Cassie looked over at her sister Dawn then back to the solicitor. “Yes, we knew our grandfather had gone to Canada but he left the family years back. Even our mother never really knew him. We all thought he’d died long ago.”
“No,” the lawyer said. “Only last month. Silas Appleby left a will, and, as I told you on the telephone, you are mentioned in it.”
“Wonderful,” Dawn said. “A long-lost ancestor leaving us something. What is it?”
The lawyer frowned as if to indicate he was not prepared to jump protocols before time. “You brought your birth certificates? And your mother’s death certificate?”
Cassie handed over a folder. He quickly scanned the contents and buzzed for his secretary. “Copy these, please,” he said before turning to the two sisters. “Legalities.”
Cassie sat back, her impatience portrayed by her crossed arms.
“Well, now, as the natural daughters of Mr Appleby’s elder daughter, Eileen—’
“Only child,” Dawn corrected.
The solicitor shook his head. “No. Elder daughter, Eileen, here in England. He had another daughter, Arlene, and a son, Larry, both born in Canada.”
Cassie looked over at Dawn, eyebrows raised. Oh goodness, naughty Grandpa.
“Was there a divorce?” Cassie asked. “Or was he a bigamist?” She derived a certain amount of pleasure asking that.
“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Illegitimate children have the same rights of inheritance as legitimate children,” he said flatly. “In this case, your mother and her Canadian sibling Arlene were left items in Mr Appleby’s will. He specifically states that should his daughters predecease him, their children are to inherit their portion.”
“The son? You said he had a daughter and a son,” Dawn interrupted. “Sorry, Cassie, but I want to put this all in context.”
Cassie gave a tight smile to her sister.
“The son, Larry, was killed in Vietnam with no descendants,” he said.
Cassie quelled her desire to keep Dawn quiet and to push the lawyer. She told herself to just let him take his own time, frustrating as it was. Something occurred to her. “Our grandfather knew about us?”
“I gather he and his late wife – your grandmother – were in contact right up until her death some twelve years ago. He continued to support her.”
Cassie and Dawn again looked at each other. Their mother had been brought up by their grandmother in a semi-detached house in Surbiton, not far from London. It had never occurred to them that living there would have been impossible for a family existing on the wages she earned as a supermarket check-out operator.
“So you’re telling us that Grandpa sent money back to Grandma for years and years?” Cassie asked.
“He wanted Grandma to move to Canada before the war; I remember hearing about that,” Dawn said. “But Grandma wouldn’t go, wanted him to come home instead – she was waiting for him, in a way, for the rest of her life.”
“Of course, there was the intervention of the war and, well, this new family,” Cassie mused. “But the two of them kept in touch. So he knew about us because Grandma would have kept him informed but the old goat never mentioned his new family to her?”
The solicitor shrugged. “The will does not specify who knew about whom. Perhaps the Canadian family were told about you. Perhaps not.”
“Who knows,” Dawn said with a frown.
“Please,” Cassie said. “We don’t know much about our grandfather, obviously, but we are curious about what he left us.”
“I’ll go through the list.” He read, “To my daughter, Arlene,”… he looked up. “I find it unfortunate he called his two daughters with names so easily confused. Eileen and Arlene.”
“Replacement,” Cassie said with sudden insight. “You know … he couldn’t have his little Eileen so when he had another little girl, he just changed the name slightly. Arlene.”
“Be that as it may,” the solicitor said, “Arlene inherited the Manitoba farm. I gather she and her father farmed together for many years, and now she and her son Rick farm together. It’s a family farm in every sense.”
“The will?” Cassie asked.
“Now, to your mother: “To my daughter Eileen, Wolverine Island…” – and here he gives geographical coordinates – “and the shack and jetty thereupon”.”
“An island! My goodness. Where do these geographical coordinates put the island?” Cassie asked. Now this was more interesting than she had figured. She noticed Dawn had slumped back in her chair. She figured her sister had been hoping for money. Or shares. Or even jewels she could sell.
