Maria and the Bellasis Family 29
Written by Edith
I have been given the job of sorting out my sister’s possessions. There is very little to sort, as she apparently gave all her handicraft work to charity awhile ago now. You might think she would have asked me if I would have liked any of it first. At least she willed me the bits of Father’s possessions that she had inherited.
Her clothes I wouldn't want at all. Perhaps the nuns can use them for dusters. And her bits of furniture are not as nice as what I already have. I might take the little Davenport, which is probably where she spent a lot of time writing her diary.
She died peacefully in her convent, on December 20th, more or less of old age. She just didn’t wake up one morning. I was amazed at the people who came to her funeral. First of all, the Bellasis family came in droves - and Msgr. Richard Bellasis took the service. I knew she was friends with his sisters, but they acted as if she were their sister, and not just a vague in-law.
I was rather shocked when her will was read that she hadn’t left her £7000 plus inheritance to me, her only living sister. I knew she would have accumulated about the same amount as I have, our annuitant funds from Father’s will. But she gave it to the convent where she spent most of her last 20 years, and I understand they have already decided to use it to build a tunnel from the 3rd building they bought a few years ago, to join it to the other two. I knew she never liked me, but I really feel that she didn’t even consider my feelings in all this.
I have read her extensive diary, and although I found it a good chance to review our lives, I did feel that there were many things that I would have described very differently. She was always Father’s girl, and I devoted myself to helping Mother. There are very few references to me in the diary - and although she spent much time with our various brothers, she never spent time or travelled with me.
If it were up to me, I would throw away the whole thing. Her life is done, and her relatives have their own memories, and don’t need hers. But I see she has left it to Edith May. And as she probably let others know of her intentions, I shall have to pass it on to her.