The Death of Amos Oddy by Vivien Teasdale

 

My uncle, Amos Oddy, was dying, though he didn’t know it. Yet. Everyone around him knew it and that was the problem. How do you convince someone to write their will, which you know will be needed sooner rather than later, when they think they’re invincible?

‘I’ll sort it,’ Aunty Gilly said. ‘He’s my brother and I remember how difficult it was when grandma died intestate. That will get him started.’

It probably would, but she’ll make sure he started with her as the first and main beneficiary. Her daughter, Agnes, was just as bad.

‘I think he should see a solicitor straight away. Mine is very good. I’ll make an appointment for him,’ she said.

Amos’s other nephew, Bill, intended to take him round the animal home and discuss leaving bequests to charity in wills, while Bill’s brother, Max, wanted to have a real ‘heart-to-heart’ with his uncle and explain how upset they’d all be at the time and how much easier he’d make it for all his loved ones if he just thought about how to distribute his wealth before anything happened. And so on with the rest of them – Aunty Margaret, Cousin David, even second cousin, twice removed (usually to the county gaol) Clifford, wanted to get in on the act.

Now my father left me very well off, made out his will in good time, all done properly through a solicitor. All he asked of me was to keep an eye on his brother. So I just carried on looking in on Amos now and then, when I was in the area and said nothing, just continued our usual conversations about the army and how it differed now from when he was in Africa in the last century. In fact, when he commented on the family concern about his health, I just told him it was all nonsense, no point in worrying about it and changed the subject.

Naturally, when two months later, Amos passed away very suddenly, the first thing to be searched for – well, once the ambulance had removed the body and the police had accepted it was a natural death – was the will.

Agnes’ solicitor hadn’t seen Amos since the very first appointment when they’d discussed how big a share of the estate was appropriate for a niece – an only niece – to have. Agnes searched the big bureau that had belonged to Grandma. It was where Grandma should have put her will if only she’d written it and Agnes was sure Amos would have put his there.

Bill rested contentedly in the lounge, planning the new dog kennels, while everyone else ran themselves ragged trying to find the will. Neither Aunty Margaret nor Clifford, or for that matter, any of the others were allowed near the house and had to make do with long phone calls full of advice, pomposity or shrill smugness.

I just carried on with my life as usual, until one day when my solicitor rang to say I needed to see him about a will.

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘I’m perfectly fit.’

‘No, not to make one. Though that would be a good idea actually. Amos Oddy made you a beneficiary.’

‘Oh, yes, I know he said he’d leave me his old army knife, but that was a joke between –’

‘No, you’ve come into quite a lot of property. Most of it, in fact.’

‘But why me?’

‘Well, when he came into my office to sort the will, he said you were the only one who told him not to bother and left him in peace.’

Sometimes, you know, psychology can be useful when dealing with a contrary old bastard like Amos Oddy.