The Inheritance

My brother inherited a classic car and management of ‘Seascape’; the grand residence on the Esplanade with it seafront views and imposing gardens. I inherited approximately a thousand old postcards in a sturdy green cardboard box. Yes, you read that correctly.

I am younger than my brother James by nineteen months, but I was always my Aunt Doreen’s favorite. Doreen had been my mother’s younger sister. She had never married and was described by most as eccentric. These days she would probably have been diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, or just the broader umbrella of being on the spectrum.

Dorrie, as she was always known by her family, had lived what appeared a charmed but somewhat secluded existence in the house of her childhood with her parents – my grandparents. When they passed, the house and most of their assets went to her. Mum was okay with that, she got a share of funds and besides, she had wanted Dorrie to be looked after as much as her parents had. There was no one else to do it.  No one could have predicted that is was my mum who needed protection: dying at the hands of her husband, my father, shortly after I had moved out of the family home.

I was very close to Aunt Dorrie, maybe because I lost my Mum so young. I used to see her like an older sister. As I got grew up I felt more like the roles reversed somewhat. Not that Aunt Dorrie should be underestimated! She had an amazing mind; it just worked on a different frequency. We would sit in her front lounge, with its large bay window looking out across the road to the breaking waves of the Southern Ocean, and play games together. We played memory games, turning cards over looking for matching pairs. Aunt Dorrie had an uncanny ability for remembering things, and once she saw a card she never forgot it. She would always remember exactly where she had seen the corresponding matching card. She always won. I mean it - every single time.

Aunt Dorrie would always make me hot chocolate in an oversized blue mug with huge spoonfuls of cocoa. She would stir the contents in a mini whirlpool until she was completely satisfied that every granule of cocoa was thoroughly dissolved. The tinkling sound of the teaspoon hitting the sides of the mug was melodic and soothing. Once she was satisfied with the result, she would hand it to me, telling me to be careful, that the cocoa was hot.  She always said that, even when I was long past needing to hear it.

Be careful now Lizzy, it’s hot.

In my mind’s eye I can see her holding it out to me. I miss her so, so much.

I know this is going to sound awful, but when she died I thought that I would inherit. Sure, she’d leave something to my brother - we were her only surviving relatives after all - but I did expect to get the lions share. I couldn’t believe my ears when I found out that, noble as it was, she had left the house to charity, on a fifty year loan that my brother was to manage! James got the classic car that had originally been our grandfathers, and I got that damn box of postcards. It was a huge slap in the face, and I couldn’t help but think there had been some kind of awful mistake.

My brother is an arrogant twat. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. He’d got in to University on a part scholarship, Mum paying the rest out of the funds left to her. James thinks he’s God most of the time. We’re not close. He didn’t have much time for Aunt Dorrie, certainly not like I did. He was however, the one who prompted Dorrie get her will written up just a few years ago. Need I say anything more? I don’t mean to sound like a spiteful relative; then again, maybe I do, because I think it’s the truth. Something shady has gone down here.

Life isn’t easy for me.  I was never expected nor encouraged to go to university like my brother. It wasn’t like that in the seventies. You could work, but only until you married and had kids and become the homemaker.  I didn’t get to have kids though. I couldn’t stay pregnant. There were no tests those days to see who had ‘the problem.’ My husband blamed me. That was pretty much the way things were then. The last time I miscarried I was in a curled up ball on the bathroom floor, crying.  My husband said he’d had enough of me not taking care of myself properly, whatever that really meant. There I was laying there on the bathroom tiles, cramping and shivering, while he gathered a few things and walked out! He did come back for more stuff later, like our only T.V set. I didn’t bother fighting him. In the end I was grateful the pressure was off me. He wasn’t a violent man, and apart from the issues we had with fertility and the resentment that had bought, he had been a good husband. I still think it was him that had ‘the problem’ though, because he never had kids with his second wife either.  It’s hard to say, but anyhow, I got used to living on my own.

 Aunt Dorrie lived well into her seventies. I continued to visit her every Sunday. She managed her home pretty well, given her age. It was dated and needed work, but it was enough. There were lacey spider webs taking over corners of her room, so I knew her eyesight was deteriorating. She had glasses but hated wearing them. She’d only put them on when absolutely necessary, and she’d rip them off like a hot potato as soon as she could. She never replaced any of the furniture, only what ceased to work; like the fridge and freezer. We went and picked those together using some money from her trust fund. The microwave was still a really early model, with yellowed plastic and a turn dial to set the cook time. Many times I suggested to her about getting a new one. They are so cheap these days and probably a lot more energy efficient, but she couldn’t see the point. It worked perfectly well, so why replace it?