“I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the referring solicitor for more details. The island is apparently on a large river in north-western Ontario called the “Winnipeg” which, I have just learned, is nowhere near the city of that name, and thus not near the Manitoba farm which is near that city. The nearest village to the island, some three miles away, is called Manitou Crossing and I’ve put the coordinates through Google Maps to show you.” He passed over a copy of a satellite photo showing an abstract juxtaposition of water and forest. Some roofs from a tiny village could be seen in the upper right of the photo, a railway bridge and what looked like a marina but otherwise it was a mix of dark green forest and blue water. “There’s no jetty I can see,” he said, pointing to a smudge of green in the lower left of the printout. “It’s probably long gone, I suppose. After all, Mr Appleby passed away at ninety-five. He could hardly be visiting an old shack in the wilderness with no road access at that grand age.” He looked from one sister to the other. “Do you understand? There is water access only and I believe no electricity or plumbing either.”
“Okay, this island has no road access,” Cassie said, while suppressing a desire to roll her eyes. “What else can you tell us about it?”
“It’s something less than two hectares, that’s five acres or so, and it’s a lozenge shape from this photo,” he said, pointing to what appeared to be a bump on the mainland.
“Hardly an island then,” Cassie said seeing how close the island was to the mainland.
“Close to the shore, yes,” the lawyer said. “In addition, no owners in the area have any mineral or forestry rights. I gather those are held by the government.”
“So the government could decide to cut down all the trees?”
“For this size of island, no. There’s a new regulation that preserves a strip of trees for some twenty metres back from a shoreline. There wouldn’t be any commercial value in cutting the remaining trees in the centre of the island.”
“People?” Cassie asked.
“Only the shack on the island; nobody nearby. This is an inaccessible part of the world. But it will be totally owned by you.”
“Can we sell it?” Dawn asked.
“Most things can be sold. Eventually. But we’re talking about a very, very remote area,” the solicitor said with pursed lips. “I can communicate with the Winnipeg solicitor again and ask him about initiating a sale. He mentioned you would most likely want to put it on the market. He could arrange conveyancing.”
“Hold on,” Cassie said, more to Dawn than the solicitor. “There’s no way I’m going to sell some inherited property without seeing it myself.” Cassie owned her own travel company in Kingston and organising some highly discounted fares was usually possible. She could pop over the ditch and see for herself
“I mean it,” Cassie said over coffee some fifteen minutes later. London traffic whirled past their table on the pavement near the solicitor’s rooms. “We need to do a recce before we decide anything.”
Dawn sighed. “The inheritance could be a godsend,” she said, “but only if I can turn it into cash.”
Cassie knew how important money was to her sister. Dawn’s husband had been in a company reshuffle and his position became redundant, doubly important because they still had a teenager at home, their little afterthought, Benjamin. He was nineteen and due to start university in S
eptember.
“Ben is the brightest of the lot,” Dawn said, referring to her other three children, all of whom had finished their tertiary education and were out in the world. “We can’t not help him.”
Cassie touched her sister’s arm. “Look, Dawn, selling something without knowing the facts is plain silly. I should pay this island a visit and find out what I can. Meanwhile we can use the internet to gather any info about the area.”
“To be of some use, I’d really like the money before uni starts in September,” Dawn said into her coffee cup. “No, ignore me; I just got my hopes up, that’s all.”
Cassie was looking at the papers the solicitor had given them. “Oh, oh,” she said. “More bad news.”
“What?”
“The local taxes? They come to less than $100 Canadian a year – not even 50 quid. I guess that means Wolverine Island is not worth very much.” Cassie watched Dawn’s face fall. “Sorry.”
Dawn pushed her chair back. “Well, it was fun while it lasted,” she said. “I’ll just have to help Matthew get some more applications out to potential employers. The trouble is that sixty-three year old accountants are not all that employable.”
“Can you dust off your degree and find something yourself? You’re ten years his junior, after all,” Cassie said. But they both knew Dawn had never worked, instead choosing to bring up their children as a stay-at-home mum. “What about admin? You have a lot of supervisory experience from your charitable work.”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” Dawn said. “But my confidence is below zero.”
“Well, I’ll think about telling that Canadian lawyer to put the place on the market,” Cassie said. “But it’s against my better judgement.”
A week later, Cassie made up her mind. She rang her sister. “I think I will go over to Canada after all,” she said. “Mostly, I’m curious – curious about relatives we have never met and curious about our little island. I’ll take time off work if you can help out.”
“Me?” Dawn asked.
“Look after the shop, so to speak,” Cassie said. “If you can follow me around for a week seeing what I do, you can hold the fort while I’m overseas.”
