by Jay Howard
The Inheritance
Elaine paced the grand entrance hall, impatient for her mother to answer her cell phone. Her heels click-clacked across the tiles, marking the seconds she had to wait.
“Hello?” The voice was sleep-filled, concerned.
“Mom, you need to get here right now.”
There was a long pause. “You got there OK then, honey. That’s good. But I don’t need to be there.” Elaine heard a wide yawn. “If you’re going to phone me could you at least allow for the eight hour time zone difference?”
“Fuck the time zones!” Elaine bit down on her frustration. “Sorry. OK, then, I need you to get here, like yesterday would have been good so I wouldn’t be stood here alone today. You could at least have warned me what I was getting into! The solicitor’s arranged for the estate staff to assemble here to meet me in ten minutes – what am I supposed to tell them?”
Moira laughed softly. Elaine caught the hint of sadness in it and wondered, not for the first time, about the maternal family line’s history in England.
“I suppose it would all be rather imposing at first acquaintance, but you’ll be fine,” Moira assured her daughter. “Just say hi, and carry on doing whatever it was they did while your grandmother was still alive. They know it will take time to sort everything out.”
“Mother, I mean it. The time for evasion and half-truths is over. I want answers and I want them now. From you. In person. So please get your ass on the first plane out of Vancouver this morning.” She snapped her phone shut and thrust it into her purse.
Sudden shafts of sunlight flooded through the huge windows and illuminated the wide oak stairs. Half way up, where the stairs parted to left and right, a portrait hanging there was spotlit. The whiskered gentleman portrayed seemed to be frowning, glaring down at her. She responded by sticking her tongue out at him.
“That’s not the normal method in these parts of greeting one’s ancestors,” a man said from behind her. He closed the huge wooden front door as quietly as he’d opened it.
Elaine spun around, startled by the soft, deep voice so close when she had thought herself alone. “And who might you be?” In the male handsome department he rated highly but she didn’t at all care for his cool appraisal or the speculation in his eyes. She felt she’d been assessed head to toe and found wanting. She stood a little taller and raised her chin, her expression as cold as his.
“I take it you are the new owner, Ms Elaine Allen?” he said.
“Your tone says you doubt that. Why? Because of my skin? I can assure you the lawyers checked my credentials very thoroughly before handing over the keys and documents.” She approached him and attempted to stare him out. “I repeat, who are you, just wandering into what is now my house without a by-your-leave?”
His whole demeanour mocked her. “On the contrary, I’m following your orders. Believe me, I have far better things to do than stand around here waiting for instructions from someone who knows nothing about the estate, but you’re the boss, so here I am. My doubts, Ms Allen, were due to Lydia never mentioning she had a granddaughter.” His lip curled sardonically and he flourished a deep bow, Cavalier-style. “David Barker, Estate Manager, at your service, ma’am.”
Elaine flushed, not sure how to respond to such ridicule. “You don’t look old enough for such a responsible job,” she said.
“I can assure you I am,” he said, cool disdain evident in voice and posture. “I’ve been old enough to be Lydia’s Estate Manager for nearly twenty years.”
Except for the faintest of crows’ feet he seemed untouched by the years, at least to Elaine’s eyes. He was definitely what is classified as a ‘hunk’: excellent physique, thick dark hair and amazing grey-green eyes. She’d have put him at about thirty, not late forties, maybe even early fifties.
“You called my grandmother ‘Lydia’ just now,” she said, dragging her mind away from her physical reaction to him.
“That is her name.”
She noticed his lips twitch but ploughed on. “Isn’t that rather a familiar form of address for one’s employer?”
“I don’t know the customs in the US of A, Ms Allen, but Lydia didn’t think formality appropriate when we were working so closely together, for so long, to keep the estate going. It’s not been an easy ride maintaining the value of your inheritance.”
“I’m Canadian, not American,” she snapped, and would have said more but just then four more people entered the hall from a doorway, half hidden by the staircase, that Elaine assumed led to the kitchen – ‘below stairs’ as she’d heard the servants’ area referred to in British period serials. She approached them, determined to make a better start with the home staff than she had with her Estate Manager.
She held out her hand. “I’ve just met Mr Barker. You must be Mr and Mrs Stokes.”
