The Wanderlust Lady and the Door to Door Salesman - 22 - The Funeral

Stockport Times

Tuesday September 18, 2012

 

Last rites for Hit and Run Victim

 

Stockport crematorium was the scene of the last rites for 70 year old Miss Wilhelmina Jones. The massive hunt for her hit and run killer is still going on, and police are busy with their inquiries, but felt there was nothing to be gained in delaying her funeral. There were only a few mourners – whom we understand were neighbours of the deceased.

Miss Jones had lived at 16 Oak Lane, Marple for the last 50 years, and in Marple for all of her life. She was remembered for being a free spirit – someone called her a Wanderlust Lady. She seemed to spend her free time walking in the parks and streets of Marple – and reading at the local library. She will be very much missed.

September 16, 2012

 

So I got the bus back to Hyde, and arrived at my mum's house mid afternoon. She obviously had been expecting me. Her husband, Sam Becker, has never liked me – nor me him. He was quite happy to carry on with my mother while she was still married to my father – but then when things got nasty, and my dad found out, dad went for a divorce, and as soon as it could be managed, he was shot of the two of us. I was 14 at that time.

Sam took us in, because he was living on his own – his wife having left him some time before, but I don't think he ever intended marrying my mother. He was just in for the fling, and then when it got complicated, he just went with the flow. My dad had to pay maintenance for me - I was an only child - until I was 18, so that helped the situation a little bit. I never saw my father again, and although I felt bad about that to start with, decided that it was no real loss to me. We never had much in common.

Mom is still an attractive woman – now in her early 50's, I think. Sam's older – probably closer to 60. I don't think he had any kids with his first wife – or if he did, he never mentions them. Sam's an estate agent, and was doing pretty well. But in the last few years, the house situation has gone from bad to worse, and he's having to cut back staff in his office. Mum thought that maybe he could take me on and teach me the business when I first left school, but he wouldn't have a bar of it. He said I was shiftless and unreliable. And I never fancied the idea of selling houses anyway, so I wasn't bothered by him not wanting me.

They both told me off for being so stupid as to lose my last job – and taking the petty cash from Minnie. They said I'd have to pay every penny of the fine that I no doubt would get – that they were not going to bail me out. I never expected they would. They'd converted my bedroom into a study when I left home a few years ago – and I'd never come back to stay over since then. So when Mum said that I could stay until I found a place, but that I'd have to sleep on the couch, I wasn't surprised. It was better than sleeping on the streets.

Monday, I went into the jobcentre and signed on, and looked more seriously this time at what jobs were on offer. I told them about how I'd tried for a pub job last week, and had called about several others, but nothing had ended up in a job interview. They didn't seem surprised or even very worried about it. I picked up my week's money from the cash machine.

Tuesday I decided to go to Minnie's funeral. I didn't have anything else to do, and in a way, I owed her quite a lot. So I caught a bus to Stockport, and then another back along the A6 and found my way to the crem. There are two of them at Stockport Cemetery, and booked up to the hilt. There was a cremation about every half hour all day long – and the people waiting for the next one standing outside during the one before.

Minnie's was at 11.30. I had a half hour to kill, so I walked all the way around the cemetery – and as you go around the edges of it, I found that there was a restaurant on the corner. But there wasn't time for me to get a coffee, so I went back to the crem. There weren't many of us standing outside. I recognised the youngish woman who was from across the road – but the man I'd spoken to wasn't there. When we made our way into the chapel, nobody went up to the front where you'd think the relatives would go. There were a few hymns which a couple of the ladies sang through, and a very quick sermon by the minister – who obviously knew nothing about Minnie at all, and then the odd few prayers, another song, and that was it. A couple had come in after the service started, and afterwards, they were just sort of hanging around by the door. I wondered if they were relatives – and you know me – nothing ventured, nothing gained – so I went up to them.

“Are you Minnie's relatives?” I said, putting my hand out to shake theirs as I went by.

“Well, yes. My mother was her cousin,” said the old lady, “but I never met her. We only read about her death, and figured out that we were related after all that. We're Edna and Ronald Mills.”

“My name is Stan Barber. I knew her fairly well,” I said. “She was sort of like an aunt to me.”

“That's nice,” Mrs. Mills said.

The next group of mourners was accumulating, so we were encouraged to move on. We started down the path of the cemetery towards the car park and exit where I would go to catch the bus back to Hyde.

“Do you live nearby?” I asked, just to keep the conversation going.

“In Middlewich,” the man said.

“Did you drive?”

“No, we came by train, but the train back isn't until 2.30. I don't suppose you could recommend a place where we could have a bite to eat around here?”

