Charles Ballard RIP

My sister Helen revealed recently that when our Great-uncle Charles Ballard died, in Buenos Aires in the '50s, our mother had told her that he'd left her a bit of money but that money wasn't allowed out of the country in those days. My ears pricked up and I was on to it, like a rat up a drain-pipe, or a Jack Russell up a trouser leg. Or something. Within a nano-second I had employed a charming lawyer based in Buenos Aires, who - after receiving funds from me - shortly found Uncle Charlie's death certificate (having first stopped off to be measured up for a new suit). The next step was to find his will. At that point I started to fantasise......

We only had two photographs of him - this one and the one above of him relaxing on his yacht. Well, of course he must have been filthy rich I decided. And probably owned a tin mine. Which I would fly over and claim for me and my sister. I'd obviously be fêted and fawned over, my every wish catered for etc. etc. I'd be asked if I'd like to be flown up country to see the tin mine but haughtily would decline a potentially dangerous flight over the jungle in a small plane, demanding to be taken in a lovely old-fashioned train. Wood-panelled, table lamps, white linen etc. like the Brighton Belle. The tin mine is like a small town. We are so rich. (Note the move from future possible to present definite.) After flying Joe to Buenos Aires, to also be fêted, we have many beautiful linen clothes made and generally enjoy ourselves and our enormous wealth.

But this fantasy can't last. So step down a peg, forego the tin mine and it's just an enormous old apartment in the centre of BA (so familiar by now) full of antiques and exquisite paintings. We spend winters there en famille. Everyone loves the climate, people, countryside, beaches, culture etc. etc. 

But when the charming lawyer contacted me a couple of weeks ago it's to let me know that no will had been found, despite the extra money I paid (handmade shoes?) The next and, he says, final step is to find out if Uncle Charlie had any property. This is where we are now.

So, whilst there may be no tin mine, nor a large antique-filled apartment, we inherit a yacht, that used to belong to Errol Flynn. 

To be continued.