Inheritance

Photo by McGill Library on Unsplash

“I’ve come to collect my inheritance.” Rhys said. He looked at his cousin coldly. “Our grandfather deliberately left me something in his will.”

“Yes, Grandad left you something so you couldn’t contest it.” Sarah said. “He knew what you were like, and how you took all that money from Gran.”

“Our grandmother may have been generous, but I did nothing wrong.” Rhys said. “So, where is it?”

Sarah sighed. “I knew you would be here, even before the funeral.” She glared at her cousin. “Don’t bother coming to the service. Everyone has had enough of your drama, and if you never bothered with Grandad alive, I don’t see why you should bother with him dead.”

“I wouldn’t like to upset anyone at a difficult time.” Rhys said. “Now, the scrapbook.”

“I knew you would want it as soon as Grandad died.” Sarah said. “You should really wait for the will to go through probate, but Grandad talked about it with me and mum, and we all thought you should have it straight away.” Sarah walked into the living room but came back into the hall before her cousin could follow her. “Here you are.”

Rhys took the bag from her and carefully pulled out the bulging scrapbook. The battered cardboard book was stuffed with cuttings and prints, overflowing and expanding, with strips dangling like tendrils from the faded covers. He slowly opened the book. “You know this is very precious to me. It contains a lot of memories.”

“You were always very precise in your speech.” Sarah said. “Please, just go now. We are all mourning here.”

Rhys flicked through a few prints slipped between the pages and paused at a poem clipped long ago from a newspaper. “It appears to be all here.”

“Sign this.” Sarah said. She held out a formal letter on solicitor’s notepaper.

Rhys read through the letter slowly. “It says I have examined the scrapbook and accept it.” He shrugged. “Do you have a pen?”

Sarah picked a pen up from the hall table and handed it to him.

“There you are.” Rhys handed the paper back to her.

“Can I have the pen back as well, please.” Sarah held out her hand.

Rhys reluctantly handed back the pen. “I don’t suppose we will meet again.”

“I don’t think so.” Sarah said. She watched him turn and walk out of the house. As he reached the small gate, she called after him. “Just so you know, Grandad noticed that you had swapped the print in the scrapbook for the original. He swapped it back the week before he died. But at least he left you something.” And she closed the door firmly.