“Well, I don't really know the place myself, but I did notice a restaurant on the corner, once we get out of the cemetery grounds,” I put in.”I'll point it out to you.”

“Why don't you join us,” said the woman. “After all, you knew Aunt Minnie. You could tell us something about her.”

“That's very kind of you,” I said, pleased that this was going to be just the sort of opportunity that I'd been hoping for.

We walked the short distance to the main road, through the dull cemetery, certainly not a place I'd choose to be buried. I led the way to the Premier Inn.

We went in, sat down at a table and looked at the menu. The others both ordered sandwiches and coffee, so I did too, hoping they were going to pick up the tab.

“So what was Aunt Minnie like?”

“She was a loner – I suppose you probably got that much information from the newspapers. I never even looked in the newspapers so I didn't know she'd been killed until a few weeks after it happened. But it was me that identified her body.”

“I suppose that was because there weren't any known relatives at that stage, and you knew her best.”

“Yes, I suppose that was it.”

“Even if we'd known that it was her who they were trying to identify, we wouldn't have been any use, because we never met her – and had no pictures of her. We wouldn't have had a clue if it was the right person or not.”

“I expect you'll be inheriting her house and possessions,” I put in.

“I guess so,” said the man. “It all has to go through probate, but I think my wife is her closest living relative.”

“Apparently in England and Wales, second cousins are too distant to inherit, but as my mother was her first cousin, I think that makes it okay,” put in Mrs. Mills.

“We have to fill in a form called a Grant Letter of Administration, which we got from our solicitor. That gets sent to the Probate Registry and they check up to make sure that we're entitled to deal with her property.”

“Apparently, if they approve of the grant I will become the 'administrator' of the estate. The grant provides proof to banks, building societies and other organisations that I have authority to access and distribute funds and sell property.”

“So you wouldn't think of going to Marple to live in her house then,” I said.

“Oh, no. We're very happy where we are and have a nice little house of our own. But you probably have been in Auntie's house. What is it like?”

Our sandwiches and drinks had arrived, so we took a bit of time to get eating before I answered.

“It's a small semi-detatched bungalow, but in a very nice part of Marple. There's only one downstairs bedroom and a converted loft that has been made into a sort of emergency spare bedroom. Then there's a kitchen, living room, dining area and bathroom. The garden is small and there are a few flowers and shrubs. It's not been decorated probably in decades, so is pretty run-down looking.”

“Oh. Well it probably isn't worth very much then. I wonder if it'll be difficult to sell it.”

“Well, if I can be of any help to you – when you're getting the house ready to sell, please do call on me,” I said. “To be honest, her house is a real mess at the moment. It would be worth a lot more if it was painted – just a lick of white paint throughout would be all it would take – and if the garden was made a bit tidier – get rid of the weeds – things like that. My step-father is an estate agent and he was telling me how hard it is to sell houses these days, so any little extras like that can make all the difference.”

“Has she got any nice furniture?”

“Not to my way of thinking. You would have to see for yourselves and decide – but I would guess it might well be a job for a house clearance group. I could organise that for you too, if you wanted me to.”

“Does she have anything that looks really old?”

“There's a three piece suite and a table and chairs, a few bookcases, with loads of hard back books and then just the beds and a wardrobe and some chests of drawers. I think they are probably fifty years old, but not proper antiques.” I kept the knowledge of the trunk to myself.

“We should have a look at it all. But I suppose you might have a point about getting a house clearance organised,” said the woman, hesitantly. “We could hire somebody to do it up, but we obviously can't do anything until it's officially ours.”

“Well, let me give you my parents' phone number,” I said. “If you decide you'd like some help in getting it ready to sell, I'd be pleased to do it for you at a very low rate – seeing as how much I liked Minnie. I would be doing it for her memory,” I said with as much emotion as I could put into it.

So the man gave me a scrap of paper and I wrote down my name and my step dad's phone number.

“Would you like me to find out from my step dad the sort of price that sort of house might be getting in today's market?”

“That would be useful,” said the man, “and then we can compare his prices with the others. Does your step-dad live in Marple?”

“No, in Hyde – which is only a few miles away, but he often sells houses in the Marple area,” I said, having no idea if it was the true or not.

“Well, we were told that probate in this sort of case might take several months, but we might contact you after that, Mr. Becker.”

“Stan,” I said. “Stan Barber. My step dad is Sam Becker.”

So with that possible contact in the future having been successfully negotiated, I took my leave of them, and walked quickly back to the bus station. I wondered if this might be a way of getting a second chance at Minnie's treasure.