamieson, head butler, had opened the door and was waiting for me to enter.  Sometimes it felt like a staircase to paradise going up the front steps, but today, it was just another day.

I hadn’t been able to write for a few months now, and I had the publisher’s editor calling, asking about my next book.  Writing had been the last thing on my mind after grandmother’s passing, but today, coming back from London, it felt like the drive had cleared a few of the cobwebs out.

“Sir,” he said, standing almost as if at attention.  “I assume the drive up was pleasant?”

“I had Four Seasons playing, and it seemed to lighten my mood.  Pleasant indeed, Jamieson.”

“I understand the mechanics would like to look your car over.  That time I’m told.”

“It always seems that time for something.”

“Yes.  Mistress Evelyn was saying something about another matter, the annual charity ball.”

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed, sir.  Consider yourself reminded.”

“Thank you, Jamieson.  Where would I be without you?”

“Up the proverbial creek, I believe, sir.”

He waited until I was inside, standing on the polished tiles and a few steps from the main entrance hall that had two adjacent staircases leading up to the first floor, and the statue of a likeness of Helen of Troy with his wife’s face in the middle.  It was breathtaking, a marble statue commissioned by the first owner of the building, my earliest tracable ancestor.

It was one of many surprises that had met me on that first visit.

“Is Evelyn…?”

“In the ballroom?  Yes.”

“Thank you, Jamieson.”

“Would you like tea to be served?”

“Something stronger might be needed, but yes.  That would be appreciated.”

“I will arrange it.”

The ballroom was at the rear of the house, opening out onto a large paved area which could be covered if extra space was required.  The renovation had been the last thing grandmother had initiated, and she hadn’t lived to see it completed.

It was where she intended the annual charity ball to be held because it had grown too large for the current venue.  This year it would be held here, in her honour.  Tickets were required, and the funds raised went to the family charity trust, something else her children had tried to take.

Evelyn had made sure that attempt also failed.  They had kept their positions as Trustees, but a motion had been passed to strip them of voting rights, her last act of defiance.  It was after they thought they had enough votes on the board to oust their mother, and install Evelyn’s father as chairman.  In the end, they did not.

Evelyn was fretting, but it was not about the organisation; it was about confronting her father again.  It was about the same amount of apprehension I had seeing mine.  It had been nearly a year before the courts finally dismissed all their lawsuits. 

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back.

But as Trustees with or without voting rights, they were entitled to be invited.  Grandmother had always told us that we should never stoop to their level, that we should remain aloof, but it was difficult, and I was glad she was not there to witness our momentary lapse.

And, she said, above all, the work of the charity came before everything else, and that our deeds were to be measured by others, not by ourselves.

It was part of the charity’s fiftieth anniversary speech, the one the chairman was to read, but as she had passed, it was left to me.  I was not relishing it.  I had trouble enough doing book readings and signing.

Evelyn was standing in the middle of the ballroom under one of the three restored chandeliers, a feature of a room that had one wall featuring painted landscapes of the nearby countryside.

It was like the pages of a history book.

“In a princess outfit and a diamond and silver tiara, you would look like you owned the room, a palace if you will.  Certainly you would be the belle of the ball.”

She turned, saw me and smiled.

“You came, Sam.”

“How could I not?  I live here, well, mostly here.  My editor is asking politely for my next book, and frankly I’m not feeling like it.”

“It’ll come.  What do you think?  It’s exactly how Grandma’s envisioned it.  Those paintings, my God, visual history.  Did you know she had them in storage?”

I shook my head.  “No. You know what she was like.  There’s treasure to be found, if and when we get the chance to pick up a shovel.”

“There you go.  The next book is already writing itself.  The lost treasure in Derbyshire.  We have three hundred tickets sold.  A full house.”

“The family?”

“Thirty-five.  I told them politely that they have to pay or they would be turned away at the door.”

“You didn’t.”  I could see my mother’s face.  Purple with rage.

