The Three Rs Read Free

analyze now, I’m starting to panic. This is just so bizarre. I shouldn’t take it out on Sally, but there’s no one else handy right now.
    “No, I fucking haven’t heard of them. It must be some sort of a hoax, a sick joke. Perfect strangers don’t leave their businesses to other bloody strangers in their wills. It’s fucking ridiculous. Give it here.”
    Unfazed by my outburst, Sally hands me back my letter, and I tear both sheets right down the middle. I’m about to go for it again, but Sally’s hands are on mine, stopping me.
    “Honey, I don’t think this is a hoax. And if it isn’t, it won’t just go away because you tore up the letter. At least try the phone number. We can find out if the solicitor is genuine easily enough.”
    My hands are shaking, and she easily extricates what’s left of the letter. She stuffs the four pieces of paper back into the envelope and pushes herself to her feet. She extends her hand down to me as I sit still slumped against the wall of the school hall. I’m dazed, confused and entirely out of my depth.
    “Come on. Head’s office should be empty by now. We’ll call this lawyer chap from there, more private. Then we can have another think.”
    Unresisting, I take her hand and scramble to my feet. Sally keeps a tight, protective hold on the envelope as we both pick up our bags and make our way along the corridor to the head teacher’s office. I shuffle along behind Sally. I’m still reeling as the possible implications start to cascade around my head, crashing into each other. What if it’s true? Will I have to do things? Difficult, complicated, papery things? Will I have to tell people what to do? Can I just refuse to take my inheritance? Surely no one can make me…
    As Sally predicted, the room is empty. She shoves me into Mrs Boothroyd’s vacant chair behind the desk. “Do you have your phone?”
    I nod then dig in my bag for it.
    “Right.” Sally pulls the tattered sheets from the envelope and lays them out carefully on the desk. She grabs a yellow highlighter pen from Mrs Boothroyd’s desk tidy container and uses it to color in a row of numbers at the top of the right hand portion of the first sheet. “That’s the phone number. It says it’s a direct line, so this Mr Stephenson might answer. Or maybe his secretary. Get dialing.”
    I shake my head. I don’t think I can do this.
    “You can do it.” I must have been thinking aloud again, or maybe it was my expression doing the talking for me. In any case, Sally’s having none of it. She uses her best teacher voice and sternest expression to spur me into action.
    “Just dial, and when someone answers say you want to talk to Mr Stephenson. And when you get him on the line, just say who you are, and that you’ve got his letter. And that you’re puzzled about why this Mr Parrish left anything to you in his will. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, but…”
    “Yes. So do it. When we’ve heard what he has to say, we’ll think again.”
    “It’s a mistake, got to be…”
    “Abigail! Dial the bloody number.” Sally has her teacher face on, and voice to match. Feeling not unlike one of her unruly year fives, I give in and obediently start to tap the sequence of numbers into my phone. I have to do it slowly, carefully, but I can manage. After a few seconds, I hear the ringing tone.
    At least the number seems genuine.
    Barely two rings later the phone is answered, “Good afternoon, Charles Stephenson.”
    The crisp, male voice sounds very efficient, very—legal. I’m at a loss what to say now, despite Sally’s coaching.
    “I… I…”
    “Can I help you?” Mr Stephenson sounds marginally less official now.
    “Hello. Yes, er, I— My name’s Abigail Fischer. You wrote to me…” Not terribly articulate. Still, I’m quite relieved to have managed to string a couple of words together.
    “Ah, yes, Miss Fischer. Thank you for getting in touch. Yes, you’ve taken some tracking down, I can