“I couldn’t,” Dawn said. “You’re a professional. You have masses of specific knowledge.”
“True,” Cassie said. “But I also have a parcel of highly experienced salespeople here. You need to hold weekly meetings, jolly along those who are lagging, forward any queries to those who do have specialised knowledge – including our tame solicitor and insurance company – and be the front person. Besides, you’ll be paid.”
“Oh,” Dawn said. “I won’t promise I’ll do it, but I can puppy-dog behind you for a week. It will get me out of the house. Poor Matthew is a grumpy old bear and I could use a break.”
“I need you to promise or I can’t go,” Cassie said emphatically. “Talking about needing a break; I haven’t had a holiday in years and I deserve this.”
Dawn rang back to say she had thought it over, discussed it with Matthew and young Ben, and she’d do it. Matthew even said he’d throw in his accountancy consultancy for free, just in case someone needed his advice.
Getting to the island was not straightforward. Cassie flew into Winnipeg airport then picked up a coach that deposited her into the nearest town to Manitou Crossing. She paid a taxi driver a horrendous fee to take her to the village from the coach station which was almost an hour’s drive away. The taxi ride was turning out to be the most expensive part of her trip so far.
After the taxi deposited her in front of the station at Manitou Crossing, Cassie took a proper look at the scene in front of her. The abandoned but picturesque train station dominated the hill above the marina. The lake was a deep blue in the afternoon light rimmed with a mixed forest of pines, birches and poplars and little cabins dotted along the shore near the marina. The sky was such a deep blue it appeared to be almost purple above her head. The day was warm and she needed to shed a layer or two – she had gone from an air-conditioned international flight to an air-conditioned coach to an air-conditioned taxi. This was full summer and a beautiful day.
She had booked a room at the marina which turned out to be simply furnished but with a glorious view above the docks and boats and out over the large lake. She was directed to a café where she could purchase plain food. She ate something with pasta and minced meat, purportedly a lasagne; the saving grace was the glass of white wine – Californian, of course, but it was icy cold and tasted fine.
She couldn’t go out to the island until the next day when the marina could spare a boat and driver. Nobody knew an island called Wolverine Island but the boat had a GPS and they assured her it would find the coordinates.
Whether it was the refreshingly cool night, the glass of wine or sheer exhaustion, Cassie slept well, awakening to a bird chorus well before six. She set up her laptop and was able to use the marina’s internet connection to send an email to Dawn.
“Gorgeous country so far. Very wild, almost no habitation. Trees and lakes, trees and lakes and lakes and trees. Blue skies and little wind. My kind of a July day. Off to see the island at 10am. Will report all when I get back here to my little room at the marina. Lots of love to everyone and hope the office is behaving itself, Cassie, xx.”
The boat was open with a teenaged boy managing the outboard motor at the back and a high swivel seat at the front for a passenger, in all likelihood usually complete with fishing rod. The lad directed her to wear a life-jacket which was several sizes too large but she put it on anyway. There was a faint smell of fish but as soon as they got away from the docks the fresh air was fragrant and delightfully different. The motor pushed the boat along like an aluminium water-borne bullet. Cassie swivelled her seat so she faced forward into the blast of wind they were generating. She felt like one of those dogs who love to stick their heads out of car windows on the motorway. Now she knew why they did it. She couldn’t help grinning.
“Is this a lake or the Winnipeg River?” she yelled back at the boy.
“Since that last point, we’re on the river,” he yelled back. “We’re now going up river.”
Interesting; it was like no river she’d known. It seemed to be more a series of interconnected rock-rimmed lakes than a river. “Is there current?” she yelled.
“You’ll see it in the narrows – in a minute or so we’ll go between an island and the shore where it’s visible on the surface. Very deep there.”
Sure enough, there were a few eddies here and there where one lake narrowed to two passageways on either side of an island. Some of the lakes were huge; she guessed a massive volume of water was involved here.
“Do they dam this river?” she asked.
He nodded. “There’s a dam not too far downstream from here. Hydro.”
Hydroelectric power, she presumed. But no electricity at Wolverine Island.
“We’re almost there,” the boy called. He pointed toward a shoreline. “I don’t know about any Wolverine Island, but I can take you to the Appleby place. One of the guys just brought the floating dock out of winter storage and connected her up, so I can head over there. We can look at the GPS properly when we land.”