It was my brother that informed me she had passed. I fell apart. I cried so hard. She didn’t have a funeral. She didn’t want one, and there would have been very few people to attend if she had. James told me the date for the reading of the will, and said he’d see me there. I arrived early and took a seat on an uncomfortable bright yellow chair in the waiting room of the legal offices of Durham & Partners. James arrived ten minutes late, looking inconvenienced, I assumed at being pulled away from seeing his patients. We were called in to see the senior partner - Mr. Durham himself - and he began without preamble. James would get the car and management of the house. I would get the box of bloody postcards. James stood, shook hands with Mr. Durham and left without even saying goodbye to me. He acted like this was a totally acceptable situation, and after all, he did have those patients to get back to! Mr. Durham looked at me and smiled a small smile, like he was in on some private joke. I didn’t smile back.

I don’t remember driving home afterward. They say that when you drive on autopilot you still remember to stop for red lights; that part of your brain remembers these things innately. I found my car parked in its normal spot the next morning, so it must be so. I spent that night under my covers crying and shivering. I was angry at Aunt Dorrie, angry at James and irritated at the memory of the smiling Mr. Durham.

 Two weeks later, my brother dropped off the promised shoebox. Dorrie had put it right at the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe in her bedroom, James had grumbled, but he had eventually located it. He handed it over to me at my front door and made his excuses to leave.  I don’t recall saying anything to him, and if this bothered him he didn’t give any inclination. The box was weighty. I took it to my dining room table and sat down, just staring at it. Anger rose in me, met with confusion and hurt. I fought off the urge just to throw the contents straight into the bin. How could I not be offended? Why would Aunt Dorrie treat me like this?

I took off the lid. There were two columns of cards, tightly wedged in. I took out a very small percentage of the postcards, and started idly flipping through them. They were old and varied in design. Some were souvenir postcards, mostly from Europe based on the few I saw.  There were a few valentine cards, adorned with bouquets of flowers or flowing ribbons, with the occasional chubby cherub floating around.  Most of them had little written on the back apart from the signatures of the senders.

All had been sent to:

Miss Doreen Tillerman

 ‘Seascape’

Brighton Beach

South Australia.

I didn’t recognize any of the names of the people who had sent them. Going by the handwriting, they were long deceased, taking their beautiful flowery handwriting and implied good wishes with them. I expect friends of my grandparents had sent these to Dorrie over the years, perhaps as a hobby for the young Dorrie? Maybe she’d prized them and thought that I would find them special too? I did have vague recollections of sitting on Dorrie’s bed when I was very young, and her showing me pictures. Maybe they were part of this collection? I really couldn’t say now.

Regardless, I was now a fifty year old with a collection of greetings. I wanted to like them. I put the postcards back into the box, patting them hard to make them fit again. Perhaps one day I could look at them in greater detail, and give more thought to why I inherited these cards instead of something of monetary value. I replaced the lid and put the box on the top shelf in my kitchen pantry - they had come from a top shelf, and to one they would return. It seemed appropriate.

 I was devastated at my Aunt’s loss but it had never occurred to me that Seascape would not become mine one day. My own house is modest. I live from week to week and I put away the few spare dollars I can, to treat myself or to cover unexpected bills - usually the latter. Recently I found a grainy patch of dirt on the floor inside my entry foyer. My neighbor Ruby said the same happened to her and it was caused by termites in her roof. I really hoped she was wrong in my case. I got the pest controller to come out and sure enough, they’re in my roof as well as the wall supports! It’s going to cost a fortune to get it fixed, but I can’t ignore it. I’ve seen it on the T.V where people are going about their lives and the internal roof just falls in, the inside structure having being eaten away. People don’t think it can happen to them, but it really can. I have got my house insured, but would you believe it, they don’t cover termite damage.

