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CONNIE
Joe is trying but failing to engage me in conversation about the church’s harvest festival. He thinks he has a captive audience because he’s driving me and it’s just him and me in the car. But I’m not really listening. I can’t even be bothered to nod or say ‘yes’ or ‘okay’.
He and the other villagers who took Paul’s side over mine have been bending over backwards to try and make it up to me, and I’ve been taking advantage of their guilt. My ironing and dog-walking clients have returned, red-faced and apologetic. I’ve even gained some more. But I’m not making it easy for them. I know that without Paul around, I’m misdirecting my anger, but I can’t stop myself. I’m not ready to offer them my forgiveness.
The appointments Joe has already taken me to today have been as frustrating as they have been pointless. My first meeting was with a useless man at the Citizens Advice Bureau. He barely scanned Gwen’s will before he dismissed my claim, informing me that it counts for nothing. Because in English law, her spouse automatically receives everything.
That means Paul can drain her bank accounts and bury her in an unmarked grave and it’s all perfectly legal. Murder, of course, is not. But how do I prove that’s what he committed?
My second appointment was with the estate agent, who refused to take the house off the market because, and I quote, ‘no fraud or deception has been committed’. Apparently, three months ago Paul and Gwen submitted an application to jointly own the house and add Paul to the property deeds. So the house automatically belongs to him on her death – married or not and with no need for probate. Arsehole. So now we are on our way to the third and final meeting of the day. And it’s my last hope.
Joe’s car slows as we approach a three-storey red-brick building. We are here, at Buckinghamshire Register Office. Yesterday, I logged into my account at the General Register Office’s website and tracked down their marriage certificate. I couldn’t believe the speed of the ceremony. Just two days after I left, they walked up the aisle. It made no sense, because when I last saw her, she was too tired to even leave her bed of an afternoon. Yet somehow, she found the strength to travel to Buckinghamshire and wed. My only remaining chance to correct any of this is if I can prove their marriage took place under duress. There were also two signatures of witnesses, one whose name I couldn’t read, but the other was a Derek Reid. The name is familiar and I remember where I’ve seen it before. He also signed the form as witness for Paul to his name on the deeds of Gwen’s property.
I wonder for how long marriage was part of Paul’s plan? Was it always the end goal? Because he must’ve known for a while. You can’t just marry at the drop of a hat; you’ve first got to give twenty-nine days’ formal notice in person to the registrar. Did she know what she was doing when she went with him? Or how about later, on the wedding day itself? How did she keep what they had planned a secret from me? Or perhaps she didn’t know anythingabout it? Is it too far-fetched to believe Paul might have married someone else, someone pretending to be her? I made a note of the registrar’s name on the marriage certificate and now we’re about to meet in person.
Jan Hudson’s warm smile as she greets me at the office door suggests that, even after years of officiating, she still sees her job as a privilege and not a chore.
‘You married my mum a few weeks ago,’ I begin as she offers me a seat. ‘Gwendoline Wright. And to a man much younger than her.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Jan says.
I turn the screen of my phone around to face her. ‘Is that Gwen?’ I ask.
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure this is the woman who was standing in your office?’ I hear the desperation in my own voice. ‘There’s no possibility you could be mixing her up with someone else?’
Jan shakes her head slowly. ‘I’ve a good eye for faces. It was definitely Gwendoline Wright I married that day.’
I rub at my cheeks with the palms of my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I continue. ‘I’m just trying to get my head around it all. You know that she had dementia, right?’
‘Yes, she and the groom were quite open about it. She even joked that she would probably forget about her wedding day by the next morning. But I did first speak to both separately – and, as per standard questioning, I asked if she felt that she was being coerced. She was adamant she wasn’t.’
‘Isn’t that what all coerced people say?’
‘You’d be surprised. But in your mum’s case, there was no suggestion she was misunderstanding why she was there. And during the ceremony itself, she remained in very good spirits.’
‘But I don’t understand how you can allow someone in her condition to marry.’
‘We follow the guidance on a case-by-case basis. It states that we can’t refuse a marriage just because family and friends believe it to be an unwise decision.’
‘And what training do you have for people in my mum’s condition?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I mean what specific training or qualifications do you have to help you determine the level of understanding someone has when they’ve got a dementia-related illness?’
‘Well, none specifically related to dementia, no.’
‘Did she stumble over her words at all?’
‘Only once, when she called the groom by a different name ... what was it ... Will or Bill, I think. But she quickly corrected herself.’
I close my eyes. ‘She thought she was marrying Dad again. Didn’t you question their age gap?’
‘It’s not unique.’
‘What about why there were no guests, only two witnesses?’