“Did you say Appleby?” a delighted Cassie yelled back. “That’ll be right.”
She couldn’t hear what he said, but she thought she lip-read the boy’s lips saying, “Why didn’t you say so?”
They landed at a jetty attached to an attractive rocky point. The boy tied up the boat and pointed to the GPS.
“Bingo,” he said. “Why didn’t you say you were going to the Appleby’s?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I was told Wolverine Island. But Appleby is a family name.”
“They’re not down yet,” he said. They? Down? Her heart lurched. He saw her confusion. “We always say “down at the lake”. “Not down” means they’re not here yet. They usually come for the last two weeks in July and the first two in August.”
“Who are “they”?”
“Oh. Not old man Appleby anymore. I’m talking about Rick and Stella and their kids.” He looked puzzled. “You said Appleby, didn’t you? This here is the Appleby’s place and the GPS says this is Wolverine Island. I didn’t even know it was an island.” Cassie bit back a continuation of the conversation. She’d be putting in a call to the Winnipeg solicitor. Appleby descendants using the island? Unexpected. She fingered the key in her pocket, a key sent by the Winnipeg solicitor and passed on by the lawyer in London.
“I can explore here for a bit, if you need to get back,” Cassie said. “Do you want to stay and wait or make two trips?”
“Better I come back. An hour? Two? Three?”
Cassie looked around. She had a key to what was supposed to be what remained of a derelict shack, not that she could see one, but a path led up into the bush. She had packed a just-in-case bag with her swimming costume, a towel, a bottle of water and a packed lunch. She was ready for the lad to leave. “Give me three hours,” she said. “Come back at about 1:30?”
He grinned. “Sure thing,” he said. He took off, turning to give a cheerful wave as he opened up the throttle.
Cassie waited until the sound of the engine faded. Alone. Deliciously alone. She filled her lungs with fresh air then bent down to put her hand into the lake water. Cool. But here, the water was clear with all the appearance of an open lake. She could see the opposite shore over a wide expanse of blue water. There was no indication of water flow.
First things first, she thought. An exploration then a swim. And she had three whole hours of solitude.
She climbed the well-worn path which took her up a rocky slope then down towards a broad roof – much larger than she was expecting – set above the sun-spangled waters of a bay, maybe fifty feet across. To the side of the building she could see a sandy beach facing, Cassie figured, roughly east. The end of the bay to the left was made up of reeds which meant it wasn’t a real bay, but a reedy channel between the island and the mainland. The side of the bay opposite, not as long as the beach, was a smooth pinkish granite cliff capped by tall pines. It was spectacularly beautiful and Cassie instantly knew why the cabin had been sited here.
The building was clad in cedar shingles and painted a dark green trimmed in white. Everything was immaculate. Evidently the solicitor had been wrong about Grandpa Appleby’s presumed neglect. This was no derelict shack.
On the lake-ward side of the building, she climbed steps up a tall stoop from the path to a white painted door. She struggled to open the lock with the old fashioned key, but eventually it snapped open. She entered a bright room with windows framing the view. The house was far from new and the furniture was appropriately old too, but beautifully kept. Cane chairs and sofas covered in colourful throws were set against unlined walls made from two by fours and rough planking, all painted white. The floor was varnished wood.
She set her bag down to explore. The cabin was simple, rustic even, but reasonably spacious. To the right of the living room was a large kitchen-diner complete with wood burning stove and furnished with a table that could seat eight. She counted four bedrooms of various sizes but no bathroom. No electricity, either, as had been described in the solicitor’s notes, but kerosene lamps were in every room. She peered from the kitchen window and counted three outbuildings. One must be a primitive loo. She threw open windows to let the summer airs through the house. She had a thought. She didn’t have to stay at the marina; she could stay here.
The boat boy picked her up as planned. She had eaten her packed lunch and twice had swims in the lake, once from the floating dock which included a handy swim ladder and once from the beach in front of the cabin.
““Cottages”, we call them,” the boy yelled on their way back to the marina. “And people who have cottages are called “cottagers”.” His Canadian accent emphasised the “r” at the end of “cottagers”.
An hour later, she had bought a dinner of hamburger and chips she intended on eating cold when back at the cottage that evening. At the marina’s small shop she obtained a carton of milk and some ready-to-eat cereal for tomorrow’s breakfast plus a packet of instant chocolate she could drink cold. Scratch meals, but what a treat.
