A Requiem for a wish.

“The reason I work so hard honey, is to give you an easier life. That’s my wish.”

It was my father’s refrain. I remember him saying it for the first time ,when I was aged 6 and he had just bought a new swing set which he installed himself on the grounds of our estate, just near the pond. I had asked him, heartfelt and innocent, why he worked so much and why I never saw much of him.

The second time he said those exact words , I was entering my rebellious years, aged 13 or 14 . I was angry at being whisked off to boarding school in some remote part of the English countryside and in my petulance wanted to know why on earth I should listen to him, when he was never around and had no understanding of my feelings and emotions.

It was his mantra and over the years he said it many times, and I believed him.

The last time he said it, was on his deathbed when he handed me his will. He had his death all organised and arranged, a meticulously prepared will so that the handing over of his affairs along with our family fortune, assets totalling £18million and change, would be a smooth process and his lifelong wish would be realised- I would have an easy life and want for nothing.

That was his plan.

When he finally passed, peacefully at the grand old age of 86, I was distraught. Trapped in a dark fog of grief and sorrow from which it took months to emerge . Only then did I start the process of executing my father’s will.

All that was needed was one document, one certificate on one piece of paper: A grant of probate.

“It’s all online now!” My solicitor informed me, shouting down the telephone to drown out the background noise of a photocopier. “We submitted the application last night- should take about eight weeks for the Probate office to process.”

During those eight weeks I came to realize the precarious situation I was in. Apparently, although my father was very rich, he still owed a substantial amount of money to some less than scrupulous characters; a shady consultant who helped him dodge tax laws for example. Oh, the money was there to cover these debts, that wasn’t a problem, the problem was I needed the grant of probate to access and release the funds.

They didn’t like waiting.

Neither did the bank, as father didn’t own our eight-bedroomed mansion and 80 acres of land outright, he still had a mortgage on the place which needed to be paid and there was no way I could continue the payments myself on my modest wages as a school teacher.

To add to my woes, not long after my father’s death I was diagnosed with breast cancer, sapping any and all energy I had to deal with the bureaucracy. But I pressed on, I filled out all the forms my solicitor asked me to, I signed whenever they needed me to sign and I called them on a weekly basis for any progress, but over three months later the grant of probate remained elusive.

“They lost the will!” My solicitor announced, this time to the background hum of printers.

“We had to send in the original will, along with supporting documents to the probate office. But apparently it went missing in their post and scanning department.”

“They lost the will? How on earth does that happen?!”

“They’re swapping over from paper to digital, so the whole department is a bit of mess to be honest. But anyway, we have copies but you just have to complete and sign another form- and we can re-submit.”

Four months later, whilst going through chemotherapy, I still hadn’t heard anything. My energy is so low and I’m starting to lose sleep with worry. I received a letter just the previous night from that consultant, looking to start legal proceedings . I was being pressurised by the bank for steep mortgage payments and I was accumulating a stack of final demands ,as it’s impossible to keep up with the maintenance of the estate without a large income.

I called again, conscious of the fact that each phone call to these solicitors is costing me £100.

“There’s a problem with the wording of the will!” My solicitor proclaims, from what sounds like her car phone. “He appointed you as the sole executor and us, his solicitors, as substitute executors. But because he used the conjunction “and” instead of “or”, we need to fill some renunciation forms.”

“I need to fill out another form?”

“Not you no, we do. Each partner in the firm has to sign one.”

“Each partner? How many partners does your firm have?”

“Twelve. I’m driving to meet with one now.”

My despondency is turns into depression and the thick fog of grief engulfs me once again.

Six months later ,I call the solicitors again. My throat is dry and my hair is falling out and I had just received the private hospital bills. I desperately need that grant of probate.

“Oh dear, has no-one called you?” A new voice asks, there is no background noise today. “Your solicitor, Debbie, has passed away. A car crash unfortunately.”

I feel dizzy with shock. I offer my condolences and somehow manage to tactfully bring the subject round to my case.

“ Ah yes, well there has been a setback as Debbie was dealing with everything personally. But it shouldn’t be much longer, I believe our new solicitor Perry is taking over the case.”

Eight months later. I call the government Probate office directly, I need an update. I need timescales. I need that damned piece of paper!

“This case is a solicitor application,” The Probate office caseworker replies in a nasal matter-of-fact tone. “So I can only give updates to your solicitor I’m afraid: data protection.”

“But my solicitor charges each time -I can’t afford it until I get the grant of probate!”

“Sorry. Regulations. I can’t divulge any information to you.”

By now I’m not only losing my hair but also my mind. Each time I think of my father’s refrain and how hard he worked, how little I saw of him, so that he could fulfil his wish- I weep. The vultures have started circling, I even received a letter that mentioned bailiffs -which in my distressed and panicked state I threw away immediately.

Ten months later. Nearly a whole year. And the cancer is taking me.

My doctors have told me quite candidly that the stress I was under exacerbated matters. I sleep all the time; and I dream often of my father and me, on the swing set by the pond , laughing in a summer’s haze, with floating pieces of paper dancing around us in the breeze. I reach out to grab one but they’re always out of reach, slipping through my fingers like confetti.

“Hello? Miss Georgina Hargreaves?”

“Yes.” I whisper, as I lie down to take another nap.

“This is Perry your solicitor. Good news- your grant of probate has been issued , it’s in the post, you should receive it in 10 working days.”

I thank him sincerely and smile, as I finally doze off to sleep.