He took it in eleven weeks.
Where we are.
My daughter is fourteen months old. Her name is Hester, which everybody shortens to Hettie, which her great-grandmother would have hated and would have pretended not to.
The trust holds. Ines Talbot is still one of two trustees and rings me every quarter to tell me about it in considerably more detail than I need.
We live in my grandmother’s house. I had it out of the trust in the January, properly, with valuations and advice, and it took four months and cost a great deal in fees, and I did every step in writing, because that is the thing this family has taught me.
And I have started doing the books for two of the firms she used to work with. Part time, at the kitchen table. Her old desk is in the back room and I have not moved it.
And the last thing.
In that folder, behind the affidavits, there was one page I did not read until the January, because I had assumed it was an instruction to the solicitor.
It is a note in my grandmother’s handwriting, dated the ninth of November, 2022 — the day she signed the trust deed.