I’d been crunching the numbers on the pest control situation, trying to come up with ways to afford it, not only the initial treatment costs but the ongoing inspections. I had to come up with a way to make money!  I asked my brother if he would help me out, and he said he’d loan me the money.  Like a said, he’s a twat. You would think comparing his life to mine he would just pay for it for me, have some heart? I told him to shove it. Not the most mature move on my behalf, but this is the reason why everything came to a head.  The longer I sat thinking about it, the more I became overwhelmed. I needed to get out of my house.

The sea always has a calming effect on me, so I set off walking in the direction of the coast. After about twenty minutes I found myself on the Esplanade and before I knew it Seascape came into view. That’s when I saw the classic car, rolled out of the garage with a FOR SALE sign on the dash, with ‘offers above $150K considered.’ He’s selling the car! The front door of Seascape opened and a tradesman appeared, carrying remnants of carpet which he added to a discard pile on the front lawn. I recognized it as the floral flooring from the room with the bay window: where Aunt Dorrie and I sat all those years, watching the sea, playing cards and drinking hot chocolates.

Her face loomed large in my mind. Her kind face. Her caring nature.

Be careful now Lizzy, it’s hot.

Now she had ignored me in her will. It didn’t make sense. She’d abandoned me, and I was standing by seeing her life’s memories ripped up or sold! I had no control. My world was spiraling. I’m not sure how long I stood there before turning and stumbling in the direction of home. I let the tears fall. Why did Aunt Dorrie forsake me in favor of James?  I stopped and dialed his number on my phone, got his voice-mail. I spewed out my anger and disgust until the long beep signaled I had been cut off. Arriving in my driveway as the same moment as the postman, I took the letter he offered and placed it absently in my handbag. He looked at me questioningly and I gave him a nod so that he could see that all was fine. Funny how we do that isn’t it? I had never been less fine in my life.

I entered my home and there was another little pile of that strange dirt in the front foyer. The termites were at it again. I was being mocked on all sides: by my dead aunt who left me worthless cards, by my brother selling a car he didn’t want or need, by tradesmen gutting my aunt’s house, and by the termites literally eating what little I did own!

That’s the moment I snapped. The only control I felt I had was over the termites. I went into my kitchen and turned on the gas on my cooktop. I placed a saucepan on it and poured in cooking oil. I stood watching the oil heat, impatient for it to reach boiling point. I screwed up the quote for the pest controller with its cartoonish termite laughing at me and added it to the saucepan, pushing it into the oil. Then I filled the kettle and threw the contents in the direction of the cooktop.

Flames immediately burst into life from nothingness, an angry orange and black. The kitchen curtains were engulfed, and I watched for a moment as the flames licked and snarled at the ceiling like angry dogs, before morphing into a river of fire spreading over my head, dripping embers downwards to my vinyl flooring.

With an unnatural calm I grabbed my handbag walked out, waiting for the securing click of my front doors’ locking mechanism. I was dimly aware of the smoke detector starting to sound. I placed left foot in front of right as I walked away, celebrating every step. The destruction I created in that moment? - It had been of my making. It was a contorted sense of control, but I was beyond caring about the future. I turned at the street corner and walked toward the café. Yes, I’d have a caffeine fix, I decided. Why the hell not? Who knows, perhaps I’d get a pay out from my home insurance? I laughed out loud at the thought. A man jogging past gave me a quick double take before he rounded the same corner and his attention was drawn to the plume of smoke rising from my house.

At the Café I found a free table sipped my coffee. I watched as a firetruck roared past. Trying to appear nonplussed, I took the letter from my handbag, opened it. There was a cover letter from Durham & Partners explaining my aunt’s wishes to forward the enclosed letter to me several weeks after her death. I turned the page, and there was my aunt’s familiar writing:

To my sweet niece and best friend Lizzy,

By now I’m sure you have discovered what was at the bottom of the box under all those postcards! All the account information and necessary documentation is in there, I had Mr. Durham make sure of it. Don’t worry; there are no copies for your brother to get his hands on! I never needed all that money. I kept it for you to have when I’m gone. For decades an accountant reinvested the funds into high interest term deposits. Grandfather started that, and it seemed keep making money, more than I could ever use! There is more than enough for you to live happily and without a worry in the world!

This is what I want for you more than anything.

Enjoy your life! Thank you for sharing mine.

Love, Aunt Dorrie

A second firetruck passed the café, siren screaming.

…A street away, the house belonging to Lizzy was destroyed by fire, along with the contents of a green cardboard box on the top shelf in the kitchen pantry.