Back at the cottage, she made up the bed in the largest bedroom under a window through which she could see the same glorious view as from the living room. She adjusted the wick of a kerosene lamp and managed to light it well before dark, letting it burn in case she couldn’t start it a second time. She had another dip in the lake before eating her cold hamburger on the dock watching the sky turn a line of whispy cirrus clouds into searing yellows and oranges as the sun set. She was totally delighted with the inheritance her grandfather had left them. That thought reminded her of the stark reality of her sister’s circumstances; Dawn needed money. How could Carrie keep this delightful place and still arrange for Dawn to have the money she so desperately needed? That would require some creative consideration.
She slept deeply only awakening when she heard people noises. She ran into the kitchen to see a slim woman cresting the path from the dock and heading down her way. Cassie scurried into the bedroom and snatched an old dressing gown hanging off a nail behind the door. By the time the woman came in the front door – no knocking – Cassie was at least decent.
“Excuse me?” she asked the woman. “Who are you?”
“You’re asking who I am?” the woman expostulated. “The question is who might you be? You’re in our cottage.”
“Your cottage?” Cassie asked, thoroughly confused, her mind awhirl. Maybe this wasn’t Wolverine Island? But the key fit. Could all locks that age be opened with such a key? Her knees began to shake.
“I asked, who are you?” the woman asked, frowning and her hands now on her hips.
“Cassandra Wood,” Cassie said. “The new owner of Wolverine Island.”
“That’s—,” the woman said.
“Keep quiet, Stella,” a man’s voice said from outside.
The woman flashed a quick smile which didn’t reach her eyes and left through the front door again. “Oh, by the way, that’s my robe you’re wearing,” she said through the open window as she descended the steps.
Cassie hurriedly went back into the bedroom and threw off the old dressing gown and her nightie and pulled on yesterday’s clothes. She barely finished dressing when she heard the door open yet again. A man stood in the living room taking up too much space, hands on his hips, maybe forty years old.
“What’s going on?” he roared. Cassie stepped back at this onslaught. She noticed the woman stayed outside the door.
“I’m Cassandra Wood,” Cassie said, realising who he must be. “And I presume you are Richard known as Rick, grandson of the late Silas Appleby, who, by the way, was also my grandfather.” She held her head high. He was physically frightening. She was glad of the woman’s presence – until she remembered couples like the murderous Wests, Fred and Rosemary – a woman’s presence does not guarantee safety.
Rick glared at her. “So you know who I am.”
“My mother, Eileen, was Silas’s firstborn. Your mother, Arlene, is his second daughter. Or so says his will.”
“Jesus H Christ,” Rick said. “The lying bugger.” He collapsed into a chair. The woman just stared at him through the window, then disappeared down the stairs.
“Who lied?” Cassie said. Now, this was interesting.
“Shut up, you,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Cassie thought the only thing was to do the stuck record trick. “I’m Cassie Wood. I’ve inherited Wolverine—’
“I said, shut up!”he growled, standing up and again towering over her. “I have to think. You’re not supposed to be here, for god’s sake! You were in England. Half a world away.”
“What are you going on about?” Cassie asked. He was frightening her badly.
“You were supposed to put our place up for sale.” The man was shouting, spittle flecking
his lips.
“That’s one consideration, true,” Cassie said. She was shaking but she was determined Rick would see none of it. She straightened her back and took a deep breath. “But only a fool would sell her inheritance without seeing what she was selling. And I’m no fool.” She kept her eyes fixed on him but he didn’t meet her gaze.
Rick turned from her and yelled, “Stella! Get in here.”
The woman crept in, making sure the door didn’t slam. Cassie sat on the edge of the cane rocker. She let the chair rock, hoping her own nervous trembling would be concealed.
There was nothing attractive about her cousin Rick. He was sweating; he breathed noisily and she watched him wipe his mouth on his hairy arm. She looked away. They were first cousins. Well, half first cousins. She relished the half.
Rick turned to see his wife was inside.
“Get in here, Stella. I want you to be witness when I tell this Limey to bugger out of our house.” He turned an angry face to Cassie and slowly stood up, leaning towards her. “So go. Beat it. Leave. You have no rights to this place until the lawyer straightens out this mess.”