“That’s right, Miss,” the old man said, “I’m Basil, and this is my wife, Roza Maria.” They shook hands. Basil turned to the teenage boy who stood at his shoulder. “And this is my assistant, Andrei.”
“And this is my assistant, Helen,” Roza Maria added, indicating a capable-looking woman of about Elaine’s age.
Basil looked worried and Elaine suddenly realised the full implications of her grandmother’s legacy. She hadn’t just inherited a house and a plot of land. She’d inherited responsibility for the welfare of many people. How many she had yet to find out, but right then she had five people with her who needed to know what their futures held. She made a few snap decisions, keeping her fingers crossed that they would prove to be good ones.
She briefly held Basil’s upper arm and smiled at Roza Maria. “Look, I know David and Lydia used first names, and I don’t want to be called ‘Miss’ or ‘Ms Allen’, so how about we carry on with the first name tradition my grandmother started?” Fleeting smiles gave Elaine the confidence to continue. “Right now, I could murder a coffee. Shall we all go to the kitchen and sit and talk there? If nothing else I’m sure it will be warmer than out here.”
Elaine inhaled deeply as they entered a kitchen that looked large and well-equipped enough to cater for an army. “That smells mighty good, Roza Maria.”
“I thought I’d better percolate some coffee,” Roza Maria said. “I know North Americans prefer coffee to tea.”
“You got that right. I’ll take mine black, please, in a large mug.” Elaine sat at the large wooden table and indicated the others should join her while Roza Maria bustled about serving the drinks. She watched their interactions and saw they were friends as well as colleagues. These people she’d only just met really cared about each other: she was the outsider, the one being assessed.
“OK,” she said when they were all settled, “firstly I want to reassure you all that, as far as I’m concerned, nothing much will change for the foreseeable future. I know I have a lot to learn about what the situation is here before I can make any decisions. I’d appreciate it if you agreed to remain here and help me, but I’ll understand if you want to move on.”
David looked at the faces around the table. Elaine could almost hear the silent conversation before he spoke. “I think I can speak for all of us when I say we’ve been very happy working here and don’t see a need to change… just yet.”
Elaine inclined her head, acknowledging the limited endorsement of her presence. She decided it was time to get to know them a little.
“Roza Maria – that’s not a common English name, is it? It’s very pretty.”
Roza Maria’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. “I’m named for my Polish great grandmother,” she said. “My family came here in the war; my father was in the RAF. Afterwards they settled in Bristol, where I was born, and that’s where I met Basil.”
“Roza’s mother taught her to cook Polish food – you’ll enjoy it,” Basil said. “My Roza’s the best there is.”
“I’m sure I shall,” Elaine said. “And you, David, is that a Scottish accent I hear?”
“I’m a Derry man,” he said sharply. “That’s Northern Ireland, no
t Scotland.” Then he noticed the devil dancing in Elaine’s eyes. “OK. Touché. I reckon we’re even now.”
Helen told her that she came from the estate itself, but Andrei was Romanian.
“Quite the mini United Nations here, aren’t we,” Elaine commented.
David finished his coffee and stood up. “Wait until you meet the rest of the staff,” he told her. “Last count I think we had nine different first languages. Luckily they all speak English, to varying degrees, though I’m fairly certain they find another language useful for swearing at me. But right now I must make tracks. I’ve a meeting at the Estate Office in ten minutes with one of our suppliers.”
Elaine watched him head out of the kitchen, appreciating his easy, lithe movements. She could easily imagine him striding out across the estate fields, dealing with livestock or machinery with equal facility. He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. She saw his gaze linger on the full lips she had inherited from her Jamaican father.
“Umm, get Basil to show you where the estate cars are and come over to the office at five this afternoon. I’ll show you around the farm and the village. About half the villagers live in estate-owned property. Oh, and you own the pub, too,” he said.
He left before she could reply.
Elaine let it pass that her employee apparently felt free to give what amounted to an order. She needed this man on board if she was to get a handle on the extent of her inheritance. She needed time and she needed support: too many people’s livelihoods depended on her keeping a cool head. She turned to her other staff and smiled.
“Thank you for that wonderful coffee, Roza Maria,” she said. “I am your devoted slave if you keep providing coffee and croissants to that standard. I am totally refreshed and ready for the full tour, if you have time?”