The Inheritance

Patricia was just settling down to watch a daytime repeat of Antiques Roadshow when the postman rang the bell.

She groaned inwardly. She'd come to dread his visits. Most of her mail these days was final demands, threats of disconnection or legal action, and yet more bills. The occasional summons to be screened for some sort of cancer or other made a change, but did nothing to lighten her spirits. The days when she saw him walk on by and go straight to the house next door were the best days.

Parcels were rare. It wasn't as if she could afford to buy things online, so she stayed well away from sites selling things, until eventually, her broadband was cut off because she couldn't pay the bill. It wasn't her birthday. Even if it had been, there wouldn't be any parcels. She had no family since her husband had left, no friends since she couldn't afford to meet anyone for lunch or drinks.

It would at best be a parcel for next door and they were out; at worst, a summons for debt to be signed for so she couldn't claim she hadn't received it.

"Package for you," he said, handing over a parcel about the size of a shoe box. On top of it was a small pile of envelopes. More bills.

"Thanks," Patricia said, and watched him amble up the path.

She took her post inside. She threw the letters on the kitchen table and inspected the package. Sure enough, it was addressed to her, Patricia George, in shaky handwriting. She shook it gently; it didn't rattle. She turned it over to see if there was any clue as to where it might have come from.

The sender, she saw to her surprise, was her one surviving relative, Aunt Harriet. She and Aunt Harriet had never liked one another.

As a child, Patricia's mother had dragged her round to Harriet's house at least once a month. The sisters had been close, united in their barrenness for many years - Harriet had never married and Patricia's mother had struggled with infertility. Two childless women in a family friendly world. Patricia's arrival had ruined all that. Patricia knew that now, and had some sympathy, but as a child, she'd simply picked up bad vibes from Harriet and never felt welcome in her house.

The sisters sat and talked about boring things like politics, who'd died recently and their health problems. Patricia would be desperately bored but never allowed to go out to play. Aunt Harriet would scold Patricia severely if she touched anything on the shelf beside her.

Aunt Harriet had done her duty towards her niece but no more. Every Christmas and birthday a present would arrive in the post, usually something like soap-on-a-rope. Patricia would then have to labour over a thank you letter to someone to whom she had nothing to say. "Thank you for the soap, it's lovely" would never suffice.

"You must write more than that. Tell Auntie Harriet what you're doing at school," her mother would say. It felt like a waste of time to Patricia to write a composition about her life to someone she knew wasn't interested. Harriet would merely note that Patricia had done her own duty and thanked her, then throw the letter in the bin.

When she was sixteen, Aunt Harriet sent a cheque instead. Patricia took it to the bank and paid it in, intending to go to the mall to buy something. It would pad out the thank you letter if she could tell Aunt Harriet what she'd used the money for.

However, on the way out of the bank, she'd tripped on a loose paving stone and sprained her ankle. Before it had a chance to heal, no more than a week later, there had been a letter from Aunt Harriet expressing dismay and disappointment that the cheque had cleared, but there had been no thank you letter. She'd had to write a grovelling letter back right away. She'd eventually spent the money on a pair of shoes for school, but didn't feel inclined to write a second time to tell Aunt Harriet so. There had been no more presents after that.

Patricia's mother had insisted Aunt Harriet be invited to Patricia's wedding, even though numbers were limited and it meant a couple of her friends from work had to be relegated to the evening do. Aunt Harriet had sent a curt note declining the invitation, but not before her friends, who'd expected an invitation to the ceremony proper, had refused to come at all. They'd never spoken to her again.

The only other contact she'd had with her aunt was after her mother had died, contesting her will, stating that a beautiful clock Patricia's mother had left her should have gone to Harriet, and that Patricia should, at her earliest convenience, make the hundred mile round trip to return the clock. 

Patricia was fond of the clock. She'd grown up with it standing on the mantel. The solicitor who'd dealt with her mother's estate had looked into it for her and found no grounds for Harriet's demands. He'd written to Harriet for her telling her, politely, to get lost.

So what was this? Only one way to find out. Patricia opened the box. Inside was another box, and a letter.

Dear Patricia,

Since your mother is no longer around to keep the family ties going, you won't be aware that I have cancer and the doctor has given me six months at best.

I am clearing out my house and putting my affairs in order. My estate is going to charity but I am distributing a few of my possessions in advance.

Please find enclosed my parting gift to you. Please acknowledge receipt by return.

Regards,

Your Aunt Harriet.

Patricia wouldn't wish cancer on anyone, and was sorry her aunt was stricken with it, but beyond basic human empathy felt no emotion.

She opened the box.

Inside was a vase. Patricia remembered it well from those tedious visits to her aunt's house. Even then she'd thought it the ugliest thing ever made. It was a sickly greyish brown colour with an embossed yellow flower on the front and ugly, twisted handles.

Typical Aunt Harriet. She probably knew Patricia hated the thing; that was why it had been chosen as her inheritance. The letter had made it clear there would be no financial legacy, which was what Patricia could have done with. That was all going to a cat's home.

Anger bubbled up in Patricia. She hadn't felt such fury since her husband had walked out and left her. She blamed him for the financial mess she was in - he'd given her the house, but she couldn't afford to run it. Some money from Aunt Harriet, or even her little cottage, would have made such a difference. Aunt Harriet had hated Patricia since the day she was born. It was all about duty with her. Never love.

Patricia picked up the vase and took it outside. Throwing it against the wall and watching it smash into a million pieces was amazingly satisfying. Bugger Aunt Harriet.

Patricia went back inside, made herself a coffee and sat down to watch the final few minutes of Antiques Roadshow.

She sat up and stared at the screen when she saw one of the experts talking about a vase, identical to the one she'd just smashed. "Only about twenty of these were ever made," he said. "If you were to sell it you'd be looking at an asking price of about ten thousand pounds."

Patricia burst into tears.



If you liked this story, here's the rest of the collection:

Sweet Karma

More murder and mayhem along with moving statues, Ancient Egyptian magic pebbles, a World War II evacuee's diary and a bathtub full of marshmallows.

Paperback  Amazon

E-Book Amazon Kindle

Reasons not to read it

• They're short stories.
• Some have superheroes in, but they are new ones which aren't in Marvel or DC. Though some are in Julie Howlin's novels.
• It has a story about an obsessive hobby.
• Someone in one of the stories comes to a sticky end.
• There are two stories about the second world war.
• One story is set on a space station.