Cassie’s heart sank. From his defeated look before Stella came back, she thought they could have had a civilised conversation. “I will leave when my boat comes to pick me up,” Cassie said attempting to keep her voice even. “But I have to tell you, I believe you are trespassing on my property.” She stood her full height trying not to be intimidated by the much larger Rick. “Stella, nice to meet you. I had hoped to talk quietly and normally about this strange situation we find ourselves in.” She edged towards the bedroom door, opened it, whirled inside before closing it in relief. She hastily packed her belongings and remembered to hang the old dressing gown on the nail.
When she came out, the two of them were in the kitchen, still arguing. So, no breakfast today. She took advantage of their absence to slip out the front door. She headed over the rocks towards the floating dock. When she had the dock in view, she concealed herself just inside the bush line where she could watch for the marina’s boat when it came across the lake; she hoped, by then, her thumping heart would have settled down. Before long and only slightly late, a boat rounded the gap in the opposite shore. By the time the boy drew close to the dock, she hopped on board before either the boy stopped the engine or Rick appeared.
“Go,” she said to the boy. He nodded and they raced towards the marina.
“Yes, I did discuss the will or organised that it would be discussed with everybody named therein both here in Canada and in England,” the lawyer said. “That is standard procedure.” Cassie had arrived into Winnipeg on a very hot day. What was a pleasant temperature at the lake was sweltering in the city. The lawyer was a smarmy fellow who never let his smile slip.
“And did you make clear to my aunt Arlene who inherited which part of my grandfather’s estate?” Cassie asked.
“Yes, of course. And it was me who contacted a solicitor in London for you. Everybody has been treated equally.”
Cassie smiled, her confidence returning. For all his pedantry, he made a basic grammatical error: “I” not “me”. “To be totally clear,” Cassie said, “I understand my aunt Arlene has inherited the farm. But she can do what she wants with her inheritance; Rick and his brother inherit nothing directly from Grandfather Appleby?”
“Madam, you have seen the will. Why ask these questions?”
“Because, sir, I was summarily kicked out of my cottage on Wolverine Island by Rick Maine, son of Arlene Appleby, and he claimed there had been a bad mistake. The island was his.”
“That, I believe, is a matter for your aunt Arlene. Or, if you insist, the police. I think you should speak to her,” the annoying man said. He stood. “Please let me know if I can be of any further help.” He motioned Cassie towards the door.
“Please confirm my sister and I have inherited Wolverine Island and the cottage that stands upon it.”
He sighed. “So says the will, although you’ll find the cottage is not worth much,” the lawyer said. “Any court will uphold your right to it, though. And your right to sell it, which might be the easiest way out of this dilemma in which you find yourself.”
In a burning fury Cassie stood on the pavement as it proved impossible to flag a taxi. She was reluctant to return to the odious lawyer’s office to borrow a telephone. After a long five minutes without a taxi in sight, she walked purposefully towards the downtown area. As soon as she saw an air-conditioned café, she stopped for a long drink sitting in the cool. Arlene. Yes, he was right; that was the place to start.
Cassie pulled the rental car to the side of the sprawling bungalow well out in the prairie beyond Winnipeg. The yard was tidy, rimmed with blooming flowers and the house was in good repair. Although it had well grown trees surrounding it, the house was the tallest man-made structure for miles. She knocked on the door.
Her aunt was a weather-beaten woman in her late sixties wearing long jean shorts and a t-shirt. She was stocky but athletic looking. Her face betrayed her age but not her figure.
“I’m a working farmer,” she said over tall glasses of buttermilk. “I make this,” she said, holding the glass aloft. “I bet you’ve never tasted anything like it before.”
“A bit like yogurt,” Cassie said. “I can’t believe how refreshing it is. Thank you.”
“Best drink on a hot day,” her aunt said.
Cassie leaned forward. They were sitting in the shade of tall trees in a garden gazebo screened against insects but allowing the prairie breezes to blow through. “I didn’t know of your existence until the will was read to my sister and me,” she said.
“I suspected yours,” Arlene said. “My mother found out Dad was sending money back to England. They had an unholy argument about it. What I didn’t know and what Mum never knew was that the payments weren’t for a mother or grandmother, but for a wife and child.” She shook her head. “I’m glad she never found out.”
“We only just discovered my grandmother had been supported all those years. Don’t get the wrong impression; I don’t think he sent a lot of money. Grandma worked all her life in a supermarket and she and Mum lived modestly; nothing like this.” Cassie looked back at the sprawling house, warmly lit in the afternoon sunshine.
