For much of my life I have been suspicious of formal documents. Pious declarations in the name of “I, the undersigned” make me squirm: they have a solid and trustworthy appearance, but they are not solid, and not to be trusted. How can they be?
Nevertheless, I need a will, so I am sitting up in bed “on this thir- teenth day of May, 1941,” to write one, and I have engaged the vicar and his wife to call by this afternoon and witness me sign.
I am not—as far as I know—mortally ill, but I am feeling old, and I care what becomes of Orchard House. I want my brother Frank’s son— my nephew, Jonathan—to have it, in the event that he survives this wicked war. Yesterday, courtesy of the “announcements” column in the Times, I learned that Jonathan and his wife have a baby son, and it pleases me to picture a child, or children, growing up here.
It goes without saying that Frank will dislike the arrangement and suspect mischief on my part, but I will not be discouraged on his account...