Family Fortunes - Tuesday

‘Probate valuation for you.’ Announces assistant manager T as I barge through the door more stressed than a suspension bridge.
‘Formal or informal?’ I snap unnecessarily curtly. But then I’ve just had a run of three appointments with total time wasters.

Dead sellers are usually a joy, as the property has to be shifted and there’s no upward chain to worry about - unless you have more faith than I do. The stumbling block usually turns out to be the living – or more accurately the beneficiaries.

If there’s a large estate to be valued and complex tax issues, most lawyers ask their clients to get a formal valuation at death. A chartered surveyor will need to inspect the home, return to my office and ask what it’s worth, then charge a fee for his report. He’ll be the one in court if a dispute escalates but the bereaved family aren’t usually that keen on coughing money up front, particularly as the stiff’s bank accounts are frozen, bar the funeral payment.

‘This isn’t going to cost us anything is it?’ Asks the fifty-something woman in designer jeans meant for someone two decades younger, as she answers the door later. The chimes are still ringing behind her and she’s already giving off negative vibes. She has the sort of sour-faced, over-botoxed look of a bored lady who lunches, although mostly on salads if her scrawny neck is an indicator.

I confirm I can give them a market figure for the dated and musty smelling semi but warn her it can’t be used for legal purposes. She doesn’t seem over-enamoured as she ushers me into a cluttered front room where a plump woman in a floral skirt and big blouse, is sorting through a welsh dresser crammed with unmatched ornaments and nick-knacks.

‘My sister.’ Announces the frosty one, waving her hand at the fatty dismissively. ‘She’s the other beneficiary.’ The younger, friendlier, frumpier sibling approaches me with a wan smile and shakes my hand. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

‘Just dump this old tat Elizabeth.’ Snaps the older sister, grabbing a bin liner and starting to sweep the mementoes of a lifetime into the black plastic. ‘And he,’ she flicks a hand towards me disdainfully. ‘Can get on with looking round.’

I’m on a hiding to nothing, I think as I plod disconsolately around the cluttered 1930’s house. At least until the two bickering women come to an unlikely agreement, or the unlucky executor has to get involved to mediate.

‘Can I have a word?’ Asks a voice behind me, as I’m eying the loft hatch warily and hoping I won’t need to go up there. It’s the happy eater. She doesn’t look much like her anorexic sister until I notice the unusual nose. Goodness knows why people spend a small fortune on DNA testing in paternity suits, when all they need to do is check out the hereditary conk.

‘My sister is a bitch I’m afraid.’ Announces the woman conspiratorially. ‘Never had any children.’ I’d guessed that from her figure. ‘And she’s only interested in number one. She wants a quick sale.’ I nod in a neutral fashion. ‘Between you and me, she needs the money. Husband is something big in the city.’ She pauses and with a hint of relish adds. ‘Or at least he was. They didn’t come near dad when he was alive, now she can’t wait to take his life to the dump.’

‘My sister is a bit emotional.’ Declares the mercenary sibling when she too collars me alone by the defunct coal shed. ‘So I’d like you to deal through me,’ and she pauses before adding ominously. ‘If you want the business that is.’

As I leave, the two begin a vitriolic argument over some silver cutlery the skinny bitch is trying to bag-up.
‘I was only trying to help.’ Claims the scrawny cow indignantly.
‘Help yourself more like.’ Replies her chubby adversary.

I decide to send a copy of my pricing letter to each woman individually - there’s a slim chance I’ll get the business.