Arlene nodded. “We’re still mainly wheat here – the new heavy-cropping varieties of course – but we have oats and flax as well and some sunflowers. Most of us plant a variety of crops nowadays that suit Manitoba’s rich black soils. Never again will we be caught like they were in the dirty thirties. Dad bought what was a derelict farm before the war. But he didn’t become a farmer – and a good one, as it turned out – until he returned from overseas.
“He fought in the Second World War? Actually, I think I heard that.”
“Canadian army. He was invalided out; Mum nursed him at the vets”hospital. When he was discharged – usual story – she got pregnant with me and they married toute de suite. He had a limp forever more which obviously didn’t affect his life span.” She grinned and Cassie grinned back. Yes, ninety-five was good going. Cassie skipped over the married bit. No use rubbing salt.
Cassie looked out across the fields. Wind ruffled the tall grasses in broad waves of green. In a funny sort of way, it felt like being at sea with nothing to obscure the horizon. But she jerked her mind back; she had come here for a purpose.
“Aunt Arlene, I’ve just had an uncomfortable confrontation with your son Rick.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “It that why they went down to the lake so precipitously?”
“He seems to be under the misapprehension that Wolverine Island is his.”
Arlene sighed. “He was the only one interested in it, actually. He and the old man spent time there every summer ever since Rick was a boy. When Dad stopped being able to manage the paths and the boat and everything, Rick took over. He loves the place, keeping everything up to scratch. An old place like that needs constant maintenance, but he’s very practical, Ri
ck is.” She sighed.
“He farms with you?” Cassie asked, more to break the silence. This must be difficult for Arlene.
“He runs this farm beautifully. Poor boy, he was very upset about the will; he’s always considered the Manitou Crossing cottage his – and frankly, I thought the old man wanted him to have it. He was always banging on about it going to someone who appreciated the place. And that could only mean one person: Rick.”
“It would be a natural assumption,” Cassie murmured.
Arlene carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Pop felt some important values were worth preserving, values only found when living a basic lifestyle in a wilderness place like Manitou Crossing. Sorry, but I find it very strange he left it to people who had never seen the place.”
“I guess I can understand,” Cassie said. “But, I have to tell you, Rick frightened me. Badly. I felt lucky to escape.” The memory of it caused her hand to shake. She put the glass of buttermilk down before she dropped it.
“Oh, dear,” Arlene said. “Rick is a dirt farmer, not good with polite conversation. Besides, Pop would have left the cottage to Rick if there had been any other way, I’m sure. But there wasn’t. He owned two properties, one worth vastly more than the other. If he left anything to you at all, it most likely would have been the smaller property.”
“Which he did,” Cassie said. “Presumably there’s no comparison between this farm and the island.”
Arlene momentarily smiled. “I know he wouldn’t have split this farm just to even things up. No, if he was going to give you anything, it had to be the place at Manitou Crossing.”
Cassie nodded. It made sense. But no wonder Rick was disappointed.
“In fact,” Arlene said, “my own will states the farm is to be inherited by my two sons but it must not be sold outside of the family. That means Rick will farm and Brent receives half the profits after Rick’s living expenses are deducted. Not ideal, but farms are always a problem.”
Back at the hotel in Winnipeg, Cassie received an email from Dawn.
“Office running sweet as. Matthew happily re-jigging your entire financial organisation – hope that’s okay – he does know what he’s doing. Staff working well and business is picking up for autumnal holidays in the south of Europe, especially Greece and Turkey. Hey, maybe I should take my wages in a holiday?”
Well, that was a relief. Cassie immediately emailed back that she needed to sort things out here and it would be some days yet before her return. She had to get her head straight about all this. This dilemma was doing it in. Maybe she should just walk away. But Cassie had walked away from nothing in her entire life. Even when she should have done so. Maybe this was one of those times. Then there was Dawn. It was her inheritance and dammit, the island was her own as well.
In the cool of the evening, Cassie went for a long walk around a lovely area at the confluence of two tree-lined rivers. Winnipeg was surprisingly attractive, given its position on the prairie with nary a hill in sight. It was a city of heavily foliated trees with streets like green tunnels.
