Campari for Breakfast by Sara Crowe Page A

Nana Pearl died in 1955, she had requested that her bank accounts were formed into trusts entirely for Mum. There was enough to get a deposit, or do up a small house, and they were set up to become liquid on the ‘second death’ (that was Grampa Evelyn), so both Coral and Mum would inherit at the same time. But as Mum died so soon after Grampa Evelyn’s death the trust money was frozen in probate, and it still hasn’t come through yet due to the complicated nature of mum’s death. By law my father has a claim to this as well as me, but at least the slow probate means that it’s protected from him for now.
    Anyway, it struck me that selling some shares would pay off a small amount of Aunt Coral’s debts, but when I brought the matter up last week, she was adamant they remain as rainy day funds, in case she needs her hips done, or has some sort of medical emergency. She also argued that while the money was still in shares it is difficult for her to spend it, as converting shares involves a great deal of admin, and the reading of the Financial Times . I think she just likes to know they’re still there.
    However, I have also found out that the Bentley doesn’t belong to the Admiral but is in fact Aunt Coral’s. She just loved the idea of having a driver so much that she lent it to him and bought him a chauffeur’s hat. In real life the Admiral only has a Rover, so driving a Bentley’s a coo! But I think he’s a very nice guy to go along with the hat.
    So today I moved on to other tactics, and suggested that the sale of the Bentley would pay off some of her store cards, but she argued she has a very good reason to keep it. The reason is the Nanas. Though she is approximately over sixty-five herself, (which she smallens to sixty-three), Aunt Coral likes to help the aged, and once a week she goes to the home in Egham and takes three of the Nanas there out on a drive: Mrs Dryberry, Mrs Scott, and Mrs Viller. Because of their habitual clothing choices we call them Georgette, Print and Taffeta. They come for lunch once a week which they take on the terrace alf rescos. They share a lot of her interests, such as rambling and Nana Mouskouri. Apparently driving the Nanas gives Aunt C’s life meaning. I also think that because they are so ancient, they make her feel young.
    I worked and worked on her this morning as we sat out by the pool, trying to persuade her that the Nanas would just as soon be driven in the Rover as the Bentley, but she just doesn’t know how to think like a parson. I realised that I would have to explore a more heavy approach.
    ‘If you cut Mrs Bunion down to two days a week, you and Delia could clean for the other afternoons instead of shop,’ I said. You can imagine what sort of a face this was met with.
    ‘Pat’s been with me for ever, I’ve known her for years, she’s part of the building, and there’s her family to consider.’
    ‘We are all affected by your fiscal position, Aunt Coral, even Mrs Bunion, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. I’m sure she’ll understand, you just need to talk to her about it.’
    ‘I can’t talk to Pat, she’s the cleaner,’ said Aunt Coral.
    ‘But you just said that you’ve known her for years!’
    ‘Exactly,’ she said, implying she had just won the argument by reacting as if I was agreeing with her. A clever trick of hers.
    ‘Just tell her that you have to cut back for the restoration of the East Wing. You don’t have to tell her about your shoes.’
    There are going to have to be big changes at Green Place if we are going to make ends meet, but Aunt Coral seems to be in complete denial and preoccupied with other things.
    ‘They didn’t need to lie to me you know, I wouldn’t have told anyone about Laine,’ she said, revealing her hidden inner dialogue in an involuntary change of subject. (It seems a person can be talking about one thing and thinking about quite another.)
    ‘Maybe they thought I couldn’t be trusted not to run