“I did.  Everyone else has to pay.”

She signed.  Just mentioning our parents was exhausting.

“Have you even got a gown?”

I knew her well enough to know she hadn’t and wouldn’t, so I had made arrangements.

When she didn’t answer, I said, “Not a problem, I have your fairy godmother coming tomorrow, so don’t make me have to come and find you.”

…

As the newly elected chairman of the board of Trustees for the charity trust that my grandmother had created to fund the charity initiatives, and also accept outside donations, it was my job to greet the incoming guests at the main entrance to the ballroom at the rear of the house.

Cars would stop in the portico, and guests would step out onto the red carpet, which ran from the bottom of the steps to just inside the entrance.

There, Evelyn and her team of ushers would give each guest a welcome drink and a moment to gather themselves before ushering them to their table. 

Her fairy godmother had found the ideal dress, and in it she looked every bit a princess, right down to the tiara, one of Grandmother’s heirlooms left to Evelyn.  All that was missing was the magic wand.

She was dazzling.

About a hundred guests had passed through the receiving area before my family’s motorcade arrived.  My parents were in a chauffeur-driven limousine; for them, appearances were everything, and my siblings in their ‘posh’ cars followed suit.  That notion of displaying wealth as power had found itself flowing down the tree.

Jamieson opened the doors in concert with the chauffeur, giving me time to adjust the bow tie and collar that was slowly strangling me.  I hated dress-up occasions

My father was first out.  None of this ladies first thing with him.

He looked me up and down.  “You still pleased with yourself?”

“Why would I be?  I was only following orders.  Your mother-in-law, Dad.  Who was it again who told me I had to respect my elders?”

My mother joined him, and chose not to speak.  It was a shame the mother I once knew and loved had disappeared, and turned into what was standing before me.

She could light up a room just by walking into it.  Tonight was going to be a test.  The scandal of the bitter fight with grandmother had made them disliked enemies, and particularly so of those who were attending tonight.

“We also taught you that family was everything.”

“Until you think you can use it as an ATM.  Enjoy the night, Mum, Dad.  Let the animosity rest for one day at least.”

He just shook his head and started walking up the stairs.

My siblings were just rude, but it was not because they naturally were; it was because they were jealous and angry they had not paid closer attention to the one person who could have made their lives better.

Their failures, by contrast, in their home, when they didn’t achieve expectations, were met with sympathy.  Mine and Evelyn’s failures hadn’t, and I could never understand why.

I simply greeted them politely, and they kept walking.  Even their children were rude. 

After Evelyn’s father arrived and started up the stairs, I saw Elizabeth, the girl I was hoping to ask to marry me when I gathered enough courage, had arrived and was waving from the top of the stairs.

She was there to give Evelyn moral support when her father arrived.  That moral support was needed now.  He was almost upon her.

A few minutes later she came down the stairs in that manner that made it look like a grand entrance.  She had done exactly that on our staircase to the foyer, and a grand entrance it had been.

Tonight she was equally as stunning as my cousin.

“Passed with flying colours,” she said, referring to Evelyn.  “They didn’t believe she was their daughter.  Where on earth did you find that dress?  It is nothing short of stunning.”

“She has a fairy godmother.”

“Does that mean she can only stay till midnight?”

“More than likely.”

“Your parents are up there, doing their thing, like all of this was their work.” 

Even after I explained what they were like, she still couldn’t believe they were exactly how I portrayed them.  Given the yardstick she had lived with, she couldn’t comprehend people being so bad they would simply dump their kid.

“They’re never going to change, and it doesn’t matter.  The people who matter know the truth.  Besides, Jamieson snubbed them.  To me that sums up all our feelings towards them.”

She squeezed my hand and smiled.  Another limousine just stopped.

…

Inside the ballroom there were two hundred and ninety-eight guests.  Two could not come because of health reasons.