She received the call from Arlene that evening. Cassie could return to Manitou Crossing should she wish to do so; Rick and Stella were back at the farm. Good, because she had the beginnings of an idea.
Cassie wandered up the path to the ridge where she could have a good overview of the island – looking one way over the roof of the cottage down to the little bay and cliff beyond and, turning the opposite direction, out to the distant shore of the lake from the dock side. Both were attractive views and very different. She made her way back to the cottage and along the beach towards the reedy end of the bay. The reeds themselves were eye-catching and the view across to the rocky shore of the other side of the bay was just as charming from that part of the island as from the cottage itself. Still, it was a bit close to the cottage.
She made her way back to the dock. She had found a small sit-upon plastic canoe – more a kid’s toy than a real boat – in one of the outhouses, but it suited her purposes. She climbed on – in her bathing costume; she had no illusions about staying dry – and paddled to the northern end of the island. There, a point consisting of a long run of pink rock headed down and out to the waters of the lake. Beyond the point, the lake bed gradually became shallow enough for reeds to grow. She tried to paddle through the reeds so she could circumnavigate the island, but they were tall and strong and too close together. Instead she climbed out on the pink granite shelf facing west. Now just up into the forest would be a lovely spot for a cottage; she wondered if her grandfather had considered it.
This aspect was totally different from the other side of the island. The mainland shore stretched northwards beyond the reeds to a small point. She was as far from the cottage as one could go on the island. Here she felt a welcome breeze from the lake. She decided to return at sunset. But she was fairly confident she knew what she’d see.
Late in the evening, she gazed over a darkening lake to a spectacular reflection of yellows, oranges and deep purples on the waters beneath the setting sun. Yes.
“Matthew’s working on the ins and outs now,” Dawn said. She and Cassie were in Cassie’s flat in Kingston. “The income should solve any last problems we have, especially now you’ve decided to hire Ben on weekends during term time.”
“Matthew had no problem starting his pension two years early?”
Dawn shook her head and helped herself to another scone. “None. Sorry, this is my breakfast.”
“And you know I am perfectly happy for you to come visit me when I’m at Manitou Crossing,” Cassie said. “So you kind of can have your cake—’
“—and eat it too,” Dawn finished. “Maybe. But Manitou Crossing sounds a little … er … primitive for me – what about bears?”
Cassie laughed. “Sometimes, but I’m told they’re more scared of us than we are of them.”
“Best of all,” Dawn said with a smile, “is that Matthew can make a real contribution to the business with his accountancy know-how. Already he’s about to ask you – well, us I guess – if he can invest in better software. And, I have to admit, I love being in the office. You can stay at Manitou Crossing all July, if you want. And my twenty percent of the travel business says you can have more time off than a measly month, anyway.”
After Dawn left, Cassie helped herself to more coffee. Sunshine poured into her flat in the mornings in contrast to the new place at Manitou Crossing. It was to face west, situated just into the tree line above the long finger of pink granite. Oh, those Canadian sunsets. She closed her eyes and pictured herself sitting on her little deck, gin and tonic in hand, watching the sun go down behind the far shore, the water reflecting every hue in the rainbow.
She had come up with a good deal: in return for supervising the building of the new log cabin and providing all maintenance of everything on Wolverine Island: the paths, the cabins and the dock, Rick and his family would continue to have free use of the old Appleby cottage on the eastern side of the island.
Funny how things change, Cassie thought. Thank you, Grandpa Silas. Rick told me of your little arrangement. Leave the island to those unknown citified granddaughters living half a world away and they’ll jump at an opportunity to sell it through their only contact, the Winnipeg lawyer. Cheaply. So in return for not too much cash, Rick would receive the inheritance his grandfather really wanted him to have, yet the old man could do his duty to his first family.
Sorry, Gramps, she thought, for my putting a spanner in the works, but somehow I think you just might approve of this solution.
The phone rang. Dawn. “I just realised you said you were having a log cabin built at Manitou Crossing in August. Not this August?”
Cassie laughed. “Yes, Dawn. This August. Next month. The cabin comes ready to assemble; the builders only need a week.”
“A log cabin in a week? Never.”
“We’re talking about Canada, Dawn, not the UK. I ordered it on-line from a catalogue.”
THE END
LITTLE BOY BLUE
by Tina Traverse
https://www.amazon.com/Tina-Traverse/e/B008AJX9Z6
A World of Possibility Page 41