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back next to a compact library of Law and fishing books. On the walls were hung certificates, photos of him and his sons, his staff and a picture of him holding a kingfisher on a hook.
    â€œThe prodigal daughter returns,” he said enveloping me in a hug. He had a habit of doing that, drawing me into things whether I had a say in it or not. It felt good. At 6 feet 2 inches he towered above me, a black skinned man with broad facial features and a Jamaican lilt, like molasses melting in his voice. When he became angry the molasses turned molten.
    â€œSorry,” I said, dropping my rucksack at the foot of the chair opposite his desk. “I’ve been busy.”
    â€œYes but this meeting was for your benefit.” He walked back round, folded his considerable frame into the seat. At my mother’s funeral, he had cried for her. I’d never seen a grown man cry other than on TV. His body had trembled in grief while my own wails stayed caught in my throat. I held his cries gently, as if they were the delicate rims of fragile cups.
    He nudged the open file on his desk towards me before reclining back into his seat.
    â€œThis is it?” I asked studying it as though it was in a foreign language.
    â€œYes, your mother’s will.”
    I pulled the file closer, felt a fresh film of tears I blinked away.
    I shook my head. “I can’t believe she was organised enough to arrange a will, she never said a word.”
    I could feel Mervyn’s gaze on me, I snuck a look and the corners of his mouth were drawn making me wish I had a father to hold my hand. To tell me how to navigate emotional landmines that unexpectedly went off and rendered you crawling legless because the lines of someone’s mouth triggered your memories.
    â€œWell, she was your mother and maybe she didn’t want to worry you,” Mervyn said, yanking me out of my reverie. I felt a twinge of jealousy that he’d known this secret.
    â€œShe managed to tell you though.” I didn’t quite keep the resentment from my voice.
    â€œI was her lawyer and friend, of course she told me. Your mother could be very secretive, in fact annoyingly so at times. This she was absolutely clear on.”
    A fat tear ran down my cheek.
    Mervyn brought out a worn piece of paper from the file. I bent my head, drank the words in:
    I, Queenie Lowon leave the sum of £80,000 to my only child Joy Omoregbe Lowon. As well as my house at 89 Windamere Avenue and all the contents within it, I bequeath a brass head artefact and her grandfather Peter Lowon’s diary to her. She’ll figure out what to do with them. I leave her everything I have. I ask my lawyer Mervyn Williams to advise her should it be necessary.
    Below it was the date and my mother’s signature which looked hurried and leaned to the right, slightly squiggly, as if it would morph into a mosquito and fly off the page, fat with her blood.
    I leave her everything I have…
    It was there in black and white, the proof my mother wouldn’t suddenly re-appear and declare this a joke. The offending document was becoming a white room with words dripping black ink on the walls.
    Mervyn loosened his tie and motioned at the wide, square windows behind him. “You mind if I open them, bit stuffy in here.”
    I shrugged, barely looking at him. “It’s your office.”
    I glanced to my left and Mervyn’s picture with the fish on hishook had changed. The fish’s mouth had become a woman’s jaw straining against the hook, threatening to leap out through the glass.
    I was holding my breath and didn’t even know it. Mervyn fished out from the bottom drawer of his desk a white plastic bag bulky with the shapes inside it. From the bag he pulled out a brown leather diary and the brass head. He laid them on his desk. “These are yours.”
    All the sketches of myself I’d drawn in my head with a finger dipped in saliva seemed to show up.