Everyone but the immediate family were in great spirits and, for the most part, ignored them.  Not deliberately, but because they had shown their uncharitable side.

The night was about celebrating my grandmother; it was not about her children, nor about her children using the occasion to further their own agendas.

I drifted around checking on everyone to make sure their wishes were being fulfilled.  Evelyn was making sure everything was coming out of the kitchen and onto the tables exactly as it should.  She was supposed to let the catering staff handle it. 

In the end, I had to sidetrack her before Mrs Stevens, the head housekeeper and in charge of the catering, strangled her.  It was better for her to be acquainting herself with the donors.

Before dessert was served, I had to make a speech.  I hated making speeches, or standing up in front of a crowd as big as this, or even as small as ten.

When the orchestra stopped playing music, that was my cue to step up to the podium.  By the time I reached the microphone, the noise had died.  I could have literally heard a pin drop, and nearly three hundred pairs of eyes were looking at me.

I had the prompt cards on the lectern ready to go.

A few seconds passed, then I made a decision.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Annual Gala Ball, in aid of the Wallace Charity Foundation.  We decided to dedicate this event to my grandmother, Martha Wallace.  Without her vision, her passion and her stamina, none of us would be here today.”

I looked around the room, and those who were applauding; that generosity did not extend to the family.  I wasn’t surprised.  If my father was standing here in my place, he would be basking in the applause, because he would have made it about him.

“Oddly enough, that idea she had came quite simply from the fact that, at the age of eight, my father chose to leave me here while the rest of the family went on vacation. 

She could see how that could be distressing, and I remember asking her about what happened to all the other children who were dropped somewhere by their parents simply because they were a perceived problem.

It turns out quite a few.  Not that year but the next, when I arrived once again on her doorstep, she said that I was no longer alone.  She had spent the time and money refurbishing the farm labourers’ cottages into facilities that would take up to twenty children off the street.

From there she would provide clean linen, a roof over their heads and proper food to eat.  Those that wanted to be helped stayed.  Those that didn’t, we realised we needed to work harder.

They were taught skills; they got to work on the farm because children need to be doing something, and given a basic education and lessons on how to survive out there in the world and not end up in the scrap heap of discarded and forgotten humanity.

When my cousin Evelyn arrived, we were given a new avenue to pursue.  How many people were sleeping on the streets, with no money, no prospects, and in constant danger?

We expanded and included them to the point where we had fifty here with us at any time. 

Tonight we are pleased to inform you that, with the help of your donations, we’re starting two new initiatives: the first, we are adding deserted and abandoned wives and victims of domestic violence with children and nowhere to go.  The second is fully funded wards at several hospitals to look after rape victims, and giving them the support they desperately need in the worst moment in their life.

We can’t save everybody, and it distresses me to say that, but we’re working on it.”

I let that sink in and then proposed a toast to the memory of Martha Wallace.

That done, I could see my father rise out of his chair. He’d bided his time long enough, and I suspected he was about to air his grievances.

I picked up my phone and sent him the prepared text message, just in case.  He wasn’t going to keep out of the spotlight.  This was a room he could work.

He stopped the moment it vibrated in his pocket.  He was a creature of habit and would always answer it wherever he was.

It was a simple message.  A photo of him in a sleazy hotel room, in bed with my aunt and coincidentally Evelyn’s mother.  The paragon of morality was being immoral.  And since my mother controlled the purse strings, he didn’t need to rock the boat.

He looked at the phone, then looked directly at me.  I put my phone away and stepped down.  He put his back in his pocket and sat down.

Grandma would be pleased with me.  There was no shouting match and regrettable words uttered. 

I looked over at Evelyn standing to one side of her father and talking with her family group.  There was tension there, but they were talking.

I guess it was time I tried to do the same with mine.  At the very least, I could feel my grandmother was walking beside me, ready to help in any way she could.

And yes, in that moment I got the inspiration for my next novel.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026